Chapter Twenty-Six
Sabrina
The night air hangs heavy with the promise of rain. Dark clouds swallow the moon, leaving the warehouse shrouded in darkness. Miles from the city and surrounded by empty roads, it is the perfect place for an ambush. Nobody would hear the gunfire, and nobody would come looking until it was over.
From my position on the rooftop, I watch the perimeter through the scope of my rifle. A week ago, I stood before New York's most powerful mafia leaders and warned them this attack was coming. Tonight, we're going to make the Russians regret ever setting their sights on the Spaniard's warehouse.
The earpiece tucked into my ear crackles softly.
“Positions?” Rafael's voice asks.
“Ground teams ready,” Andreas replies. “We're just waiting for them to arrive.”
A faint smile touches my lips as I adjust my grip on the rifle. “They won't know what hit them.”
Silence settles once more as we wait. Every man is in position, every entrance is covered, and now all we have to do is wait.
Headlights appear in the distance as several black SUVs emerge from the darkness, travelling down the isolated road towards the warehouse. Their engines echo across the otherwise silent landscape as they approach the property.
“They're here,” I murmur.
Through the scope, I watch armed men climb from the vehicles. They move confidently, weapons visible beneath the floodlights, without a hint of caution. They think this will be easy.
They're wrong.
“They've entered the warehouse,” Theo reports through the comms. “All of them.”
A slow breath leaves my lungs.
“Close the doors.”
The moment the final Russian steps inside, the warehouse doors slam shut with a deafening clang that echoes through the night.
Inside, confusion spreads immediately. Men turn towards the exits, shouting questions as they realise the entrances have been sealed behind them. Some rush towards the doors while others raise their weapons, instinctively sensing something is wrong.
For a single heartbeat, everything goes still.
Then I give the order.
“Light them up.”
Gunfire erupts from every direction.
The warehouse descends into chaos as our men emerge from the shadows. The Russians scramble for cover, their formation collapsing almost instantly beneath the crossfire.
I line up my first shot carefully, the crosshairs settling over the head of a man barking orders near the centre of the warehouse. I squeeze the trigger, and the rifle kicks against my shoulder as the man drops before he even realises he has been targeted.
Around him, the confusion intensifies.
Explosions suddenly rock the building as the charges we planted detonate. The blasts seal key exits and send smoke rolling through the warehouse. Firelight flickers across the concrete floor while debris rains from the ceiling.
The Russians are trapped, their escape routes completely cut off.
“They're moving towards the side exit,” a voice reports through the earpiece.
I watch several men sprint in that direction through the scope.
“Let them try,” I reply calmly. “Kill anyone who makes it through.”
I'd already given them a chance to avoid this.
The response comes seconds later in the form of sustained gunfire.
None of them make it out.
Then I see Pavel, one of Sergei Volkov's captains, pushing through the chaos and shouting orders as he desperately tries to regain control of the situation. Men begin to rally around him.
Unfortunately for him, I can't allow that.
My eyes narrow as I adjust the scope.
“I have a shot on Pavel.”
“Take it,” Rafael orders immediately.
I don't hesitate.
The rifle fires.
Pavel collapses.
With Pavel dead, the last shred of organisation – and whatever hope the Russians brought with them – collapses.
The fight only lasts a few more minutes after Pavel falls. The remaining Russians fold quickly. Some fight on, but most realise the battle is lost. Weapons hit the floor one by one as survivors surrender, while others try to flee only to discover every escape route has already been secured.
When the final shot fades into silence, the warehouse looks like a battlefield. Smoke drifts through the building, bodies litter the concrete, and the scent of blood and gunpowder lingers in the air.
Slowly, I lower the rifle and make my way down from the rooftop.
By the time I enter the warehouse, our men have secured the remaining prisoners. One of the surviving Russians has been forced onto his knees near the centre of the building, fear written across his face as he looks up at me.
Good.
I crouch in front of him and wait until he is forced to meet my gaze.
“Tell your people something for me.”
The man swallows hard.
I lean forward slightly.
“I'm coming for them.”
His face pales.
“All of them.”
Straightening, I turn away before he can respond.
Around me, men are already dealing with the aftermath of the battle. Bodies are being moved, weapons collected and orders given.
Tonight was never about defending a warehouse.
It was about sending a message.
A week ago, I'd warned them the attack was coming. Tonight, we crushed them before they ever had the chance to strike.
Somewhere out there, Sergei Volkov will hear about the trap, the bodies and the humiliation. He'll realise his end is coming, and when it does, I'll make sure he never sees it coming.