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I push forward, clearing rooms methodically until I reach what looks like an old office at the back. I kick the door open, gun raised.
The room is dark, but I catch the faint movement, fat legs sticking out from behind the door. I fire once, aiming low. The bullet tears through O’Brien’s foot before he gets the chance to attack me.
A high-pitched shriek echoes through the room. I step inside and slam the door shut behind me. The overweight bastard limps out from behind the door, face pale and sweaty, gun shaking in his hand. Before I can react, he fires.
The bullet slams into my chest like a sledgehammer, knocking me back into the wall. The impact drives the air from my lungs, but the vest holds. No penetration. Just pain.
O’Brien tries to fire again, but I’m faster. I shoot the gun out of his hand. He screams, clutching his bloody fingers. I put two more rounds into each of his thighs. He drops to his knees with a pathetic wail, blood pooling beneath him.
I walk forward slowly, gun trained on his head, breathing through the ache in my chest. The fat bastard is groaning on the floor. He tries to crawl away, leaving a smeared red trail like a dying slug.
“Cillian O’Brien,” I say calmly. “You’ve been quite a hard man to find.”
He lets out a weak, wet chuckle, spitting blood. “And you’re getting sloppy, Popov.”
My fist crashes into his face before he finishes the sentence. The crunch of his nose breaking is deeply satisfying.
“I thought we had an understanding,” I growl, crouching down. “You knew who was in charge in this city. But you got greedy. You thought you could take what’s mine.” I punch him again, harder. “You even had the balls to send men after my family.”
He laughs through the blood bubbling from his mouth. “You have no idea, do you? Your home is on fire right now.”
I freeze. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He coughs, spraying more blood, still grinning like a madman. “I know what you do to your captives… so I’ll save myself the misery.”
Before I can react, his hand darts inside his coat. A small pistol appears. He jams it under his own chin and pulls the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the small room. His head snaps back, blood and brain matter painting the wall behind him.
I straighten up slowly, staring at the mess. “Fuck,” I mutter. “That takes all the fun out of it.”
His phone starts ringing on the floor beside his body. I reach down and pick it up. The name flashing on the screen makes my blood run ice cold: Viktor.
Surely it can’t be the same Viktor. The call ends and I crouch beside the corpse, pry one of his dead eyes open with my fingers, and hold the phone up to it. The facial recognition unlocks.
I open the messages.
The string of texts between Viktor and O’Brien stretches back months. Detailed information about my shipments. Timings. Locations. Betrayal after betrayal.
Viktor has been working against me this entire time. My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My most trusted man. He’s been working with my enemy to take over my territory and businesses and I didn’t even see it coming.
Rage, cold and sharp, settles deep in my bones. I type out a quick message from O’Brien’s phone to Viktor:
It’s done. Popov is dead. Let’s meet.
I hit send, then pocket the phone.
Viktor responds almost immediately with a location. I stand up, wiping blood from my hands onto my pants, and head for the door.
We torch the warehouse after clearing out the last of the Irish. Flames roar into the night sky, swallowing every trace of what happened here. I watch the fire for a moment, letting the heat lick at my face, before climbing back into the SUV and heading to the location Viktor sent.
The pier is dark and quiet, the water lapping against the wooden posts. I park a distance away and move on foot, melting into the shadows beneath the pier. The cold salt air does nothing to cool the rage burning in my chest.
Viktor.
The closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. The man who stood beside me through blood and bullets. And he stabbed me in the back.
I wait in the darkness. Minutes later, I hear footsteps. Viktor appears, pacing back and forth near the edge of the pier, checking his phone every few seconds. He looks nervous.
