The Convoy of the Damned
1028 Words
The convoy rolled south at 0300, a serpent of black steel and death.
Six armored trucks, two lead SUVs, one tail van — all Iron Wolves. They carried everything: crates of RPGs, bricks of C4, dirty bombs wrapped in lead, and fifty girls chained in the back, gagged, eyes wide with terror. The destination: Porticello. The mission: burn the city to the ground and crown Viktor’s brother, Dmitri Volkov, the new king.
They never saw the Valentis coming.
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Sonny lay prone on the ridge, 800 meters out, sniper rifle steady, wind cutting his face like glass. His leg was a frozen ruin, infection blackening the flesh, but his eye was clear. Luca crouched beside him, gut wound packed with snow and morphine, pistol in hand, fever burning his breath white. Isabella manned the radio, voice low, guiding the team. Vittorio sat in the snow, .38 across his lap, eyes fixed on the road. Rocco and Marco waited in the tree line, RPGs loaded, flamethrower primed. Alessio was gone — dead, taken by a Wolf sniper two nights ago, his body left as a warning, cast and all. Elena knelt over a detonator, scalpel in her teeth, eyes on the convoy.
The plan was simple:
Ambush. Slaughter. Steal.
They moved.
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The lead SUV hit the IED first.
Marco’s charge — 50 pounds of C4 buried under the asphalt — detonated with a roar that shook the pines. The SUV lifted, flipped, exploded in a ball of fire and twisted metal. Shrapnel shredded the second truck, tires blowing, glass raining. The convoy screeched to a halt, doors flying open, Wolves spilling out, rifles up.
Sonny’s sniper round cracked.
The driver of the third truck took it in the temple, exit wound the size of a fist. The truck swerved, slammed into the guardrail, flipped, rolled. Girls screamed from inside, chains rattling.
Rocco’s flamethrower roared from the tree line.
A jet of fire swept the road, incinerating three Wolves, their leather coats melting, skin sloughing off in sheets. They ran, burning, screaming, until Marco’s shotgun ended them, buckshot exploding chests.
Elena threw a grenade into the fourth truck. The blast blew the doors off, shrapnel punching through steel. A Wolf stumbled out, face half-gone, blood fountaining. Elena’s scalpel slashed his throat, blood spraying the snow.
Sonny fired again.
A Wolf on the roof of the fifth truck took a round through the scope, eye exploding, body tumbling into the ditch.
The tail van tried to reverse.
Isabella’s voice crackled over the radio: “Now.”
Rocco’s RPG roared.
The rocket slammed into the van, detonating the fuel tank. The van lifted, exploded, fireball consuming the driver and gunner. The blast shook the convoy, windows shattering, girls screaming.
---
The fight spilled into the ditch.
Sonny slid down the ridge, rifle empty, knife out. A Wolf charged, axe raised. Sonny ducked, slashed the hamstring, tendon snapping. The man screamed, fell. Sonny stabbed up under the chin, through the palate, into the brain. Blood poured hot over his hands.
Luca limped into the fray, pistol barking. He took a Wolf in the knee, shattering it, then executed him with a round to the face. Another Wolf tackled him, knife flashing. Luca caught the wrist, twisted, bone snapping. He drove his own blade into the man’s eye, deep to the hilt.
Marco’s shotgun blasted a Wolf point-blank, chest exploding, ribs flying. Rocco’s flamethrower swept the ditch, fire consuming two more, their screams cut short as their lungs burned.
Elena fought like a demon.
A Wolf swung a chain. She caught it, yanked, pulled him close, scalpel buried in the gut, twisted. Intestines spilled like wet rope. She kicked him into the fire.
Vittorio fired from the ridge, .38 barking.
He took a Wolf in the throat, blood fountaining. The man gurgled, fell. Vittorio’s hands shook, but he reloaded, eyes wild.
Isabella ran to the crashed truck, kicking the door.
The girls inside were chained, terrified. She shot the locks with Vittorio’s .38, freeing them one by one. A Wolf grabbed her from behind, arm around her throat. She elbowed, spun, drove the gun under his chin, fired. His head exploded, blood and brains painting the truck.
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The lead Wolf — Dmitri Volkov — emerged from the fifth truck.
Taller than Viktor, leaner, eyes like black ice. He carried a sawed-off shotgun, bandoliers of shells across his chest. He roared in Russian, voice cutting through the chaos.
“VALENTI!”
Sonny stepped into the open, knife dripping, rifle slung. “Your brother’s dead.”
Dmitri’s smile was death. “Then you join him.”
He fired.
Sonny dove, buckshot chewing the snow where he’d stood. He rolled, came up behind a truck, fired his pistol. The round grazed Dmitri’s cheek, blood welling. Dmitri charged, shotgun blasting. Sonny ducked, tackled him into the ditch.
They rolled, fists and teeth.
Dmitri’s hands found Sonny’s throat, squeezing. Sonny stabbed up, blade punching through the bandolier, into the chest. Dmitri roared, blood bubbling. He headbutted Sonny, nose crunching, blood spraying.
Luca limped over, pistol raised. “For Alessio.”
He fired.
The round took Dmitri in the temple, exit wound the size of a fist. The body slumped, shotgun clattering.
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The convoy burned.
Marco primed the C4 in the trucks, detonators blinking red. The girls were freed, huddled in the snow, wrapped in Wolf coats. Isabella carried the youngest, a child no older than ten, her eyes hollow.
Sonny stood over Dmitri’s corpse, chest heaving. He carved the Valenti crest into the man’s chest, deep, to the bone. Blood pooled on the ice.
Rocco spat blood. “How many left?”
Sonny looked at the burning convoy. At the girls. At the family.
“All of them,” he said.
Elena’s voice was flat. “FBI’s coming. Kane’s task force. Twenty minutes.”
Sonny’s smile was grim. “Let them come.”
They loaded the girls into the surviving truck, drove north. The convoy exploded behind them, fireball lighting the sky, dirty bombs detonating in controlled blasts, radiation contained but lethal.
The war had just begun.
The city would burn.
And the ashes would fall.
- Writer
