Page 122 of Madness & Mercy
Julian hums, a low, thoughtful sound. “Good. Just… don’t make it quick.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I murmur, my knuckles tightening around the wheel. “Braga’s gonna beg to die by the time I’m through.”
We fly past the edge of the city, streetlights giving way to shadows. The clock on the dash ticks closer to midnight. The air inside the car grows colder, charged.
Julian glances at me again. “You ever think about what comes after?”
“After Braga?”
“After all of this.”
I keep my eyes on the road, the curve of my mouth turning bitter.
“No.”
He nods, like he expected that. Like it makes sense.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”
We pull into the docks at midnight sharp, the Maserati crawling to a stop beneath the cover of stacked shipping containers. The engine cuts off with a final snarl. Fog clings low to the asphalt, rolling in from the water and swallowing everything it touches.
Julian’s already on edge beside me, his eyes scanning the dockyard with that cold, surgical precision I’ve come to know too well. He’s a weapon when he gets like this.
“There,” he mutters, pointing through the haze. “Far end of the port. Red windbreaker. That’s him.”
I follow his line of sight. Braga, the arrogant son of a bitch, posted near a container crane, flanked by three men now instead of two. Laughing like he’s on vacation, like he doesn’t realize death is breathing down his neck.
I shoot a group text to Luca and Enzo.
NICO:Confirm visual. Far end of port. Red windbreaker.
LUCA:We see him.
NICO:Make some noise.
ENZO:On it.
A few seconds of silence go by. Then, allhellbreaks loose.
A gunshot rings out, then another. Screams echo down the dock as Enzo floors the blacked-out Benz and plows it straight through a stack of wooden pallets, sending splinters flying. Luca comes in on foot, fast and mean, shooting three rounds into one of Braga’s men. Another guy pulls a gun. Luca grabs his wrist and drives a knife into his throat.
Panic spreads like wildfire. Braga’s men scatter.
Julian and Imove.
We stay low, weaving through the shadows between crates and forklifts. The air smells like oil and blood. One of Braga’s goons rounds a corner and spots us, raising his weapon, but Julian’s faster. He puts a bullet in the guy’s chest before he can blink. No hesitation, deadly precision, like he was made for this.
We don’t stop running.
Braga sees us coming and bolts, ducking through a side corridor between containers. He yells something in Portuguese, a warning I think, but it’s already too late.
“Braga,”I shout, my voice like thunder. “You picked the wrong city.”
We chase him across the yard, boots pounding pavement, gunfire sparking behind us as Enzo and Luca draw more attention. Braga ducks under a chain-link gate and disappears into one of the side loading bays.
“Fuck,”Julian pants beside me. “He’s trying to loop around the pier.”
We follow, fast and silent. There’s a flash of movement ahead. Braga’s men are waiting to ambush us.
