∞
Webbs drives ahead in the box truck. Once we're close, we kill the headlights and walk our bikes the rest of the way, parking across the parking lot near Toby’s warehouse. The area is dim, lit only by a single streetlamp in the far corner of the lot.
We’re dressed in all black—dark caps, cargo pants, and skeleton neck gaiters rest loose around our throats, ready to go up when the time comes. A duffel with explosives and gear is slung across my back.
Psycho works his magic from the truck, hacking the CTV feed in the area checking for vehicles approaching the warehouse. I scan the perimeter as we move.
“Flock, how many guards?” I mutter as we get close.
“Counted four earlier,” he says, drawing his Glock.
“Be alert,” I tell the crew.
We raise our gaiters and melt into the shadows.
Flex creeps up to the lock, planting a brick of C4. I pull my Glock and lift a hand, signaling the countdown.
“Psycho, kill the lights inside,” I say into the earpiece.
“Already on it,” he replies.
I count down silently. At zero, Flex hits the trigger.
The warehouse door blows clean off, crashing onto a patch of grass. We storm the opening, weapons drawn, tactical lights cutting through the dark.
Gunfire erupts immediately. Men in black—Toby’s soldiers open up with machine guns. We split up and duck behind crates, returning fire in tight bursts.
“Your boss stole from the wrong motherfuckers,” I growl, squeezing off two rounds. “No one robs us and walks away.”
Three more of his men come charging from the far end of the warehouse. They fire wild.
“Fuck this,” I snarl.
I dive out, sliding across the concrete on my back, firing as I go. My shots find their mark. All headshots. They drop before they hit the ground.
“Ruthless, no!” Webbs barks, but it’s already done.
I roll up to my feet, chest heaving. “Check the rest of the warehouse. We don’t leave witnesses.”
One guy’s still crawling, trying to make it to the front entrance. I stalk over, flip him onto his back, and grab his shirt. His chest is soaked in blood. I yank him eye level.
“Tell your boss,” I hiss. “Ruthless is coming for him.”
I drop him and turn to Flock. “Leave him outside nearby. Let him deliver the message.”
Flex rushes over, eyes wide. “Shit, you’ve been hit.”
I grunt and press my palm to my side. Warm blood coats my hand.
“Damn it. Not again,” I growl. Pain shoots through my ribs, but I push it down. I've been shot before—the worst was when a bullet hit my dominant arm. The pain was excruciating, yet strangely satisfying, as I shot the ones responsible and exacted revenge for my parents' murder. The impending pain won't deter me from pursuing Toby either.
“Webbs, get the truck,” I bark.
“On it, brother,” he says, bolting out.
I grit my teeth and turn toward Flex. “Once the crates are loaded, light this bitch up.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Absofuckinglutely.”
