A minute later, bullets sprayed our SUVs, which didn’t matter because the windows and the cars were bulletproof. It’d been a while since I’d heard the sound of cracking glass, and it didn’t fill me with excitement like it used to.
Instead of enjoying the thrill, all I could think about was survival.
I had to get home to Francesca.
We drove right into the scene, a private piece of property with a villa, a warehouse, and all the other cars from workers.
I could see through my cracked window. “Looks like they’re holed up in the warehouse because most of the men have converged over there.”
“Then we draw fire this way,” Don Russo said. “Give them a fighting chance.”
The SUVs moved into a secure position behind the house, and we all jumped out and ran for cover before Icarus’s men could catch up to us. All the windows in the house were already shattered from gunfire, so they’d cleared this place out before they’d moved on.
Santino clicked the button that connected to the back of the SUV. “Take cover.”
We all made our way into the house, and the back revealed an automatic machine gun that would shoot anything with an infrared signature, including us if we were in the wrong place when it was activated.
The second the other men converged on the house, the machine gun did its job, going through a hundred rounds of ammunition in just four seconds. Bodies dropped, and the others scattered behind stone walls and rocks until the gun was empty.
We silently moved through the other side of the house, communicating through experience and hand gestures like marines until we reached the far side and tossed our grenades toward the men who had tried to hit us from the opposite direction.
Santino hit the button and turned off the automatic gun. “It’s off.”
The grenades detonated and cleared our way toward the warehouse.
The drivers in our SUVs flipped back around and drove over the grass on the lawn to provide cover when we approached the warehouse. All the men who were posted there were gone, and the large warehouse door was propped open slightly.
I took cover by the engine of one of our cars, staring into the shadow of the doorway, unsure what to make of it. I looked over at Santino and then at Don Russo and shook my head. “It’s a trap.”
Don Russo moved up the car until he came to my side.
“It’s definitely a trap,” I repeated. “Are you sure Ciro wasn’t under duress when he called?”
Don Russo continued to stare at the warehouse and said nothing, as if he didn’t hear me. His eyes shifted, and his eyebrows moved slightly up like he was thinking it all through.
I didn’t repeat my question, and I didn’t need to, because both of the doors to the warehouse suddenly swung open…and revealed an entire militia of armed men. I could see rows and rows of them, all carrying shotguns and automatic rifles. Some even had grenades in their grasp, the pin already pulled out so all they had to do was toss them in our direction.
And in the center, a man walked forward in charcoal-gray jeans and a black t-shirt. He was unusually tall, my height or maybe an inch or two taller. I never encountered men who were six-five, and I certainly didn’t encounter guys who were six-seven. He wasn’t lanky, but packed with muscle all over his body, as if he only liked to gain and not shred. There was ink on his arms, but at this distance, I couldn’t determine the specifics. You could learn a lot about a man by the marks he permanently made on his body.
He had a rifle leaned against his shoulder with the barrel pointed in the air, a fat Cuban cigar sticking out of his mouth. He took a few steps forward then suddenly snapped his fingers.
The men broke their formation and started to retrieve something from the back. A minute later, we realized it wasn’t something, but someone. He dragged a teenager across the ground and dropped him, red blood splashed all over him. They brought out a woman and a little girl and then a couple men…and then Ciro.
They were all bloody.
Then I realized each one of them was missing a limb, an arm or a leg or a hand. They were all gagged so their cries were muffled like their injuries, and they writhed in pain as they continued to bleed into the bandages that had been applied.
I’d seen a lot of shit—but not this.
Ciro was in tears, his cheeks red and puffy, hyperventilating because he couldn’t adequately breathe through his gag.
Icarus snapped his fingers.
Now what?
A moment later, one of his men came forward with a bloody burlap sack.
I already knew the contents.
