Page 17 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

It takes us, by my watch, six minutes and thirty-five seconds to survey the entirety of the warehouse. At the end of it, where the wings split off to the east and the west, I see Leo and Dante emerge from behind the stacks that line the opposite wall of the warehouse. We reconvene in the middle.

“Nothing?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Fuck.”

“Perhaps it is not such a bad thing, brother,” Sergio says. “Father will be sated for the time being. No blood is spilled.”

“No,” I answer, shaking my head with gritted teeth. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Then let us return to the vehicles,” he urges. “Father’s lieutenants are no good for covering fire if we delve further into the wings. We should regroup at the cars and circle around.”

I don’t want this mission to take any longer than it has to, but Sergio is right. The embankment doesn’t offer any good view into the wings, meaning Father’s lieutenants will be useless. Better to meet up and find a new angle of entry to the final remaining areas of the warehouse.

“Agreed. Fall back to the vehicles and await further instructions.”

Dante offers me a sloppy, mocking salute before we all turn and run the entirety of the way back through the warehouse and back to the cars.

* * *

Father is irate when we return.

“What the fuck are you doing back here?” he snarls from his perch stationed behind his lieutenants on the concrete embankment. “I want Russian scalps.” He’s still wearing a suit, I notice, though the rest of us are dressed up for a gunfight.

“The main warehouse is empty,” I explain. “We need to move our covering fire to a different vantage point before we can safely sweep the wings.”

“Safely sweep?”he mocks in disbelief. “Do you think you’re getting a goddamn lollipop when this shit is over, Vito? This isn’t a fucking Boy Scout mission. I told you to go kill Russians. They’re in there somewhere. Go find them, kill them, bring me their heads on spikes. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Father, I—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Fine. Back in the cars, we’ll drive around so we can drop you off right at the front like it’s your first day of school. Is that what you want, my fearless warrior son? Jesus Christ almighty, my children are pussies.”

Again, the bile of anger rises to my mouth like it did when he first spoke like that to me back in the nightclub. One of these days, he will go too far and I will cut him down where he stands. But now is neither the time nor the place. We are in danger here. I want to get us out of this place while we still have the option. Fortunately, Father is out of vitriol for the time being.

We all back down off the embankment, pile into the cars, and stick to the very perimeter of the warehouse lot as we drive slowly, lights off, around to the western wing. I keep a window cracked open to listen for any sounds. I hear nothing.

If Father is right and there are in fact Russians in there, then either they are in hiding, hoping we just leave without a fight.

Or …

“Look out!” I roar at the top of my lungs to Leo.

But I am too late.

The flash of gunfire, like a shooting star in the night. The explosion of sound, just a half-beat later.

Then a sniper’s slug turns the windshield into pixie dust and pierces Leo in the shoulder.

He bellows in pain. His foot depresses the accelerator. We rev up, collide into the embankment to our left, and the car flips.

We hang in the air for what feels like forever, though it can’t be longer than a second or two at the most.

Then we crash, and my world explodes.

Fire, gunshots, shattering glass, the growl of an angry, gutted engine.

I’m out of the car as fast as I can punch through the broken window and crawl out. The shards rip through my thigh, but I don’t stop.

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