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The parking lot spread out ahead of us, and I heard Steven grunt in surprise.
I began to roll down the windows.
About fifty yards away, two black trucks were parked side by side. Next to those was a brown van, the side door hanging open. Men stood facing each other in loose groups, and I tried to get a rough count of them before gunning the engine harder. I thought there were eight men on the left group, closer to the van, and ten men in the right group.
Standing just in the center of the men, gesturing and saying something, was Vlas. He wore a black button-down, black dress pants, and black dress shoes. He had a gun tucked into his back waistband, and as soon as our cars came speeding toward them, the men began to shout.
The Jalisco wasted no time as the Russians milled around, confused, brandishing weapons. Vlas shouted, pulling his gun, trying to get his men under control as the Jalisco jumped into their van, not even bothering with the Russians at all. I roared over to the Russians, slammed on the brakes, and stopped parallel with them. I saw their eyes, wide and shocked, their guns not even raised as I shoved the barrel of my weapon out the lowered window and pointed it at them.
I saw black shirts, jeans, blue eyes, pale skin, beards, hooked noses. I recognized a few of them. Vlas had brought all of his big enforcers with him, some of the biggest names in his crew. There was Mikhail, Sacha the Slasher, Crazy Vadim. There was Wassily, a great wrestler and boxer, leaning against the car and only just starting to pull a gun. They were sitting ducks, out in the open and I didn’t hesitate.
I lit the motherfuckers up.
My gun roared to life in my hands. Steven jumped out his side, leaned over the hood and began firing. The other car screamed to a stop behind ours and opened fire, spraying bullets into the bodies of the Russians caught out in the open.
Smoke and blood filled the air. I could smell gunpowder, taste iron and copper on my tongue. I emptied my magazine, killed Wassily outright, killed Sacha, wounded Vadim. I saw men clawing along the ground, blood oozing from their broken bodies, screams of rage and pain. They managed to fire back once or twice, but there was no real resistance, no real fight. I reloaded my weapon as Steven jumped back inside. I grabbed the handle of the car, but he latched onto my shoulder.
“Go,” he growled. “Go. Drive.”
“Vlas,” I snapped. “We have to make sure.”
“They’re not all down and the cops are going to come soon. We have to get the fuck out of here.”
Before I could argue again, one of the black trucks roared to life. It pulled back, slammed into the other truck, and started driving away. The Jalisco van began to drive in the opposite direction, back down the gravel road we’d just come from, swerving along the road like it was avoiding more gunfire.
“That’s him,” I growled, throwing the car into gear. “Hold on.”
I slammed my foot on the gas and the car leaped forward. I drove fast, trying to catch up to the truck as it careened around a corner, tires screaming. It got onto the main arterial road that cut directly down the center of the Philadelphia and picked up pace, blowing through red lights.
I kept up. Steven shouted something but I couldn’t hear him. Vlas was in that truck, I just fucking knew it. If anyone there could have escaped that hell, it was Vlas, there was no doubt in my mind. We’d killed all his other men, assassinated some of his top men, some of the most important men in the Russian mafia. It was a good hit, a very good hit, but without Vlas, it was meaningless.
The truck hit another turn up ahead, screaming into a neighborhood. I kept pace, turning the wheel violently. I lost control for a second and the side of the car slammed into a parked dark blue sedan. I hit the gas anyway, jolting forward, scraping down the side of another black Prius then speeding after the truck. Ahead, it hit a hard turn, tires throwing dirt and smoke up into the air.
“Stop,” Steven snapped at me, grabbing at the wheel. “Stop, Dante.”
“Fuck off,” I growled , shoving him. I elbowed him in the face and he grunted in pain, grabbing his eye, as I hit the turn. I flung the wheel around too slowly though, distracted by Steven’s outburst, and the car slammed into the rear of a parked Honda Civic with a deafening crack.
My face slammed forward as the airbag rushed out to meet my face. I saw stars and black around the edge of my vision and my ears were ringing from the crash and from the gunfire. I coughed, looked around. Gino was on the floor, groaning, and Biagio seemed fine. He’d put his seatbelt on at some point, probably after the shooting. Steven glared at me and yelled something.
