Page 46 of Scarred Bratva King

Adrenaline kicks in instantly. “Where is he?”

“Warehouse district. Near the docks,” Dmitri replies. “One of our scouts saw him going in. He’s got men with him. Bring your gun.”

22

MAXIM

Ivan is beside me in my SUV, Dmitri in the car behind. More men follow in two other vehicles. All in the correct formation, as it should be.

When we arrive, the air is thick with the smell of oil. The warehouses loom up before us, their windows dark and covered in decades of filth.

Ivan taps my shoulder, pointing to a squat, dilapidated building at the edge of the lot. “There. Lights just flicked off.”

“Perfect,” I mutter, my grip tightening on my gun as I climb out. “They know we’re coming.”

We move in silence. My men fan out, their movements precise and practiced. I lead the way, my cane a steady rhythm against the ground as we approach the entrance.

The moment we step inside the warehouse a shot rings out. It echoes like a thunderclap, splitting the silence and sending my instincts into overdrive.

“Ambush!” I shout, diving behind a stack of wooden pallets as more bullets rip through the air, shattering crates and sending splinters flying.

The darkness is disorienting, broken only by the sporadic flashes of muzzle fire. We spread out, taking cover behind machinery and rusting metal beams.

“Move forward!” I bark, signaling two of my men to flank the shooters.

The muzzle flash ahead gives me a target. I raise my gun and fire, the shot landing square in a man’s chest. He drops with a strangled cry.

The air grows thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. I move swiftly, cane in one hand, gun in the other.

A shadow shifts to my left. I pivot just as a man lunges at me from behind a stack of crates, a knife glinting in his hand.

He’s fast, but I’m faster. I sidestep, hooking my cane around his wrist and twisting sharply. The knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, and I follow up with a brutal elbow to his temple. He crumples, unconscious before he hits the ground.

Another man charges from my right, this one wielding a crowbar. He swings, I duck, the bar whistling past my ear. I retaliate with a swift strike to his knee with my cane. He howls in pain, dropping the weapon, and I finish him with a punch to the jaw that sends him sprawling.

“Maxim, watch out!” Ivan’s warning comes too late.

I hear the shot before I feel it—a sharp crack. The bullet grazes my side, and the pain is immediate, white-hot and searing.

I stagger, pressing a hand to the wound as blood seeps through my shirt. The pain slows me down, but it doesn’t stop me. I grit my teeth and push forward.

Another man appears in front of me, his gun raised. I fire first, the recoil biting into my shoulder, and he goes down.

The room feels like it’s closing in, the noise deafening, but my focus remains sharp. I spot Dmitri to my left, taking out one of Marco’s men with a clean shot.

“Push them back!” I shout, rallying the men.

I advance, my movements calculated but slower now, each step sending a jolt of pain through my side.

A figure charges at me from the shadows—a hulking man with fists like hammers. I don’t have time to aim my gun, so I swing my cane instead, the weighted tip connecting with his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t go down, grabbing the cane and yanking it hard.

For a moment, we grapple. I twist the cane free and use the momentum to bring the handle down on the back of his neck. He collapses with a thud, but not before landing a glancing blow to my ribs that makes my vision swim.

The fight rages on, but the tide is turning. Our men press forward, their gunfire relentless, forcing Marco’s men to retreat.

A final shooter appears on a catwalk above, taking aim at Ivan. I spot him just in time and fire, the bullet catching him in the shoulder. He stumbles, dropping his weapon, and crashes through the railing to the floor below.

As the last echoes of gunfire fade, I lower my weapon, my breathing labored. My side throbs, the pain a constant reminder of the bullet that came too close.

---