Chapter 8 Dante #2
I count the guards again. There’s three between me and Briggs and two in the hall behind him.
No clean shot without drawing attention.
I ease down a side corridor, away from the main hall.
There’s an office with busted-out windows and water damage creeping down the walls.
There’s an ungodly stench of mildew and decay riding the air.
I move fast, slipping inside, weaving around a busted desk and file cabinets rusted through at the hinges.
I slide through a crooked door on the far side and catch movement of the two men posted behind Briggs, arms folded, backs to me.
I flank them from behind, crowbar tight in my grip.
Both men are armed. One’s smoking. The other’s twitchy, foot bouncing like he’s jacked on something. They’ve got no clue I’m coming.
I keep to the wall, inching toward them. When I’m steps behind them, I close the gap in a burst of motion, crowbar raised above my head. I swing hard. The crowbar connects with the base of his skull with a wet, cracking thud. He drops with a grunt, nothing more than dead weight on the floor.
The second man’s halfway to his weapon when I drive the steel hook up into his gut before the gun clears the waistband of his pants.
I drag him back into the dark. He thrashes, his elbow connecting with my jaw, but I twist the crowbar until the hook catches ribs.
He tries to scream but it comes out as a gurgle.
I slam him into the wall until he slides down, leaving blood smearing a trail in the wake.
My heart’s still hammering. My jaw aches from the hit, and the copper taste of it spreads behind my teeth.
I breathe through it, stepping past the bodies.
The noise draws two more. One rushes in, swinging wide, but I meet him halfway driving my shoulder into his gut and slamming him against the frame hard enough to rattle his spine.
He coughs, teeth bared, tries to bring his elbow down on my back, but I hook the crowbar behind his knee and yank.
He goes down with a snarl scrambling for his gun.
I kick his pistol out of his hand, grab his collar, and drive my fist into his face.
Once, twice, until he goes limp beneath me. Blood spatters the concrete.
The fourth man freezes, staring at the bodies.
His choice is fight or run. He runs. I don’t go after him, not yet.
I drop the crowbar, kneeling before Briggs zip-tied to a chair.
His face is swollen, his lip split, and shirt stained with blood.
His head lifts weakly, and for a second, I don’t know if he recognizes me.
Then he tries to grin through the blood. “Took your sweet time.”
I cut the zip-ties with the switch blade from my pocket. He sags forward, coughing.
“On your feet,” I tell him.
He shakes his head weakly, blood dripping from his lip. “Can’t leave… not without the drives.”
“What drives?”
“Lockbox… in the office. Encrypted flash drives. Auctioned girls, fights, buyers… “ His voice is shredded. “Everything we need to take down Serrano for good this time.”
The words sink in cold. My stomach knots, rage grinding against my ribs. Serrano’s filth I can stomach. He’s always been a parasite. But this? Auctioning girls, turning their pain into leverage? That’s a line he doesn’t get to cross. Not while I’m breathing.
I drag Briggs into the corner and shove the crowbar into his hands. “Anyone comes through that door, you swing until they stop moving.”
I backtrack to the office I crossed through.
The air’s damp and sour, every breath clinging to the back of my throat.
I glance around, my eyes narrowing on the rusted file cabinet pulled away from the wall.
Behind it, poorly hidden, sits a metal case.
I drop to one knee and yank it out. I pry at the latch with my switch blade.
It holds for a second before snapping with a sharp crack.
Inside I find matte black flash drives, each labeled with numbers and initials.
Exactly the kind of insurance men like Serrano keep.
I pocket the drives, every last one of them and rush back to Briggs. He’s leaning against the wall, eyes glassy, jaw clenched to keep from groaning.
“We have to move now,” I say.
He nods pushing off the wall and stumbling forward with a grunt. He catches himself on the crowbar like a cane. He’s in no condition to make a run for it. I loop his arm over my shoulder and steer us back the way I came. My ears strain past the creaks for any shift in the quiet.
Outside, the lights started to shift, the low sun bleeding orange against the metal siding. We’re exposed. Nowhere to go but across the open yard and into the line of sight.
“Keep moving,” I hiss, dragging Briggs forward.
A shout echoes from behind us. “There! By the tracks!”
Shit.
I pivot, shoving Briggs behind the rusted hulk of an old boxcar, half-buried in weeds. He slumps beside me. His breathing’s ragged, half from the beating, half from whatever they gave him to keep him compliant. I check the corner before giving him a second to breathe.
A bullet ricochets off the siding with a sharp pang.
“You good?” I ask.
“Define good,” he mutters, bloody spit trailing down his chin.
Good enough.
I draw my gun firing a warning shot. The echo cracks loud enough to buy us half a second. We dart from the temporary cover, zigzagging through stacks of scrap and pallets. I count the shots behind us. One. Two. Three.
We’re hugging the warehouse’s edge when a figure rounds the corner, something gleaming in his hand.
I take two quick steps forward and I drop him with a jab to the throat and a boot to the knee.
He goes down fast, wheezing. His weapon clatters useless to the gravel.
I pick up the pistol, rack the slide and shove it into my waistband.
I haul Briggs the last stretch toward the corrugated fence ahead, a section bowed where someone rammed it once and never fixed it. I push Briggs through first, following with a grunt, my jacket snagging on the wire before I rip it free.
The voices grow distant and the gunshots fade as we stagger down the embankment toward the side street where I parked.
As soon as we reach my car, I shove the passenger door open and help Briggs in.
He groans but manages to pull the seatbelt across as I shut the door.
His head slumps against the glass. His breath rattles, but thank God he’s alive.
Before climbing in myself, I take one last look back. Either we lost them or they gave up. Either way, I’m not wasting time to find out.
I slide behind the wheel, gripping the leather until it creaks. I slam the car into gear, tires spitting dust. The Charger roars down the cracked road that runs along the dead tracks. My pulse matches the growl.
The tires squeal as I burn out onto the main drag and vanish into traffic.
Briggs leans his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. “We got it?”
I tap my pocket. “Yeah. We got it.”
I take the long way through town, sticking to the quieter streets where the asphalt’s cracked and the only light comes from corner stores and dying streetlamps.
“What’s this showcase about?” I ask Briggs.
He lifts his head, his voice ragged. “It’s a high-roller event by invite only. Fights, drugs, girls on the auction block. Buyers coming in from everywhere. Serrano’s planning his biggest payday yet.”
That’s when it clicks. Every move Serrano has made was leading to this.
There’s a line I don’t cross. I’ve bent it, sure. I lived so close to the edge it’s damn near etched into my bones. But no trafficking. No coercion. No kids. Men who cross that line deserve what they get. And Serrano’s days are numbered.
“When’s this showcase?”
“Saturday.” Briggs tilts his head, trying to focus. “What’s your move?”
I roll the options around in my head, but no matter how many times I spin it, it lands the same. I hate it. Needing anyone has always been the fastest way to get gutted. But this… this isn’t something I can take on alone.
I drag in a breath, let it out slow.
“I take it to the Royal Harlots.” My jaw tightens. “They’ve got reach in this city I don’t, and this war’s bigger than me.”
Briggs tilts his head, eyes narrowing, trying to find my angle. He looks at me like a man who put his last chip on black and can’t tear his eyes off the wheel.
“Are you sure about this?” he presses.
The words hang heavy between us. I feel the weight of them, the cost. My pride wants to claw them back, but my gut knows better.
I grind my jaw, “No.”