Page 46 of Obsessed Bratva King

Too quiet.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My gut tightens.

Something is wrong.

Then—

Gunfire explodes into the night.

A sharp, violent crack-crack-crack rips through the stillness.

The man to my left jerks, a spray of red bursting from his chest before he even makes a sound. His body slams against a crate, sliding down in a lifeless heap.

Another goes down hard, gasping, his fingers clutching at the wound in his throat before his legs buckle beneath him.

It’s an ambush.

My mind moves fast. A camera I missed. A pressure alarm somewhere. This is what happens when I get distracted by thoughts of her. This is my fault.

“Get out of here!” I bark, already moving.

Bullets tear through the air, ricocheting off metal with sharp, screaming sparks. I dive behind a shipping container, my gunalready in my hand, heart pounding in the steady rhythm of war. My remaining men scatter, taking cover wherever they can.

Flashes of light burst through the darkness. Muzzle fire. Shadows moving in the distance. The deafening roar of bullets drowning out the river beyond.

A scream. One of his goes down.

I grit my teeth, fury burning through me. I don’t hesitate. I can’t.

A figure moves in my periphery. I whip my gun up, squeeze the trigger. The man drops instantly, a spray of blood hitting the container beside him. Another moves closer—I fire twice, center mass, watching him crumple.

But they keep coming.

More shadows emerge between the stacks of cargo, too many, too organized.

Darren’s paranoia has worked in his favor. He saw us coming.

I move, weaving through the maze of containers, my boots splashing through puddles of seawater and blood.

A figure lunges from the side—I duck, pivot, slam my elbow into his throat. He chokes, stumbles—I drive my knife into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. The gurgling sound barely registers before I twist the blade, yank it free.

Another comes at me before the first body even hits the ground.

No time.

I shift, bringing my gun up, but he’s already swinging—a metal pipe whistling through the air.

Crack.

The impact slams into my ribs, pain exploding through my side. I don’t falter. My free hand grabs his wrist, twists— he yells in agony as bones snap beneath my grip. My gun presses against his skull.

I pull the trigger.

He drops, but there are too many. We’re surrounded.

I glimpse my men— dying, falling, bleeding into the concrete. One by one. Picked off. I’m all that’s left.

Rage claws through me. I force my way forward, bullets ripping through the night. I take another out—headshot, instant kill. Another falls as I bury his own knife in his throat.

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