It was just before three in the morning, Gabriel’s favorite time… when evil came out to play. And he was more than happy to start the game. Excitement charged through him. He could not wait to take back what was his.
Forty-five minutes later, they turned down the street of his whisky plant. The drivers killed their headlights. They pulled into Santini Spirits, drove around back, silenced the engines.
In stealth mode, everyone exited the vehicles. The tactical sling his guys wore with their long rifles allowed his shooters to be hands-free. Even so, they cradled their weapons as they fell in line behind Gabriel.
He’d been one step ahead. When Gabriel built the distillery, he included an emergency escape route. Didn’t think he’d need it to break into his own building.
They entered through the unmarked door and filed into the dark basement. Pipes ran the length of the ceiling, so they kept their heads down as they made their way through the maze. At the main circuit breaker, Gabriel killed the electricity upstairs. Moving like ghosts in the dead of night, he led them up the cement stairs. He keyed the lock, cracked open the door.
No guards. Only pitch-black darkness.
As instructed, his teams split off in opposite directions. With his long gun at the ready, Gabriel took off toward his office, located on the second floor. In stealth mode, he hurried down the hallway, ducked into the stairwell.
Clear.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, then cracked open the door to the second floor. The second a gunshot pierced the silence, panic would set in. And the Bratva would know theywere being attacked. But Gabriel and his crew had the darkness to hide them… and the Kevlar to stop a bullet.
As he approached his office, a gruff voice stopped him. With his back against the wall, he listened.
“Goddamnit,” said the Bratva. “The fucking power went out. I’ll call you back.”
“I need you in DC,” said the Russian on the phone, his thick accent hard to understand.
“I’m running distillery,” pushed back the mobster.
“That’s an order,” barked the man on the phone. “Get your ass here. We have problem.”
Gabriel leaned around the door frame. The Bratva was sitting in Gabriel’s desk chair, his large pistol lay on the desk.
“Pavel is dead,” said the man on the phone.
The Russian in Gabriel’s office shot to attention. “Who the fuck killed my brother?”
“He got gunned down at kink club. I need help with package delivery.”
“I don’t give a fuck about that,” roared the man as he stared into the darkness.
“We think Santini is involved,” said the man on the phone.
“The team took him out,” said the Bratva. “He got killed outside his restaurant weeks ago.”
“We never got confirmation. If he’s alive, he killed your brother. Now, do you want to come to America and finish job?”
“Yes, Dmitri.”
“It’s Mr. Petrov to you. Next time, take the damn order and don’t push back!”
The line went dead.
Gabriel pulled his CANiK from its holster, stormed into his office, and pistol whipped the Russian. Then he yanked him out of the chair and punched him in his oversized gut, knocking the wind out of him.
“You think you can take my company from me?” Gabriel growled.
The man couldn’t catch his breath.
“You fucked with the wrong man,” Gabriel hissed.
He pressed the gun to the enemy’ head, pulled the trigger.
