CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
KIERAN
THE NIGHT AIR is thick with tension as we move toward the O’Donnell compound. We’re not alone—Marcus has brought backup. Half a dozen foot soldiers, men who know exactly what’s about to go down. Some of them are eager, hungry for blood. Others wear that hollow, resigned look of men who have done this too many times before. I fall somewhere in the middle.
We split into two teams, just as planned. My breath is steady, my grip firm around the pistol in my hand. Three of my men and I move along the eastern perimeter, staying low, every step precise. Shadows stretch long under the dim glow of distant streetlights. Marcus leads the others toward the front entrance. The O’Donnells have no idea what’s coming.
A sudden crash shatters the fragile silence—the signal. Marcus’s team has made their move. A half-second later, the night erupts with gunfire. The sharp, staccato bursts of semi-automatics split the air, echoing between the buildings. Shouts. Screams. Chaos. They’ve taken the bait.
We move. Fast. The side door looms ahead, a solid metal slab with a reinforced lock. One of my men, Anton, is already on it, crouched low, fingers working the lockpick with a speed born of experience. His brow furrows in concentration, every second stretching too long.
The gunfire from the front grows wilder, more desperate. The O’Donnells are scrambling. Thirty seconds. That’s all it takes before the lock gives with a barely audible click.
We slip inside, moving as one, a well-trained unit of shadows slicing through the dim corridors. My pulse is calm, controlled. My focus is razor-sharp.
The first O’Donnell soldier rounds the corner ahead, his eyes widening as he registers us—too late. My blade is already in my hand. One smooth motion, a quick thrust—steel meets flesh. His breath hitches, a wet, gurgling sound spilling from his lips as blood bubbles up, dark and thick. His hands clutch at his throat, useless, and I lower him to the ground in silence. His life drains away before he can sound an alarm.
The coppery scent of blood lingers in the stale air. We press on.
From the front of the building, the violence intensifies—gunfire hammering through walls, the distant cries of men as they fall. The metallic tang of gunpowder hangs thick in the air, mixing with something darker, more primal.
We reach the next corridor—and that’s when everything detonates into madness.
A burst of bullets tears through the space, the rapid chatter of gunfire deafening in the confined hallway. Instinct takes over—I dive for cover behind a steel support beam as splinters explode from the doorframe near my head.
“Down!” I bark, but Peter is a fraction too slow.
His body jerks violently, riddled with holes, before he can reach safety. Blood sprays across the wall in a sickening arc, and he crumples, eyes wide and glassy before he even hits the ground.
A sharp, cold fury slices through me, but there’s no time for grief. I shove it down, bury it deep. Later. If there is a later.
We return fire, our bullets ripping through drywall, flesh, and bone. The O’Donnells scream as they drop, but they aren’t backing down. They fight like men with nothing left to lose.
The walls are streaked in blood, thick rivulets dripping from smeared handprints where men had tried—and failed—to crawl away. Bodies lie where they fell, twisted in unnatural angles, eyes wide with terror that will never fade. Some groan, clutching at gut wounds that will kill them slowly. Others beg—garbled pleas for a mercy that goes unanswered. We don’t stop. We don’t hesitate. We save our bullets.
A man reaches for his weapon, blood slicking his fingers as he fumbles with the grip. I step forward and put a bullet between his eyes. The impact snaps his head back against the wall, a fresh smear of crimson painting the concrete. The silence after the shot is brief, swallowed by the echo of another explosion somewhere deeper in the compound.
Gunfire cracks through the air, sharp bursts of light flaring in the dimly lit hall. Someone screams. A knife flashes in my periphery—a glint of steel, a desperate swing. I pivot, catch the bastard’s wrist, and drive my blade straight up through his ribs. His breath stutters, hot and wet against my cheek. I twist the handle before yanking it free. He crumples, gurgling on his own blood.
The radio at my shoulder crackles.
Static first. Then Marcus’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with urgency. “We’ve got heavy resistance in the main hall. Get in here, now.”
We move swiftly, taking a few more of the O’Donnell’s as we pass them.
The main hall is a war zone. Marcus and his team are pinned down behind overturned tables, bullets slicing through the air, shattering glass, splintering wood. The O’Donnells are dug in, barricaded behind whatever cover they can find. They know they’re dead men, but they won’t go down easy.
I raise my gun, scanning for an opening—
Pain.
A searing, white-hot agony tears through my side. The impact rocks me, stealing my breath. My vision sways, the world narrowing to a pinprick.
I stumble. Knees threaten to buckle. Blood seeps into my clothes, warm and sticky.
Not now.
Not. Fucking. Now.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright. The fight isn’t over. And I sure as hell am not dying here.
“Kieran!” Anton’s voice, sharp, panicked.
I grit my teeth, pressing a hand to my wound. Blood soaks through my fingers, warm and slick, a constant reminder that time is running out. But I’m still standing. My grip tightens around the gun, knuckles aching, breath sharp as I raise the weapon and fire through the haze of pain. The recoil jerks through me, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
The fight rages on in a brutal symphony of gunfire and screams. Muzzle flashes light up the dim space, shadows lurching and twisting with every shot. Bodies drop, one after another, the O’Donnells cut down like weeds. A grunt, a sharp cry, then silence as another one falls.
The last man sees the carnage and turns to run, his boots skidding in the blood pooling across the floor. Desperation fuels him, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps—but he never even makes it five steps.
A single shot rings out.
His head snaps forward, a fine mist of red spraying the wall before he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Marcus lowers his gun, but instead of holstering it, he steps forward, slow and deliberate, the barrel still warm in his grip. He stares down at the body, his expression blank, unreadable. Then, without a word, he fires again—this time into the back of the man’s skull. A dull, wet sound follows, and brain matter splatters across the already-stained floor.
No mercy. No hesitation. Just certainty.
He exhales through his nose, wipes a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, then presses the heel of his boot against the corpse’s face, grinding down as if testing the integrity of the bones beneath. When he steps back, there’s nothing left but ruin.
Silence.
The heavy scent of blood thickens the air, mingling with the acrid bite of gunpowder. My ears ring, drowning out everything else. The bodies lie still, twisted and broken, their eyes glassy and unseeing.
I press harder against my wound, feeling the warmth seep between my fingers. We won, but my vision wavers, the edges darkening. The job is done.
Now, we just have to survive the aftermath.
“Fuck,” I mutter, knees finally giving out.
Anton catches me before I hit the ground. “We need to get him out of here.”
Marcus doesn’t answer right away. He just stares, his gaze sweeping over the bodies like he’s cataloging his work. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, cold.
“We’re done here.”
We didn’t just come for a massacre.
We came to send a message.
And Marcus made damn sure they got it.
As they haul me to my feet, I glance around one last time. Blood pools across the concrete floor, viscous and dark, bodies strewn like discarded meat.
No hesitation. No wasted time.
Just death.
And that’s the last thing I see.