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Mako comes to the rescue. “I’ve got a team here ready to extract. We’ll grab the women while the rest of the operation continues as planned.”
I stamp down the sudden swell of pride I feel in my chest.
This is no longer a murder spree. Well, notjusta murder spree.
This is also a rescue mission.
“Alpha team, stand by. Bravo, sweep the perimeter.”
Like ghosts haunting the sands, a dozen of my men flanked by Fontinelli’s and LaGrezzio’s contingents silently swoop in and begin to take down the Yakuza guards who literally do not see them coming. Silencers muffle every shot, and anyone who doesn’t drop dead immediately receives a snapped neck or second bullet. A dozen Yakuza lives snuffed out in moments.
Good fucking riddance.
“Alpha team, head in.”
That is my own cue to step out of the Rezvani and join the other mob bosses as our best men collectively storm the old bottle factory. The sound of shattering glass adds to the music of angry, surprised shouts and unsilenced gunshots.
One of Raizo’s men runs out of a side entrance; I drop him before he can lift his gun. Fontinelli has my back and killsanother runner, while LaGrezzio shouts orders to his men to start placing the charges.
I’m caught off-guard by yet another runner, who flies at me and slams me into the ground. Fists fly at my face, my sides, and he pulls out a knife?—
Blood sprays everywhere. He drops on top of me, half his head missing.
Fontinelli holds his hand out to help me up. I don’t know exactly how to thank him, so I just take the offer and clap him on the shoulder.
“Boss, you’ll wanna get in here.” Mako mutters through my earpiece.
I’m in no hurry; this is the calmest I’ve felt in days. But the urgency in his voice has me picking up the pace.
Soon, I’m inside the factory, navigating through rusty corridors and across swinging chain-link bridges while he gives me directions. All around me, Yakuza are screaming and falling to their deaths, one way or another, while the band of pissed-off fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and generally decent men angrily avenge our collective children.
When I spot Mako in one of the narrow corridors, he shakes his head at me. “It’s fucking sick,” he mutters under his breath before pushing the door open for me. “Just warning you.”
I grit my teeth and go in.
He’s right.
It’s fucking disgusting.
There’s no air in here. It’s stifling, which makes the smell a thousand times worse. I don’t know exactly what I’m seeing. There’s a good chance my brain has activated some sort of sanity preservation mode and won’t let me fully process the horrors contained in this one room.
Several women of various ages, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, chained by their wrists to the walls.
None of them are alive.
“What should we do with them?” Mako quietly asks. He looks a little green around the collar. If he turns and vomits, I won’t hold it against him.
What I want to do is carry them out. Identify them. Notify their families, next of kin, whoever may be out there desperately searching for them.
What I want to do is give them, and their loved ones, closure.
What Ineedto do is keep things moving so our men can get out just as quickly as they got in.
“Leave them.” I hate the way the words taste. “No one needs to see this.”
Mako nods and pulls the door shut. The solid thud reminds me of those heavy marble doors at a mausoleum. It might as well be.
A few doors down, more of my men are quickly ushering terrified women out of another, near-identical room. Several more women are chained to the walls, and it’s a struggle to break them loose. But after a few carefully aimed shots at the chains and multiple reassurances that we are, surprisingly enough, the good guys, we manage to get every last one of them out.
