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My hands are covered in sweat, slipping on the steering wheel when I hear the gunshots in the distance. The fight has already begun, and by the sound of it, it’s going to be over quickly.
The rattle of full-automatic rifles grows louder as I drive toward the location on my GPS. The sweat from my hands disappears, and the bundle of nerves in my belly dissolves into confidence. I thrive in these conditions. It’s what I live for.
Well, more like what I used to live for. Now, I live for Lily and the triplets.
The Red Hitter’s meeting location is a simple brick building that appears to have been recently built. I’m sure that’s’ where some of their new funding went, but they failed to make considerations for sufficient security measures.
There’s no gate out front, no guards or visible cameras. The only thing preventing me from driving straight int the parking lot is the crowd of Bratva vehicles parked just outside it on the road.
I pull up behind them, parking and jumping out of my car. The air smells like gunpowder and blood, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I hear a gurgling scream of someone being shot to death.
This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I weave past a few more cars, coming into a clearing where several of my men are hunched behind a vehicle, spraying bullets toward another car owned by the Red Hitters. Every few seconds, one of the cops jumps up and attempts to get a shot off, but they duck down just as quickly as bullets shower their car.
“How many are left?” I shout over the noise.
One of my men, Jeffery, looks over to me as he reloads his rifle. “I saw three by the car and a few more managed to run into the building. I’d say about a half-dozen, but if they called for backup there could be more coming.
“How many dead?” I ask, looking over at the bodies scattered along the parking lot.
“Twenty, maybe thirty,” he replies. “There were more here than we thought, but we caught them by surprise.”
The Red Hitters must have been recruiting with their new funding, but there’s only so many bodies they can gather and train in a few weeks. If they have backup, it’s going to be thin and outgunned by our forces. We might even be able to get out of here with the research before they arrive.
But I didn’t come prepared for an easy fight. I came prepared to destroy the Red Hitters by any means necessary, and even if it takes a few lives from our side to do it, I’m prepared to make that sacrifice.
Everyone here is.
“There’s one making a run for it,” Jeffery announces.
I raise my rifle before anyone else, shooting the desperate dasher in the back of the head. He collapses onto the pavement instantly, cut off from this world with a flash and a loud bang.
“Nice shot,” Jeffery mutters.
I’ve been practicing nonstop, but I’m not one to brag. I just wanted the opportunity to take one of these assholes out, and I got it. There’s no missing when you’re that enraged by someone’s very existence. You’ll make sure you hit them right on target.
“Two left behind the car. Maybe one. I think we should move in,” Jeffery says.
Before anyone can act, someone chucks a grenade across the parking lot toward the police vehicle where the lone remaining member is hiding, and we all duck. The explosion is small, but it’s enough to send glass and shrapnel flying across the pavement.
Then, there’s silence. The only thing that breaks it is the ringing in my ears. It’s become a chronic thing after so many years of gunfights and training, but today it feels like someone is blowing a whistle inside my head.
I stick a pinky into my ear, popping it in and out a few times until the ringing stops, and then I look out across the parking lot.
Not a soul has survived. There’s no movement, save for the slow ooze of crimson blood across the freshly paved ground and the occasional rustle of the adolescent trees in the breeze.
“Move in,” I command loudly, and everyone picks up their arms and rushes the building.
Not a single shot is fired on the way there, and it’s eerily calm. I almost want someone to pop out from behind one of the cars, or to hear a siren off in the distance, but there’s nothing but boots on the ground as we head toward the entrance.
The front door is made of wood, like they never anticipated anyone ever trying to break it down. That kind of confidence is exactly why they will fail today, and the Bratva will go on for centuries. We don’t make mistakes like that.
I hear a gunshot when the battering ram hits the flimsy wooden door, but it’s not from any of my men. The shot came from inside the building.
I almost want to laugh. Do these morons really think they’re going to be able to shoot their way out of this? With only a few of them left, they’re better off trying to run like the guy I shot in the parking lot.
Not that it’s going to save them, but it makes more sense than continuing to fight when you’re boxed in. I doubt any of the Red Hitters actually want to die for their cause.
