Page 161 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
One goes down with a choke wire.
The other folds under a blade to the kidney.
We breach fast, sweep tighter.
Inside, it smells like old wood, sweat, and something electrical.
A radio crackles somewhere in the depths.
The floors are uneven, made of stone, dirt, and old wine-stained brick.
We move like muscle memory.
One corridor, then two.
I hear a scuffle ahead.
Another team has already cut through the west annex.
Bodies are down.
Four of them.
Il Sangue Nero foot soldiers, all young.
None older than twenty-five.
None will see twenty-six.
Marco checks the tags. "No intel. No rank markings. Too clean."
"They’re being burned on purpose," I say. "These aren’t soldiers. They’re bait."
Marco signals a halt as we reach the eastern transept.
A rusted crucifix leans against the wall like it’s been praying for an escape.
No exits here, no direct shot to the inner cloister.
Just a hall that curves left, toward the cloister gates.
Tomas taps his earpiece. "Movement. South archway. Two vehicles just rolled in."
I grip the rifle tighter.
"Positions," I say.
The team splits—two with me, two with Marco, the rest covering the exits.
The air shifts again, this time filling with gun oil and motor heat.
The smell of incoming violence.
We take the hall fast, low, and silently.
Until the silence breaks.
Automatic fire rips from the southern arch, bullets chewing brick like teeth through bone.
