Chapter 27
Nico
The Raid
* * *
Stavros hits it with the breaching ram. The lock shatters and the frame splinters, and then we’re inside, and the world reduces to what it always becomes in these moments: movement and threat.
Left corridor: clear. Right corridor: shadow shifts.
I put two rounds into the shadow before it resolves into a shape.
A body drops. The Glock kicks against my palm.
Beside me, Siobhan flinches at the sound but keeps moving.
She stays low, tight to the wall, Beretta up, muzzle discipline perfect.
The way I taught her. The way she learned in twelve days what most soldiers learn in twelve weeks.
We push through the harbor facility in pairs.
Stavros and his team take the left wing.
I take the right with Siobhan and two Greek soldiers flanking.
The building is a converted warehouse: high ceilings lost in darkness, industrial shelving rising like canyon walls on either side, concrete floor stained with oil and things I don't examine.
Overhead lights are dead. We move by tactical flashlight.
The beams cut the dark in sharp white lines that turn every corner into a decision.
A door. Locked. I signal. Stavros kicks it. Storage room. Empty. We move on.
Another door. Open. A hallway beyond it, long and narrow, the kind of space where two men with rifles could hold off a dozen. I check the angles. Clear. We advance.
The comms crackle. Lex's voice come in clipped. "Waterfront complex cleared. No hostiles. Warehouse was empty."
Cormac, a second later. "Dorchester same. They pulled out. Cleaned everything."
Two locations abandoned. Viktor concentrated his forces here. At the harbor. Where Finn is.
We find the command center in the building's central bay.
A large space, open, industrial lighting rigged to a portable generator that hums in the corner.
Maps pinned to a board: Greek shipping routes, Irish distribution networks, alliance meeting locations circled in red.
Communications equipment. Laptops. Photographs.
My face, Siobhan's face, Cormac, Lex, Stavros. All of us cataloged. All of us studied.
Someone has been feeding Viktor intelligence for weeks. The detail on these maps is too precise for external surveillance. Someone inside. The thought lands and I file it for later because the priority is the back rooms and the sound coming from behind the last door on the right.
The sound is breathing. Ragged. Wet. The breathing of a man whose lungs are working around damage.
I open the door.
Finn O'Brien is tied to a metal chair. His shirt is torn and soaked through with blood in patterns that tell a story I can read: fists first, then blades, then pliers.
His left eye is swollen shut, a dark purple mass that distorts the whole side of his face.
Split lip, crusted. Cuts along his forearms where he fought before they restrained him.
His left hand is bandaged in gauze that was white hours ago and is now dark red, the wrapping failing, blood seeping through.
The gauze ends where his ring finger should begin.
The ring finger. Left hand. The finger that carries a promise. Viktor's precision is a signature: he doesn't just hurt, he narrates.
Finn looks up. One eye. Through the blood and the swelling and the restraints and the missing finger, my wife's brother finds me and produces half a grin.
"Took you... long enough."
I cut the restraints. Pull the zip ties with the blade I carry and help him to his feet. He sways. Grabs my shoulder. Stands. The O'Briens stand. Even when they shouldn't be capable of it.
"Your sister is outside."
"Course she is." He winces. Adjusts his grip on my shoulder. "She bring my gun?"
"She brought her own."
Finn almost laughs. Stops because laughing hurts. "That's my girl."
I signal two soldiers to escort him to the perimeter. He walks between them under his own power. His steps are uneven but deliberate. He's been beaten and cut and mutilated and he walks out of the building because he's an O'Brien and that's what O'Briens do.
I don't follow. Because the command center told me two things: someone has been feeding Viktor information from inside the alliance, and Viktor himself is not in this building. The chair where the soldier told us he'd be is empty. The communications equipment is still warm. He was here. Recently.
He's gone.
I find the last Bratva soldier in a side room. He took a round in the thigh during the breach and dragged himself behind a shipping container. He's bleeding but functional. Conscious. Scared.
"Where is Viktor?"