Chapter 12
Caleb crouches beside me, his breath fogging before disappearing into the darkness. His red-brown hair gleams under the streetlight before he pulls his hood lower.
“Target’s still inside,” Caleb whispers, the comm unit in my ear making him sound as if he’s right on top of me.
“Three men with him,” I murmur, scanning the windows of the restaurant. “One at the bar, two at his table.”
From our position in the narrow alley between Marcelli’s and the abandoned tailor shop next door, we have a clear view of Anthony Gallo, the accountant who’s been laundering money for what remains of Tony’s operation.
If we get him, Tony won’t have access to the funds keeping him in hiding.
Anticipation rushes through me, but stripped of the usual recklessness. The chaos inside me hasn’t disappeared, but since my agreement with Aaiden started, it’s easier to channel.
Across the street, a black sedan’s headlights flash twice to confirm Liam’s team secured the perimeter.
Caleb taps my shoulder twice, and we cross to the back entrance in perfect sync, boot steps silent on the pavement. The kitchen door opens under my touch thanks to the staff member we paid to leave it unlocked.
The bite of garlic and seared meat hits me as we slip inside, ducking behind a steel prep table where a cook curses at a smoking pan.
“Through there,” I breathe, pointing toward the swinging door that leads out of the kitchen.
Caleb scans for threats as we navigate through steaming pots and shouting staff who remain oblivious to us in the chaos. I pause at the door and crack it open.
The dining room buzzes with conversation and the clink of silverware on plates. I spot Gallo seated in a corner booth, mopping sweat from his forehead with a cloth napkin.
Two men flank him. Based on the information Aaiden got from Tony’s lieutenant, they’re not professional security, but muscle borrowed from what’s left of Tony’s crew. They look bored, their suit jackets bulging with poorly concealed guns.
My fingertips brush the tranquilizer gun at my hip. My instructions are to use non-lethal force if possible. Less heat, less attention.
“On your go,” Caleb breathes into the comm.
I count down from three and push through the door. Caleb veers left while I move right, both of us casual but purposeful. Tony’s lookout at the bar nurses a whiskey, his attention split between his phone and the entrance.
Caleb bumps into him, apologizes with a smile, and slips something into the man’s drink while steadying himself. Thirty seconds later, he slumps forward onto the bar as we converge on Gallo’s table.
I’m three steps away when Gallo spots me, and recognition flashes.
The first guard reaches for his weapon. My tranquilizer gun is already out, the dart hitting his neck before his fingers close around his pistol.
He slumps into the booth, unconscious. The second guard’s gun clears his jacket, but Caleb strikes his wrist. The weapon clatters down as Caleb’s elbow connects with the man’s temple, stuffing him beside his unconscious partner.
Nearby patrons glance over, confusion rather than alarm pinching their faces. They haven’t processed what’s happening yet.
“Up,” I order Gallo, pulling him from the booth by his collar. “Stay quiet and walk, or I’ll drop you right here.”
His mouth opens and closes, fish-like, but his feet carry him forward. Caleb retrieves the fallen gun, tucks it away, and takes his position behind us, casual enough not to trigger panic among the diners.
We’re halfway to the kitchen when Gallo demands, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yep,” I respond, guiding him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
His lip curls. “You’re making a fatal mistake. Tony’s got people everywhere. You think you’re walking out of here? In twenty minutes, they’ll be scraping what’s left of you off the pavement.”
I push him through the kitchen, past the distracted staff, and out the back door into the alley. The night air cuts through my clothes, cold with the promise of rain.
“Save it,” Caleb cuts in. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk once we’re secure.”
I pull zip ties from my pocket and bind Gallo’s wrists, tightening them until he winces.
His lip curls. “You’re dead, both of you. Tony’s men are watching right now. They already know you grabbed me.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, checking to ensure the binds are secure without cutting off circulation.
We begin moving toward our extraction point, Caleb taking the lead while I guide Gallo with a firm grip on his upper arm. The accountant stumbles, his expensive loafers slipping on the wet pavement.
Three blocks to extraction. Two turns. One straight shot to safety. Gallo continues to spit out threats, but they sound distant, easy to block out as my senses stay on high alert.
Caleb pauses at the corner, checking our angles before proceeding. The alley ahead stretches dark and narrow, brick walls rising on either side.
A car door closes, the sound echoing between the buildings, bouncing off brick and concrete.
“Was that...?” I begin, but Caleb’s already tilted his head, listening with predatory focus.
“We’ve got movement,” he mutters, his hand moving to his weapon. “Northwest corner.”
My grip tightens on Gallo’s arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his suit jacket. “That’s not part of the plan.”
“No,” Caleb confirms, scanning the shadows ahead. “It’s not.”
A warning prickle raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck at the same time Gallo straightens with newfound confidence.
“I told you Tony had people watching me,” he crows, tilting his chin up. “You two are fucked.”
A bullet strikes the brick wall inches from my head, sending fragments stinging across my cheek. I yank Gallo down as gunfire erupts from three directions at once.
His mouth falls open in stunned horror as bullets zip past us both. “They’re shooting at me, too! Tony wouldn’t—”
Another spray of bullets cuts him off.
I drag him lower. Tony must have decided it’s better to kill Gallo than to risk him spilling his secrets.
Caleb moves without hesitation, shoving me toward a narrow passage between buildings. “Go. Secondary route. Now.”
“But—”
“I’ll hold them.” The warning in his eyes cut my protest short. “Get him to extraction.”
I freeze up, and Gallo jerks within my grip, letting out a terrified squeal as bullets chip concrete near our feet. We’re not supposed to separate. That’s how I got taken last time.
Another spray of bullets peppers the ground, closer this time, and my training takes over, silencing the doubt. I trade my tranquilizer gun for a real one and grab Gallo by his collar, dragging him into the shadows of the passage.
“Move or die,” I growl, shoving him ahead of me.
Behind us, three muffled thuds from Caleb’s silenced weapon punctuate the night. A man’s scream cuts short into a wet gurgle, then nothing. I push deeper into the darkness, one hand on Gallo’s back, the other gripping my weapon.
The passage opens onto a service road cutting between a seamstress shop and a dry cleaner. To our right, fifty yards of exposed ground between us and the extraction point where a black SUV should be waiting. To our left, the sound of boots on pavement.
“Run,” I order, giving Gallo a hard shove.
We sprint down the alley, Gallo stumbling in his loafers while I scan for threats. Behind us, gunfire multiplies before it cuts off with unnerving abruptness, and my chest squeezes at the sudden silence.
The loading dock comes into view, recessed into the wall of a storage facility to offer cover from three sides.
But the SUV isn’t there. Instead, the dock doors hang open, darkness gaping beyond them.
“Stop,” I hiss, pulling Gallo behind a dumpster.
I press my back to the cold metal, straining to hear over Gallo’s ragged breathing. Footsteps approach from the east side, at least three men. More movement from the north, lighter steps as someone tries to be quiet and fails.
“Aaiden,” I say into my comm, “extraction compromised. Multiple hostiles converging.” Nothing but static hisses back.
I tap the earpiece twice, my stomach dropping. “Aaiden, do you copy?”
More static. The signal’s being jammed. My heart pounds as I realize we’re boxed in, no backup, no extraction, no comms. Whatever happened to Caleb, I’m on my own with a target who’s worth more to our enemies dead than alive.
“Inside,” I whisper, dragging Gallo toward the open bay door. “Stay down.”
The storage facility swallows us into its belly, a maze of identical metal roll-up doors line sterile concrete corridors. Motion-sensing lights flicker on as we pass beneath them, betraying our position with each step. The air carries dust and a faint chemical tang from cleaning supplies.
I push Gallo down behind a row of crates, holding a finger to my lips. The whites of his eyes show, and sweat pours down his temples despite the chill.
Flashlight beams probe the corridor junction behind us, voices bouncing off the metal doors. I count five distinct lights, five separate voices.
Too many.
“They’re inside,” someone calls. “Spread out.”
I duck deeper into the shadows, pulling Gallo with me. There’s a service door on the far side. If we can reach it, we might find another way out.
The first man steps into view, pistol raised, sweeping from left to right. I take aim and drop him with a single shot. Before his body hits the ground, I’m moving, dragging Gallo toward a new position.
Bullets tear into the crates where we were hiding seconds before, wood splintering with the impact. I fire twice more, dropping another attacker before ducking behind a steel support beam.
“He’s behind the column,” someone shouts. “Flank him!”
Footsteps scatter in different directions as they spread out, trying to cut off my angles of escape.
I push Gallo down onto his stomach. “Don’t move.”
I step out, fire three controlled shots, and duck back as return bullets pepper the surrounding concrete. Another man down, leaving three by my count. Maybe more waiting outside.