I drop behind the column to my left.
Lorenzo’s already there. He’s got his rifle up and is firing measured pairs across the floor—one, two; one, two—at the formation of Nico’s people, who’ve broken cover and are spreading toward the side walls of the warehouse the way trained men spread. There are fewer of them than I counted on the way in. Six. Maybe seven. The kid who fired first is already on the floor; Lorenzo got him inside two seconds.
Nico’s gone.
I scan for him through the smoke and the dust—I see his men. I see the muzzle flashes from the catwalk that one of his shooters has somehow reached in the chaos. I don’t see him.
That’s a problem.Theproblem.
Find Nico.
I shoulder out from behind the column and run, low, to the next one. A round chips concrete six inches from my ear, and the spray hits my cheek. I don’t slow down. Lorenzo’s covering fire pulls the shooter on the catwalk back behind the rail.
I make it to the next column. I search for my target.
Bingo.
Nico’s at the rear of the warehouse, behind a stack of pallets near the loading bay, directing his men with hand signals, eyes up, gun low. He’s gotten over the surprise faster than I expected. He’s not running. He’s fighting.
I should’ve known. The man inherited his father’s room of competence even if he could never use it. He shot Vincenzo in the chest with three rounds in a tight grouping. He’s not, despite everything, an amateur.
I make a decision.
“Lorenzo.”
He looks over.
“Take the floor. I’m going for him.”
“Boss.”
“Take the fucking floor.”
He nods, pivoting his fire across the side of the warehouse where two of Nico’s men are trying to flank us. The two men go down in sequence.
I move.
I go along the row of columns at the back of the warehouse—column to column, low, fast, the gun in my right hand and my left arm tucked tight against my ribs. I take rounds from the catwalk and from the floor and I don’t stop moving. Somewhere behind me one of my men screams. I don’t turn.
Twenty yards to Nico.
Fifteen.
He sees me coming.
He breaks cover.
We meet in the middle of the warehouse floor, both running, both with our weapons up. I fire twice. He fires three times. None of them hit. We’re both moving too fast, and the dust’s too thick. I see his face—pale, sweating, eyes pinned to mine—and for one strange, suspended second I see the small fat boy who used to make a mess at his father’s dinner table. The boy who couldn’t keep up with his father’s chess games. The boy his father, eventually, stopped inviting to play.
Then he closes the distance and tries to hit me with the butt of his gun.
I get my arm up. The grip cracks against my forearm hard enough that my hand goes numb to the elbow. My gun goes skidding across the concrete.
I hit him in the throat.
Nico goes back hard.
I follow him.
