Page 103 of Reaper
Tank nods, his face grim. "Building's compromised. We go down hard and fast."
We form up quickly - Tank and I take point, weapons raised, while Mayhem carries Mrs. Eng behind us. Diesel brings up the rear, his gun sweeping our six. The old woman continues humming that goddamn Talking Heads song, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we're trapped in a burning death trap.
The stairwell is a nightmare of smoke and shadow. Bodies litter the steps, some Russian, some Triad, all equally dead. Blood makes the wooden stairs slick, and I nearly lose my footing twice as we descend. The smoke burns my lungs, each breath a struggle that reminds me of the old days when I'd wake up gasping from whatever poison I'd put in my system the night before.
"Movement below," Tank whispers, raising his fist to halt our advance.
Through the haze, I can make out shapes moving in the main lobby — the silhouettes of armed men taking positions behind overturned furniture and debris. They're waiting for us, setting up a kill box right at the bottom of the stairs.
"How many?" I say.
"At least six. Maybe more."
Mrs. Eng chooses that moment to pipe up from her perch on Mayhem's shoulder. "Is this the exciting part where we have a big fight scene like in the movies?"
"Something like that," I mutter, my mind racing through our options. None of them are good.
We reach the landing just above the main floor. The lobby stretches out before us - once an opulent gambling hall, now a war zone of shattered tables, broken glass, and corpses. The main entrance is maybe thirty feet away, but it might as well be thirty miles with the firepower waiting for us.
Tank and I trade a long look, a conversation without words passing between us. Finally, he nods. I do too, and steady my grip on my gun.
"On my mark," he whispers. "Reaper and I will lay down cover. You three make for the door and don't look back."
"Tank…" Diesel starts.
"That's an order, brother."
“Let’s go,” I say.
Before anyone can argue, I'm moving — vaulting over the railing and dropping into the lobby with my gun blazing. Tank follows a heartbeat later, his gun chattering as he takes down two Russians behind an overturned mahjong table.
The lobby erupts in chaos. Muzzle flashes light up the smoke-filled air like deadly fireworks. I dive behind a pillar as return fire chews up the marble where I'd been standing. From my peripheral vision, I see Mayhem carrying Mrs. Eng toward the exit, and crack a smile at the thought that the old woman’s singing days aren’t yet behind her. Then, a burst of stone shards splatters my face as enemy fire turns marble into shrapnel.
I raise my gun, take a breath, and ready myself to meet death like an old friend. I’ve been looking for him for a damn long time, and with Mrs. Eng safe, Adriana gone, and my fuckingmistakes staring me right in the face here in this fucking lobby, it’s about damn time he and I had a chat.
I pump three more rounds into a Russian crouched behind an overturned roulette table, watching his body jerk and fall backward. Tank is methodical as always, each shot precise and deadly, dropping targets with the calm efficiency of a man who's done this dance too many times to count.
"Go! Go! Go!" Tank roars over the gunfire.
Through the smoke and chaos, I glimpse Mayhem's mohawk disappearing through the doorway, Mrs. Eng still slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Diesel is right behind them, his gun roaring as he lays down covering fire. Good. They're out.
My magazine runs dry with a metallic click that might as well be a death sentence. I duck behind the pillar as bullets chip away at the marble, sending stone fragments into my face like angry hornets. My hands shake as I fumble for a fresh clip, muscle memory warring with the adrenaline coursing through my system.
That's when I hear footfalls. Heavy. Organized. Coming from behind us.
"Tank!" I shout, but it's too late.
A fresh wave of Russians pours through the rear entrance — the same kitchen door we came through. They move like professionals, not the street thugs we've been cutting down. These are Volkov's elite, and they've got us caught in a perfect crossfire.
"Weapons down! Now!" The voice carries the authority of command, thick with a Russian accent. "Hands where we can see them!"
Tank and I are fucked. Russians in front, Russians behind, and nowhere left to run. I count at least eight guns trained on us from different angles. Tank meets my eyes across the smoke-filled lobby. There's no fear there, just the grim acceptance of aman who's always known this day would come. He slowly lowers his gun, placing it on the blood-soaked marble.
I follow suit, setting my pistol down with deliberate care. The metal clinks against stone with a finality that echoes through the sudden silence.
"Smart boys," the Russian says, stepping out from behind an overturned blackjack table. He's older than the others, maybe fifty, with graying hair and scars that come from decades in this business. "Kick the weapons away."
We comply, sending our guns skittering across the lobby floor. The Russians close in from all sides, their weapons never wavering from center mass. Professional. Disciplined. The kind of men who don't make mistakes.
