Chapter 9
1321 Words
The moon hangs high in the sky, casting a cold, pale light over the industrial district as Mickey slides out of the car, his boots barely making a sound on the wet pavement. The warehouse looms ahead, a shadowy fortress where Austin’s father’s murderers still operate with a tight grip. Mickey has promised to take them down, and tonight, he will do exactly that.
Peter sits beside him, still uneasy, his eyes darting around. "You sure about this, Mickey? Two days? You're risking your life here."
Mickey shoots him a look, his face hidden behind the black mask that has become his trademark. "You worry too much, Pete. I’ve got this under control."
Peter grunts but says nothing more. He doesn’t understand. This isn’t just about taking down a rival organization. It’s about proving a point—not just to Austin or d**k, but to anyone who dares challenge him. If anyone has doubts about his power, tonight will settle them.
They move toward the side entrance of the compound, Mickey’s eyes scanning every detail. The guards are heavy, but Mickey has done his homework. He knows their routes, their shifts, everything. He moves through the shadows, unseen, as he reaches the first guard. One swift, silent motion, a quick twist of the neck, and the guard crumples to the floor without a sound. Mickey drags the body into the storage room, disposing of the weapon, then presses on. His Glock 17 with the silencer is his tool of choice tonight, and he knows how to use it better than anyone.
The next guard is around the corner. Mickey is quicker this time, a shadow melding with the darkness. He waits for the right moment—just as the man turns, Mickey moves, the silencer’s hiss cutting through the night like a whisper of death. The guard drops instantly, and Mickey drags him into a small alcove, out of sight.
Inside, the rest of the compound is chaos. Mickey can hear the muffled voices of men shouting orders, the clink of metal, the harsh sound of boots hitting the concrete. Rocco is inside, surrounded by his lieutenants, barking orders as they prepare for a shipment of illicit goods. Mickey knows this is the moment.
He slips inside the building, moving like a wraith, his every step calculated. He finds a small window looking into the office where Rocco and his men are. From here, he can see the group clustered around a map, discussing their next move. Mickey doesn’t waste time.
With one fluid motion, he tosses a flashbang into the room.
The explosion of light and sound fills the warehouse, deafening and blinding. Rocco and his men stagger back, disoriented, and Mickey takes his chance. He ducks low, coming through the door with a burst of movement. He fires twice—each shot landing perfectly as two of Rocco's men collapse, their bodies dropping to the ground like ragdolls.
"Who the hell—?" Rocco's voice rings out, sharp and panicked. The man dives for cover behind his desk, pulling a gun from beneath it.
Mickey moves with precision, dodging behind a stack of crates as gunfire erupts in the room. The air crackles with tension as the men inside scramble to react, opening fire at the shadows where Mickey has vanished. He can feel the heat of the bullets as they whizz by, missing him by inches.
“You think you can just walk in here, Mickey?” Rocco’s voice echoes, laced with disbelief. “You’re dead!”
Mickey’s lips curl beneath his mask as he crouches behind the crates, reloading his gun. “That’s the fun part, Rocco. You’ll find out soon enough.”
A hail of gunfire cuts through the air, and Mickey’s instincts kick in. He dives out of cover, rolling to the side and narrowly avoiding a spray of bullets. His hands are steady as he returns fire, his shots deliberate and precise. One of Rocco’s men drops behind a stack of barrels, clutching his chest in a spray of red. The rest take cover, firing blindly, their shots ricocheting off the concrete walls.
Mickey is relentless. He moves like a shadow, darting from cover to cover, never staying in one place long enough for his enemies to get a fix on him. The warehouse is a maze, and Mickey is the predator, stalking his prey. He squeezes off another shot, and a man in a dark suit crumples to the ground.
Another burst of gunfire makes Mickey duck low behind a steel column, his heart pounding in his chest. The adrenaline is familiar, but this is different. This isn’t just another job; this is a message. He will show them who is in charge.
“Don’t you think I won’t burn this place down with all of you inside it!” Rocco shouts, his voice laced with venom.
Mickey shoots back with a sarcastic grin. “You could try, Rocco. But you won’t live long enough to see it.”
A loud crash signals that one of the men has tried to flank him, but Mickey is already on the move. He turns the corner just in time to catch the man off-guard, his elbow connecting with the man’s throat. The gun drops from his hand, and Mickey twists it out of his grip, using the momentum to slam the man’s face into the concrete floor.
From his vantage point behind a stack of crates, Mickey spots Rocco trying to make a break for it. He is moving toward the back exit, probably hoping to escape with his life intact. But Mickey isn’t about to let that happen.
“Not so fast,” Mickey mutters to himself, slipping out of cover and sprinting across the room. He tackles Rocco from behind just as the man reaches the exit, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. Mickey doesn’t hesitate. He yanks the gun from Rocco’s waistband and shoves it into his face.
“You know,” Mickey says casually, his voice cold as ice, “I thought you’d put up a better fight.”
Rocco’s eyes are wide with panic as he gasps for breath. “You think... you’ve won?”
Mickey’s smile is a cruel twist of triumph. “I know I have.”
Before Rocco can say another word, Mickey pulls the trigger. The shot rings out, echoing through the warehouse, and Rocco crumples to the floor, lifeless.
Mickey stands over him, chest rising and falling with the rush of adrenaline. The rest of the men—what few are left—are still hiding behind crates, their guns aimed but their hands trembling. They can see the fate that awaits them if they don’t surrender.
Mickey turns toward them, his gun still raised, his voice cold. “The offer’s simple. Join me, or die. It’s your choice.”
The room falls silent, the remaining men exchanging nervous glances. But there are no immediate moves to surrender. Mickey can see it in their eyes. Fear. Disbelief. They aren’t sure if they want to test him.
“Very well,” Mickey says with a sigh, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I gave you a chance.”
With that, he launches himself back into the fray, the air thick with gunfire and the sound of men dying. He moves with deadly precision, not stopping until every last one of them has been either taken down or has fled into the shadows.
As the dust settles and the silence returns, Mickey wipes the sweat from his brow and surveys the damage. Rocco is dead. His men are either dead or fleeing. And the organization is now his.
He pulls out his phone and dials Peter.
“Done,” Mickey says coolly. "It's mine now."
Peter's voice crackles with disbelief. "You really did it, huh?"
Mickey’s lips twist into a smirk. "It’s a start."
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