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Gian
We park outside of an apartment complex in a suburb right outside of the city. A train station is fifty feet away, the lights too bright. It’s the middle of the night and the town’s quiet, but I keep waiting for a cop to come rolling past anyway.
“This is the place.” Carlo nods at the building. It’s an ugly structure. Red brick, blocky, with little balconies and black bars over the windows.
“You sure they’re here?”
“The Russians have a safehouse in one of the apartments. I’m not positive the Irish guys are hiding inside, but my sources say they were spotted around here.”
“Fucking suburbs.” I lean my head back, considering. “There are going to be civilians in there.”
“No kidding.”
“Our family’s influence doesn’t stretch out this far.”
“Thought of that already.” He shoves a black ski mask into my hands. “Wear that.”
I hold it up dubiously. “Seriously? Like we’re some fucking stereotypical bank robbers? Might as well be stockings.”
“Oldest trick on the book and still works.” He yanks his own mask over his face. “You want to sit out here and complain all night or are we doing this?” He raises his gun and makes sure it’s loaded.
I hesitate, but pull on my own mask. It’s scratchy and hot. My gun’s a reassuring pressure in the small of my back.
We go over the plan. There are two more cars of Rossi soldiers, all of them loyal to Carlo, and all of them seasoned fighters. He and I go in first, followed by a small crew to make sure we don’t get hit in the back. Another crew watches the exits in case someone tries to escape. We break into the apartment, clear it fast and hard, drag the Irish fuckers out to the car, and escape before the cops show up.
“And the copswillshow up,” Carlo says as if I didn’t already know. “We’d better be fast.”
I step out of the car and Carlo follows. Once we’re in the parking lot, there’s no turning back. There are bound to be security cameras around here. If not on the apartment building then at the train station. I hurry toward the entrance and pause before kicking it open. It’ll be locked, and we didn’t try to figure out a way through.
Carlo just grins at me and presses every single intercom button. Most don’t respond—it’s past midnight and most people are asleep—but a few sound sleepy and pissed. After a second, the door unlocks with a loud snap. I have no clue who hit the button.
“Fucking suburbs,” he says and yanks it open.
I’m too shocked that worked to say anything as he hustles inside. I leave the door propped open with a brick before hurrying to the stairs on Carlo’s heels.
“I forgot to ask,” I say, passing the second-floor landing, heading to the third. “What’d Renzo say about this operation?”
“Oh, he doesn’t know.”
I laugh at the audacity. “Isn’t he going to be pissed?”
“Only if this goes wrong.” Carlo reaches the third-floor door and looks back at me. “You ready?” He checks his watch. “My guys should be in position.”
I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs behind us. “Let’s do this.”
Carlo goes first. We burst into a quiet hallway and sprint down to apartment 314. He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches the door, only braces himself on the frame and kicks right above the knob. The whole thing gives an ugly heave loud enough to make a nearby dog start barking. He kicks again, and the door flies open, spraying wood everywhere.
It’s chaos as we storm into the apartment. My gun’s up as I turn right into a small galley kitchen. “Clear,” I bark, following back out into the living room. The place is spartan: barely any furniture. A couch, a TV on a table, and a couple chairs. Empty beer bottles and an overflowing ashtray sit on a plywood coffee table.
“Back here,” Carlo says. “Oh, fuck!”
Gunshots ring. They scream like a demon. I throw myself around the corner after Carlo and find him hunkered down on the floor, grinning like a madman, shooting into one of the bedrooms.
The wall’s riddled with bullet holes. I dive across and come up on the other side, thankful I’m not fucking dead, and spot movement. Someone in the other room is at the window. “Stop!” I yell and charge in after him.
“Shit,” the guy says and moves to jump out, but I grab him by his waistband. He’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and the underwear nearly rips before I can get a hold on his arm. He struggles, cursing, but I drag him back inside. I crack him in the face with the butt of my pistol, and once he’s subdued, I realize the apartment’s quiet. Without the gunshots, my ears are ringing.
“Don’t try to fight,” I say, holding my gun to the guy’s head. I drag him to his feet. He’s white, reddish hair, an ugly reddish beard. Scrawny and covered in tattoos. “You make one move and you’re dead.”
