And tomorrow?
The men who helped create that damage will beg for mercy.
They won’t get it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
SERENITY
THE WAR CONTINUES
By four thirty in the morning, we are in position.
The summer air sits heavy and damp against my skin, pressing through the layers of all-black tactical gear like a second body. Even at this hour, sweat has already gathered between my shoulder blades, pooling at the base of my spine. The Elizabeth shipping district stretches out around us in total silence, the kind of silence that has weight to it, the kind that means something is about to shatter it.
Rusted shipping containers line the property in long, crooked rows, their hulking silhouettes bleeding into the dark like steel coffins stacked and forgotten. The smell of salt water, rust, and engine oil hangs in the air.
Somewhere inside that warehouse, Ettore and his men are waiting.
Good. So am I.
Every muscle in my body is coiled, restless, and hungry. I have been waiting for this moment longer than I can put into words, and I need to be smart about it. I need to be patient. But patience isn’t easy when I know I’ll get to see my enemy’s smug face. Oh, how I plan to disfigure it.
I check my Glock one final time, running my thumb along the grip out of habit.
Another sits strapped to my thigh. Knives are secured exactly where I need them. Angel stands to my left. Nico stands to my right, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him even through the gear.
He’s too close. And not close enough.
“Stay beside me,” Nico says for what feels like the hundredth time.
I roll my eyes. “You’re so possessive.”
“Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. “Move.”
The explosion at the front gate tears through the stillness like a fist through paper, rattling the ground beneath my boots and sending a shockwave rolling up through my legs. The sky above the gate blooms orange for half a second before the smoke swallows it.
Showtime.
Gunfire erupts almost before the echo dies. Men shout in Italian, voices sharp and overlapping, and bullets begin punching through metal, throwing sparks that arc and vanish in the dark. The wee hours of the morning come alive with sound and heat and the smell of burning.
Nico and I push through the loading dock entrance while Miff and Ritchie split off to clear the side. I move close behind Nico, eyes tracking every shadow, every pocket of dark between the crates.
A man rises from behind a stack of containers to my right, weapon up, eyes finding me fast.
Mine find him faster.
I lift my Glock, squeeze the trigger, and the bullet slams into his face. He collapses instantly, crumpling as if he were boneless.
No hesitation. And not a shred of guilt.
Another man comes charging hard from the left, boots hammering the concrete. Angel puts him down before he gets within ten feet of me. One clean shot and it is over. More of our men sweep through in pairs, moving like water around the obstacles, and Ettore’s soldiers go down one after another. Their bodies meet the concrete with those dull, heavy thuds that you never quite get used to, no matter how many times you have heard them. Blood spreads in dark, slow pools beneath our boots, and we don’t stop moving.
Smoke is beginning to curl through the air, acrid and sharp, clawing at the back of my throat.
Good. Let the bastards choke on it.
“Catwalk!” Catch’s voice cuts through the comms, tight with urgency.
