Page 11 of Ruthless Savior
"And De Luca himself?" Danny asks, drumming his fingers against the table.
I think about Siobhan's body in the morgue, about our son or daughter who will never take their first breath, about the way Rocco took advantage of the fault lines in my marriage to send me a message that couldn’t be misinterpreted. My jaw tightens, and my blood runs hot with the desire to spill it.
"He's mine."
—
At just before eleven p.m.,we’re positioned around the warehouse, black SUVs parked strategically in nearby alleyways, waiting for us to make our escape when this is done. The men have fanned out—Finn and two others are with me, Owen took men with him to cover the back entrance, and Danny has the rest watching the side. I'm crouched behind a shipping container near the front with Finn at my shoulder, watching Rocco's black Escalade pull up to the loading dock.
He steps out looking every inch a don—expensive suit, gold watch catching the streetlight, moving with the confidence of a man who thinks he's untouchable. Four bodyguards fan out around him, automatic weapons barely concealed under their jackets.
I frown. The rest of his crew must already be in the warehouse. Four bodyguards aren’t enough, not with the mark he knows is on him after he killed my wife. I have a feeling he’s hoping, if we’re watching, that we’ll see him go in with only four men and get sloppy.
I press the transmitter clipped to my wrist, my gun held ready in my other hand. "Radio check."
There’s a slight crackle. "Owen, good."
"Danny, in position."
"Move in sixty seconds," I say, keeping my voice low. "Remember—De Luca is mine."
I count down from sixty, watching as Rocco and his men disappear into the warehouse. At zero, Finn and I move.
The front door isn't locked, and we slip inside to find ourselves in a maze of shipping containers and industrial equipment. The warehouse is bigger than it looked from outside, and it would be easy to get turned around in here. I hold up a hand for us to pause, waiting to hear something that will indicate in which direction we should go.
Voices carry from deeper in the building, speaking in rapid Italian. I can't make out the words, but the tone is tense, urgent. It’s possible that something’s gone wrong with their deal—which might work in our favor—or that they’re negotiating.
Either way, they’re occupied, and it’s time to move.
With Finn and our other two men backing us up, I move toward the voices, using the shipping containers as cover. My hand is wrapped tightly around my pistol, another gun holstered on my side for backup, and I slide a hunting knife free with my left hand. I breathe shallowly as we move—despite the cold outside, the warehouse smells musty, with the scents of rust and old metal thick and acrid in the air.
The first guard never sees me coming. I come up on him from behind, one hand over his mouth and the blade between his ribs, lowering his body quietly to the concrete floor. The second is turning when I put two rounds in his chest, the silencer reducing the gunshots to a hollow, soft sound that’s unlikely to carry far in the echoing space.
And then there’s a crackle from the transmitter. Owen’s voice comes through, as I hear gunshots go off from the other side of the warehouse. “Heavy guard over here!” he shouts. “Danny, I need backup! They’re on us?—”
I move toward the sound of automatic weapons fire, keeping low, using every piece of cover I can find. More voices now, shouting orders in English and Italian, the distinctive crackle of semi-automatic guns mixing with the sharper reports of handguns. I’m entirely focused on finding Rocco, and Finn and the other two men fan out around me, looking around corners and watching my back. I round a corner after Finn clears it, looking into a room that might have been an office once, but now is filled with something that makes my blood run cold.
Cages. Actual fucking cages, lined up against the far wall, each one just large enough for a person to sit or lie down.
Most of them are empty, but not all.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe, raising my weapon as footsteps echo from the far end of the hall.
Three of Rocco's men come around the corner at a dead run, probably fleeing from Danny and Owen. Finn and the man next to him put them down before they can raise their weapons, but the damage is done—our position is compromised, and I can hear more footsteps coming.
I need to move. Need to find Rocco before this whole operation goes sideways, but I can’t stop staring at what’s in the only not-empty cage. A young woman, curled on her side, clearly unconscious. There’s no telling how long she’s been there—she looks filthy. Her hair is a brownish shade that might be auburn when it’s clean, and she looks too pale.
She's not moving.
I came here for Rocco. Danny’s words echo in my mind:This isn’t a rescue mission.But my feet feel frozen to the concrete floor.
I don’t know how I can walk away from her. If we kill everyone here tonight, what will happen to her? And what will happen if we don’t?
My resolve to walk out of here with the mission completed and nothing more withers as I look at her. If I leave her here, what does that make me?
I’m a criminal and a killer, but I’ve never been a monster. The thought of walking away and leaving her in that cage makes me feel like one.
"Fuck." I speak into the transmitter. "We’ve got a problem."
