Page 98 of Filthy Little Fix
"I'm going to tell you what happens now, Sal," I whisper. "In one minute, you're getting out of this car. You will walk, not run, to that security booth you see. You will go inside and use your master code to put the system into maintenance mode. That will shut down the perimeter sensors and put the external cameras on a five-minute loop. Five minutes, Sal." I press the barrel harder. "My snipers are already in position. They are aiming at you right now. If you hesitate, if you mistype the code, if you even think about triggering the silent alarm… the first bullet won't go through your head. It will go through your knee. Thesecond, through the other one. We will leave you crippled in the middle of that yard for your Malakov friends to find. Am I clear?"
He tries to nod, a jerky, spastic movement. "Y-yes, Mr. Volkov."
"Good." I lean back. "Luca."
Luca unlocks the doors. He opens the passenger side and pulls Sal out of the car without any ceremony, tossing him into the light rain.
"Go," Luca growls.
Sal stumbles and begins his lonely walk toward the security booth, pulling a sleeve down to cover a crooked, swollen finger.
Sal's panic in the interrogation room was productive. He gave us everything, thinking it would buy him a forged pardon. The warehouse is a nearly legitimate front facility in the territory of the Malakovs' second-in-command, Alexei Malakov. Discreet on purpose. Few guards on the perimeter so as not to draw attention, but with a robust internal formation. Dmitry confirmed it with satellite imagery. All we needed was the human key to unlock the door. And there he goes.
I pick up a tablet that mirrors the feed from one of my snipers. The green crosshairs rest on the back of Sal's head.
I have two snipers on opposing rooftops, with clear sightlines to all entrances and exits. With me and Luca is the assault team, ready for infiltration. A third containment team is waiting for the signal two blocks away, ready to block the streets and cover our exit if shit hits the fan.
In my ear, Dmitry's voice, our eye in the sky back at the base, is calm. "East rooftop sentry identified and eliminated. But there's atypical movement in the back lot. An unmarked transport van just arrived."
A van. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a war.
Alexei wouldn't risk a valuable shipment now. A changing of the guard would use passenger cars.
I watch Sal through the window. The pathetic figure walking too slowly, eating up precious seconds.
"I want eyes on that van," I say into the comm. "If the back door opens, snipers have a green light to shoot the tires. Immobilize the vehicle."
"Understood."
Sal finally reaches the booth. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hit the keypad. The sniper's green crosshairs remain fixed on his neck. A single command from me and his mediocre existence would be over.
"He's in," Dmitry says.
The wait is torture. Ten seconds. Twenty.
"System status is maintenance," Dmitry's voice finally announces. "Service door is open. You are clear for entry."
I don't wait another second.
"Luca. Let's go," I order, already pushing the Escalade's door open.
We step out into the rain. The distance between our blind spot and the back service door is a hundred meters of gravel and open yard.
Sal exits the booth with the stupid relief of having survived his pathetic walk. The relief is short-lived. Luca reaches him first. One hand clamps over his mouth, while the other spins him around and shoves him against the wall of the booth.
"You make a sound, I'll open your throat right here," Luca whispers to him.
My focus is on the door. Sal is just baggage now. We drag him with us like a reluctant guide, the barrel of a gun pressed against his back.
We reach the door. One of my men, Marco, picks the lock with a tension tool. The click is almost inaudible. The door opens with a low creak.
We push Sal inside first. If there's a trap, he'll trigger it. There isn't.
The warehouse interior is cavernous. It smells of metal, dampness, and diesel oil. It's quiet, with a distant hum from a generator and dripping from a puddle somewhere. We move in formation, using the stacks of crates and old machinery as cover. We can't alert them or we risk them executing Nyx before we get to him.
Sal is trembling so hard his teeth are chattering. Luca holds him tightly enough that he's forced to stay quiet.
We reach a fork in the corridor. Two identical metal doors. I press the blade of my knife against Sal's throat. He freezes.
