It’s over.
And nothing will ever convince her to stay.
A single tear rolls from the corner of my eye and lands soundlessly on the dusty floor.
Because she already left me a long time ago.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pavel
The city feels surreal as I jog quietly through an alley. Behind me, the dull patter of footsteps echoes off the buildings. Rocks skitter over the broken tar. Someone stumbles, and I glance back to make sure my brigadiers are sticking close.
At the mouth of the alley, a single streetlight breaks through the shadows in a dusty halo. The brick buildings guard the street, creating an opening that appears like a vast chasm. These old buildings won’t hide us for much longer.
I halt near the pool of light and give a signal to my brigadiers, ordering them to flank either side of me and to keep an eye on the rooftops. Above us, the rest of my men are moving into place. The street won’t be safe for any of Cardona’s men with the ambush we have set up.
All we need to do now is wait.
It’s quiet for a while until voices disrupt the silence from the other side of the street. Four men armed with handguns—based on the telltale sag and the slight bulge of their suit jackets—march quickly past, eyes swarming the area.
An overzealous brigadier on my left steps forward. I extend my arm and shake my head.Not yet.They’re passing a pizzeria with a few customers inside. I don’t want more casualties than necessary.
I’m not Cardona.
After the four targets slip past the restaurant, I motion for my men to act. Two dart forward and raise their weapons. The four targets respond quickly and raise their own guns. One of them shouts.
And then gunfire splits the silence.
One of my men falls back to guard our backs. The men above are doing that as well. Our enemies don’t stand a chance. But they’ll fight back. Theyalwaysfight back. It’s the dignified thing to do. Fight with honor. Die with honor.
My first target is the man furthest from me. He’s ducking toward the alley. His head hangs low, and his eyes are focused on my brigadiers.
Poor choice.
I squeeze the trigger three times. Three holes sprout in his cheek as his head snaps back. Blood paints the brick wall behind him and rolls down slowly as he collapses unceremoniously to the ground. No matter how many times I’ve seen people die from being shot, I’ll never get used to how undignified death is.
Another man slams to the ground. And then a third.
The final one turns tail and runs. Coward.
A brigadier steps forward, and I shake my head.
“Let him run. We follow.”
The brigadier nods and lowers his gun obediently.
As anticipated, the wounded man sprints past the entrance of the pizzeria while clutching his shoulder. Blood smears the sidewalk wherever he steps. His gun clatters to the ground. He stops to swoop it up, spots me staring at him, and then staggers back.
I nod at my brigadiers, and together we move forward like a pack of wolves.
I tuck my own gun into my holster and walk toward the wounded man like we’re about to have a casual conversation. If all goes well, itwillbe casual. But that’s entirely up to him.
He looks up at me, eyes wide and face pale. He’s huffing raggedly as blood seeps from his wound through his fingers. The stench of fear rolls off him—but he is determined to contort his face into a semblance of defiance.
“Where’s Cardona hiding?” I ask calmly.
“Fuck you, you Russian bastard!”