Page 14 of My Masked Stalker
9
KILLIAN
The warehouse smells of oil, saltwater, and money. The kind of place where fortunes change hands without anyone ever signing a damn thing. I crouch on the mezzanine with Ethan’s steady breathing in my earpiece, watching the parade of Black Ash men below.
Cargo crates line the dock floor, stamped with Russian, Chinese, and half a dozen other languages, and I don’t need Ethan’s laptop to tell me they’re filled with things the government doesn’t want hitting American streets. Guns. Explosives. Maybe worse.
“They really leveled up,” Ethan murmurs in my ear. “This is no ordinary street crew. Last intel says they have three senators on their payroll. Whoever our client is, they’re aiming way above our pay grade.”
I grunt softly, my M110 SASS balanced against my shoulder, the crosshairs dancing over the shaved head of the man giving orders below. Viktor Kovalenko. Black Ash’s logistics head. Taking him out won’t kill the beast, but it’ll make it stumble.
I center him in my scope. Easy shot. Too easy.
My finger tightens on the trigger, my exhale steady as the world narrows to the curved line of Viktor’s skull through my glass. It would be so easy.
But my instincts won’t shut the fuck up. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Something’s off.
“Killian?” Ethan’s voice sharpens. “You waiting for a written invitation?”
I don’t answer. My eyes sweep the shadows, the catwalks, the rooflines opposite me. Too much movement below, too many guards positioned wrong. They’re not protecting the shipment—they’re protecting Viktor.
“It’s a setup,” I mutter.
And then the warehouse explodes in light.
Flood lamps sear my eyes, blinding white as my stomach drops. Fuck.
“Contact! Multiple shooters, high ground!” Ethan barks in my ear, his voice cracking with panic.
The first round punches into the steel beam two inches from my head, and the ricochet screams in my ear. I roll right, my shoulder slamming into the grate as I yank my rifle tight to my chest. Bullets chew the mezzanine floor where I’d been lying a second before.
“Get me an exit!” I snarl, pushing to my knees.
“I’m trying, I’m trying…” Ethan’s typing frantically, his voice tinny through the earpiece. “They’ve jammed half my feeds. Jesus Christ, they knew you were coming.”
No shit.
I sprint across the catwalk, my boots hammering the metal, guns flashing in my periphery as more shooters open fire. I pull out my Glock, dropping one, maybe two, but for every body I tag, another gun lights up.
The stairwell ahead is my only option. I throw myself at it, sliding down the railing as a storm of lead follows me. A bulletcatches my thigh halfway down, and white-hot pain tears up my leg. I grunt, my teeth grinding as blood soaks my black cargo pants, but I don’t stop moving. Stopping means dying.
“Killian!” Ethan yells. “Talk to me?—”
“Leg,” I interrupt him with a hiss as I stumble onto the concrete. “Just a graze.” I think.
My vision blurs for half a second before adrenaline slams it back into focus again.
The warehouse is in chaos. Viktor’s guards scramble, shouting in Russian, automatic fire peppering the mezzanine I just abandoned. I drop behind a stack of crates, sucking air through clenched teeth. The copper stink of my blood mixes with the oil and salt of the dock.
“Reroute me, now!”
“On it, on it!” Ethan’s voice cuts, muffled swearing filling the comms. “Fuck, they’ve got the exterior covered. SUVs pulling up, four—no, five of them. They’re boxing you in.”
Of course they are.
I holster the Glock and chamber a round in my SASS, lean out, then put a bullet through the driver’s window of the nearest SUV. Glass explodes, and the man inside slumps against the wheel. The vehicle lurches, skids sideways, blocking the ramp just long enough to give me a shot at the dock doors.
I take it.
