Page 48 of Vicious Hearts

CALEPH

We’ve set up a perimeter around the warehouse, our men strategically placed at different locations as we watch and wait. From our vantage point on the rooftop carpark of a nearby building, Attila sits with his feet spread, sticking out of the window like he’s sunbathing on a lounge by the sea. I raise the binoculars to my eyes, sharpening the lens until the warehouse comes into focus.

The Hondurans arrive fifteen minutes before the meet time and go into the warehouse, a handful of them scattered outside. At the exact arranged meet time, four armored vehicles arrive outside the warehouse. I shove at Attila to get up, then go back to ticking off the attendees as they emerge from the vehicles.

“Kitson. Roark. Whiteley. Daniels. Folder. They’re all here,” I tell him. I can’t help the excitement that swirls about me knowing they’ll all soon meet their demise.

“Why so many reinforcements?” Attila asks, lowering his own binoculars. The politicians usually travel light; this time they’ve outdone themselves with their security detail.

“Seems too easy, brother,” I murmur, watching as the men take their places by the parked cars. From the way they stand, I can see they’re highly trained assassins that must have cost a small fortune. I watch the politicians enter the warehouse, taking note of the two guards that stand at the door. I swing the lens around the warehouse, my eyes scouring the immediate vicinity as dusk falls across the building like a halo. “There. Your three o’clock.”

Attila swings his binoculars in the direction I’ve indicated in time to see the flare of a cigarette as it rises then falls, someone lurking in the shadows.

“Dockside.”

Attila draws my attention to the nearby dock, where three armed men emerge from a small dinghy. I scour the perimeter further out, looking toward the forest bordering the industrial site and see a torch aimed at the ground as someone moves through the dense woods towards the warehouse.

“It’s an ambush,” I tell him at the same time that Attila comes to the same realization and is on his earpiece talking to our men. We scramble to our feet, hitting the pavement as we run from the rooftop in the direction of the warehouse. Attila is frantically trying to contact Marden, whose phone keeps going to voicemail.

“Send him a text and keep moving,” I hiss, as we emerge on the street and run through an alley, nearing our destination.

I tap my earpiece and communicate with Alessandro and Watts, our best two sharpshooters who have long range rifles trained on the warehouse. This was supposed to be an operation to ensure none of the politicians walked away in one piece, not a rescue mission because said politicians had decided to double cross the Hondurans.

“Expect trouble,” I tell them. “Hostiles approaching from the East, the West and the woods. Prepare to open fire.”

* * *

The first shot rings out just as we skid around the corner of the alley and into sight of the warehouse. One of the newcomers has approached the two guards at the door, who were just about to admit him to the meeting. Which tells us unequivocally that the double cross is the work of the pollies.

Rapid fire sounds from within the warehouse. I look at Attila, telling him with two fingers to cover me as I cross the drive toward the warehouse. He nods, his eyes filled with determination, and positions himself behind a storage container, ready to provide cover fire.

I steady my breathing, my heart pounding in my chest as I make a dash towards the back entrance of the warehouse. A bullet whizzes past me, narrowly missing my head and tearing through crates and splintering wood. The sound of gunfire intensifies, mixing with shouts and curses that echo through the warehouse.

I wrench the door open and press myself against the cold brick wall, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. The pollies must have planned this meticulously, banking on a payday bigger than any they’d previously imagined. knowing our every move. With a deep breath, I push through the door and slip inside.

There is absolute carnage inside, the ground swimming with blood. Shots fire out to my left, and to my right, the sound of fists flying.

“Watch the doors,” I murmur into my earpiece. “Make sure none of the targets leaves here alive.”

I move through the warehouse, my knees bent in a shooter’s stance, my gun in front of me as my eyes cover the floor. I’ve stepped into the mezzanine level, which is no more than a wraparound balcony that looks out to the ground level, which at some point in time must have hosted an underground boxing arena. That’s what remains now of the warehouse, just a thick layer of dust covering a boxing ring, surrounded by fresh bodies doused in blood.

I see Marden on the other side of the mezzanine, exchanging punches with one of the security guards, a giant of a man who looks like he could be Russian ex-military. Marden is by no means a pushover – his strength and courage are what have pushed him to the top of the food chain to lead the Hondurans. But the Russian is bigger and thicker, and he’s just pulled out a blade that looks like it belongs with a carcass hunter.

The Russian slashes at the air, then back again, and his blade gets stuck in Marden’s forearm. Marden staggers and the guard pulls out the knife and is preparing to take another stab at him, his lips snarling back in malice. I raise my gun and point it as his hand rises, shooting him twice in the chest. He goes stumbling backward and hits the mesh wire bracketing the balcony, but it doesn’t stop his progress. He goes diving over it backward and lands with a thud on the ground floor.

My eyes don’t linger on Marden long before I’m moving forward again, looking for my next victim.

“I’m in,” Attila says into my earpiece, at the same time that I hear a burst of gunfire on the ground floor. I creak down the metal steps until I reach the bottom, looking around at the carnage. I don’t have a chance to catch my breath before I’m knocked over by a brute force and sent hurtling to the ground. My gun skitters across the concrete flooring, and I reach for another one when I’m kicked in the face by a heavy black foot. My face flies to the side, a dull pain settling in my brain. I shake it off and turn toward my attacker, rising to meet him as he comes bulldozing into me. I go flying into the wall, my body bruised with aching pain. I get one punch in before he sends me sliding to the ground. I’m such a crumpled mess that I can’t even reach for my gun.

“He’s mine.”

46

ATTILA

They say when you look death in the face, you know.

I look at the Russian. Although he’s not so much Russian as he is Kazakhstani. He could be a mix. He has the strangest features I’ve ever seen. Built like a Russian, with the same coloring, bald head, but the eyes and the nose are definitely Kazakhstani. Definitely a mixed breed. He cuts an imposing figure, prowling towards me like a feline.

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