Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You sure this is right?” I ask once we’re standing together in the parking lot, shielded by a group of overgrown bushes and our trucks.
“It’s definitely the place. I had my guys double check.” Davide cocks his head toward the complex. “You still sure about this?”
I mull it over. Allegedly, one of the Serbian guys Ivona mentioned lives here. It feels wrong—the place is a fucking dump—but there’s no reason she was lying.
“It’s our best lead. We take this guy and we smoke Tommy out before he can make his move. That’s the plan.” I nod toward the building. “You know a way in?”
Emilio laughs and gestures in the air. “Yeah, straight through the front door. The locks don’t work.”
“Figures.” I pull my gun and check the chamber. “You got more guys?”
“There are a few spread out around the perimeter.” Davide goes through the same check as me and Emilio follows suit. “If it goes wrong, we call for an extraction.”
“Works for me.” I stuff the gun into my waistband where it’ll be easy to draw. “We want him alive, alright? He’s a bargaining chip.”
“I’ll do my best.” Davide’s smile is tight and unnerving. My older brother isn’t really the take prisoners type.
I head in first. It’s around midnight, and the building is silent. There are a fair number of cars in the lot, which makes me think most units are full, which might be a problem. The more people there are inside, the more ways this could go wrong.
At least Emilio is right, the door’s push open without resistance. The downstairs interior is as depressing as the exterior. The walls are painted mauve, and the tile is chipped and stained in spots. The doorman’s desk is vacant, and I wonder if anyone ever sits there. A bank of mailboxes covers one wall, and an elevator’s on the left. We skip it and take the stairs.
The only sound is the echo of our boots on concrete. The guy’s on the fourth floor, which isn’t too far; we march up without speaking.
Most people might be nervous, but I don’t feel that anymore. I’ve been through too much, and at this point I’m ready to handle whatever’s going to happen.
My only hesitation is Claudia, she’d be really upset if I got killed tonight.
I reach the landing and stop outside of apartment 408. The door looks like all the others and the hallway is dead silent. A light flickers at the far end. I gesture at Davide and he nods, taking point, preparing to kick right above the handle, underneath the lock.
I draw my gun. Emilio does the same. We share a moment of silence before Davide nods, winds up, and smashes his boot into the frame.
The door buckles. The sound is nuclear and resonates along the concrete walls. He does it a second time and wood splinters as the lock cracks and the door slams open with a massive bang.
I’m in first, gun raised. The apartment’s dark and I hit the first light I find. The living room is messy and cluttered with empty bottles on the coffee table. A big flatscreen hangs above a beat-up entertainment center. Crappy speakers flank a window on the left and an ancient turntable is covered in ashtrays and half-smoked cigarettes. The place smells like stale liquor and nicotine.
Kitchen is clear. Closets are empty. I hurry down the hall, check the first room, and find only a carpeted space with an exercise bike, a bench press, and a bunch of random weights. I turn to the next door, throw it open, and find a bed, some blankets, and a body.
The guy’s reaching into a drawer. I can guess what he’s about to pull and I don’t give him a chance to bring it around. Instead, I squeeze off a shot, and the bang’s like a tornado tossing lawn furniture against a steel wall. It hits true though and the guy screams in pain as he curls around his leg, and a pistol clatters from his fingers down onto the floor.
I’m on top of him in half a second, the barrel of my gun pressed against his cheek, a knee slammed into his gut. He’s bleeding from a wound in his thigh, but not bad enough to be an immediate threat. “Move and you die,” I whisper. “Anyone else here?”
He rattles something at me in Serbian and I don’t think it’s very kind. I smash him in the face with my gun and repeat the question.
“Alone,” he groans. “Alone, alone.”
Davide lurks behind me. “It’s clear,” he murmurs. “We should move. Emilio’s in the hall waiting.”
“You’re Bianco.” The guy’s staring between us. He’s got bad teeth and yellowing eyes and his hair is cut in a rough buzz. I’m guessing meth, maybe something harder. “I know you from the club.”