Chapter Forty-One
Tank
Ricky and I crouch low behind a rust-bitten dumpster, the neon-red glow of Club Sin bleeding across the parking lot like fresh arterial spray. The smell of oil, cigarettes, and old urine clings to the air. My stomach’s a slab of stone, heavy and unmovable. I’ve been in war zones less tense than this, but I’ve never had this much to lose. Bianca’s in there. Vanessa’s in there. I know exactly what Victor plans to do if we don’t get to them first.
“They’ve got more firepower. More men,” Ricky whispers. His voice is shaking as much as his hands.
“They’ve got Bianca,” I retort. “They’ve got Vanessa. I don’t give a fuck how many men they’ve got.”
Ricky swallows hard. I see his eyes flick toward the club like the war inside him is even bigger than the one we’re about to rush into. He’s clean now, but I know he’s worried this fight will drag him back into a world he barely escaped.
“They know we’re coming,” he says. “A guy like Victor, he’s always one step ahead.”
It's the same thought that’s been circling in my head all night. I keep my face steady and remind myself that doubting our chances means doubting the girls’ survival, and that’s not an option I’m willing to consider.
“That’s why we hit them fast,” I say. “We hit them first.”
I open my bag and show him the explosives — three small breaching charges, one for the front door, one for the side, and one I’m saving for special circumstances. Though I never was a boy scout, but I always like to be prepared. I also like bombs. They’re almost as good as sticky buns. I look at Ricky and see the fear in his eyes, and I know he’s thinking of the ways this could go south. Ways I don’t have time to think about.
“What’s the plan?” he asks.
I nod toward the club, trying not to picture the worst. “I blow the doors. Side entrance blows ten seconds later. That’s the distraction. We go in hot, center mass, and don’t stop until we’ve got the girls or we’re bleeding out beside them.”
“That’s it?” His voice wavers, but there’s a fierceness underneath that tells me he’s ready.
I look him dead in the eyes. “They’re in there. We’re out here. That’s all that fucking matters.”
I get to work with the muscle memory of a soldier who’s cheated death more times than he can count. The charges are set within seconds, each one precisely placed with hands that won’t fail the women depending on them. My gut clenches with the anticipation that only comes before an explosion or a reckoning. The charges breathe fire and the front doors of Club Sin explode inward like God himself has kicked them. My ears ring with the blast, adrenaline sluicing through my veins. The two of us move fast — muzzles sweeping, triggers hot.
Gunfire erupts from all sides. Bullets rip the air.
Ricky takes out two near the entrance. His face is grim, eyes alive with the reckless hunger of someone with nothing left to lose. I paint the back wall with the blood of a third. A man comes from my blind side — I pivot, drive a combat knife through his throat, yank it out like pulling a cork, sending a stream of pinot-red blood spraying through the air like a fountain on full blast. It’s fucking beautiful.
It’s chaos. Screams echo off the concrete walls. Smoke billows through the room in thick, suffocating plumes. Fire alarms shriek like dying birds, a high-pitched wail that ratchets up the madness. The thump of bass from the club’s sound system still plays under it all like a goddamn funeral drum. It’s the soundtrack to hell, a pounding requiem for a massacre.
Bodies pile up like dirty laundry. I don’t count. I only aim and fire. Move and kill.
But for every bastard I put down, three more take his place. They’re better armed than I thought, better trained than any normal crew of street soldiers. Shotguns, submachine guns, body armor. Victor planned for this — that snake knew that there was a chance, however small, that his hit squad wouldn't succeed. He knew we’d come for the girls, and he’s ready to wipe us out. My breath burns in my throat as I imagine Bianca caught in the crossfire.
I hear Ricky scream my name. I see him dive behind a bar, blood running down his arm like a crimson sleeve. Oh fuck, that’s his other arm. He’s wounded in both arms now, and I can’t tell if he’s smart or just plain lucky to still be alive.
We’re surrounded. We’re trapped.
And I still haven’t seen Bianca.
Then, suddenly, from the midst of chaos, a spotlight flicks on.
Smoke swirls beneath it like a sinister mist, revealing the figure controlling this nightmare. Victor Moretti steps out onto the main stage of the strip club. The bastard is center spotlight, calm and composed, standing like a king of filth and corruption. In his grip is Bianca, held as a human shield with a gun pressed cruelly to her head, the barrel biting into her black hair like a viper’s tooth. My hands freeze, my breath catches. I’ve been in firefights. I’ve been surrounded.
But I’ve never, ever been this close to losing everything.
Bianca’s face is bruised, but not broken. Her eyes are sharp, and they find mine across the smoke and madness. Furious, betrayed, terrified, hopeful. I feel it like a blade to my gut. My worst fear is right here, playing out in front of me, and I can’t look away.
“You want her?” Victor grins down at me. “Come get her. But know this — your little stripper friend in the back? I just gave her a hot dose. Real strong. Unless you want her to stop breathing in the next five minutes, you’ll put your guns down.”
Ricky stiffens next to me. I hear the shock catch in his throat.
“Vanessa’s dying?”
Victor shrugs, casual, cruel, like he’s discussing the weather. “Unless you do something real noble, real soon, yeah.”
Ricky drops all pretense of resistance. The scrappy, wounded ball of fight beside me just withers, staggers into the open with his bleeding arms raised, his desperation spilling out in a voice I’ve never heard from him before.
“I surrender! Just save her! Please!”
The room is still, holding its breath. Every gun turns on me. I draw in a breath that feels like my last as I face the impossible. Victor’s ultimatum hangs heavy in the air, and I know the choice that will decide everything is mine. Goddamn him, it’s mine.
I could drop my weapon and hope Victor keeps his word, hope Vanessa survives, hope Bianca forgives me. I could keep fighting and risk losing them both, risk losing everything, risk failing Bianca in the one way I swore I never would. I've fought back against every bad hand, every bad man that's tried to fuck with me… but this? This is an entirely different breed of fight. This is one I can't win unless I do the one thing I've spent my entire life refusing to do: surrender.
Bianca stares down at me. I see it in her eyes, all the things she’s never said but wanted to — that she needs me; that she trusts me; that she loves me. She’s still breathing, but the gun at her head is a weight that crushes the air out of my lungs.
For the first time, I feel powerless.
I feel fear.
My fingers twitch toward my backup pistol.
I lock eyes with Bianca. She's mouthing something. A single word. Please .
I press my hand to the grip behind my back.
I hesitate. Goddamn it, I love her. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything. And right now, that might be the one thing that gets her killed.
I see Ricky in the corner of my eye, his face a map of tears and anger and fear. I see the faces of Victor's mercenaries, hungry for the order to pull their triggers. I see Bianca, and I see futures where she is alive, and futures where she is dead. I see myself, exposed and alone, and desperately wishing I was anywhere but here.
I step forward.
Victor’s smirk widens.
I squeeze my hand around the grip of my gun. My head is a riot, my heart a grenade; I do the only thing I can do, the thing I’ve never done before — I drop everything. All my weapons. Every last one.
I drop them and pray Victor will keep his word.