The warehouse stretched into shadows like a metal cathedral, rust flaking from the ceiling beams. The air tasted of motor oil.
Santino pressed his back against a shipping container, feeling the cold steel through his jacket. His Beretta was warm in his hand. Three bullets left. Maybe four. He'd stopped counting after the second body dropped.
"Movement on the south side," Zara's voice crackled through his earpiece. Static made her sound like she was calling from another world. "Two heat signatures. Maybe three."
"Copy." Santino's voice was barely a whisper.
Footsteps echoed somewhere in the maze of crates and machinery. Slow and deliberate. These weren't amateurs.
Salvatore appeared around a corner, crouched low, blood streaking from his temple. His usually perfect hair hung in his fac
