The scent of gas lingered heavy in the air.
Smoke curled like black ribbons over the old edge of the warehouse, filled with the screams of the dying and the shouts of soldiers.
Gunfire cracked—sharp, rhythmic, relentless.
Damian moved like a shadow among chaos, bullets whipping past, fire dancing in broken windows. His men were scattered across the perimeter, engaged in a bloody stand-off with the cartel. They had struck back. Hard. But the cost was high.
“On the left!” one of his lieutenants shouted.
A grenade tumbled through the open space.
“DOWN!”
The explosion ripped through the cement floor, throwing bodies backward like rag dolls. Damian slammed into a pillar, blood trailing from his brow. He blinked through the haze. One of his men—Lito—was crawling, his legs mangled, blood
