Page 62 of Daddy Enforcer
The building’s a hulking mass of rusted steel and broken windows, perfect for an ambush but a death trap if we misstep.
We split up—Cole taking the left flank, Connor the right, me straight up the middle.
My heart’s steady, my training locking in, every sense honed as we creep through a shattered back door, the air inside thick with dust and oil.
The SUVs are parked out front, their engines still ticking, and I hear low voices—Trent’s smooth tone, the Varkovs’ guttural accents—mixing with the clink of weapons.
We’re outnumbered, at least two-to-one, as shadows move inside the warehouse—six Varkov enforcers, armed with semi-automatics, plus Trent.
But we’re Night Ops trained, and we’ve faced worse odds.
I signal Cole and Connor, and we strike.
The first shot is mine, a suppressed round that drops an enforcer before he can raise his rifle.
Chaos erupts—gunfire cracks, muzzle flashes lighting up the dim interior as Cole and Connor open fire.
I duck behind a crate, bullets splintering wood nearby, and return fire, taking out another Varkov with a clean headshot.
Cole’s moving like a ghost, his shots precise, while Connor’s a force of nature, his rifle cutting through two more enforcers.
A bullet grazes my shoulder, a hot sting, but I ignore it, my focus razor-sharp. Billie’s face flashes in my mind—his smile, his trust—and I fight harder, for him.
“Press!” I holler, locked in.
“Got one, downed,” Cole replies, his strong legs powering him onward.
The gunfight’s brutal but fast, our training outmatching their numbers.
In minutes, the warehouse is silent, the air thick with gunpowder. Six Varkov enforcers lie dead, their bodies sprawled across the concrete, rifles useless beside them. I scan the scene, counting—six down, all accounted for.
But where’s Trent?
My gut twists, a seething anger rising as I spot bloodied footprints trailing toward a side entrance, the door ajar.
“He’s running,” I growl to Cole and Connor, already moving. “Cover me.”
I follow the prints, my Glock drawn, the blood trail smearing across the gravel outside.
The alley’s narrow, shadowed by towering warehouses, and there he is—Trent, limping, one hand clutching a bleeding wound on his side, the other fumbling for a phone.
He’s pale, his suit torn, but his eyes are sharp, calculating, even now.
The asshole sees me and freezes, his face twisting into that slimy smirk I’ve hated since I first saw his face right at the beginning of all this…
“Wait,” Trent says, his voice slick, desperate. “You don’t get it. Billie—he’s the one who pushed me into this. He wanted the money, told me to deal with the gangsters to make him richer. He’s not innocent, man. You’re protecting a?—”
“Shut up,” I snap, my voice cold, my Glock steady.
Trent’s words are poison, a pathetic attempt to manipulate me, but I see through the facade. Billie’s heart, his trust, his fear when he asked about my safety last night, none of it aligns with his lies.
Trent’s the one who’s been bleeding him dry, using his fame, threatening his life.
“You’re done, Trent.,” I say. “You betrayed him, sold him out to the Varkovs. You don’t get to twist this.”
Trent’s smirk falters, his eyes darting for an escape, but there’s nowhere to run.
“Come on, we can work this out,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Any money you want. Anything. Any boy. Anything! You don’t have to?—”
