Always know who's hungry enough to betray you. That was the first rule, and I forgot it.
There was a pop, and the car groaned and rattled, jerking to a stop in front of the warehouse. Raven looked at the weathered red brick and covered windows. This was the first building he bought after clawing his way up from being a street thug and becoming the boss of his own crew. He'd been a petty smuggler then.
"Bomb?" Raven asked.
"Yes, sir," Kurt said, with a white-kuckled grip on the wheel.
"What did they promise? Hmm?" Raven asked, sliding on black leather gloves before adjusting his cuff.
Raven's driver dropped his hands into his lap, his head bowed. "I'm sorry, Boss."
Raven laughed, taking out his gun and checking the cartridge. He pulled back the slider; the click as a bullet chambered was a comfort sound, but also a death knell. Kurt had been with Raven for years; his name wasn't even on the list of people whom Raven thought might betray him. That was his second mistake. "Money, power? A bullet because snitches can't be trusted?"
Fear oozed out of him, but he didn't run or beg.
Good, he'd trained these men, and they weren't snivelling cunts.
He'd been less successful in instilling loyalty or fear, whichever kept them in line.
Neither of us was leaving here alive.
"Why?" Raven asked, not all that interested in the answer. He used the time to check the exit, but a semi pulled out, blocking the path.
Two men jumped out of the cab, automatic weapons in hand.
"What a charming invitation."
"He took my granddaughter, sir. They'll probably kill her, but I had to do something." Kurt took out his weapon and shot himself in the head.
Raven looked at the red mess and sighed. "That's inconvenient."
This was his worst mistake.
He'd left a weak point in his security by making Kurt his driver. Kurt wasn't intelligent enough to climb the ranks, but he'd been with the group too long to abandon. He should have sidelined him years ago. Too close. Too soft.
He checked his phone. There was no signal.
He searched Kurt, taking his gun, checking his phone, and collecting the present the man left. Again, no signal, and the gun only had one bullet.
Raven went to the trunk, but as expected, the weapons he kept there were gone.
He went to the back seat and used a knife to slice into the back of the seats.
No guns, money, passport, or burner phone.
Kurt wasn't the only one who'd betrayed him. He was curious which of the five people he'd arranged to meet tonight had betrayed him.
Raven exited the car, nodding to the two men guarding the exit. They had the good sense to look terrified, clutching their guns tightly.
He took measured steps, entering the warehouse.
The first thing that caught his attention was the smell.
Oil, rotten wood, and fish mixed with a slightly sweet, rusty smell.
Blood.
Piss.
Vomit.
Fear.
The stench of violence.
His heart rate spiked before settling into a steady rhythm. Old, unwelcome instincts surfaced. It'd been a long time since he'd had death's hand choking his throat.
A younger him found it exciting, intoxicating even. At fifty-five, he didn't enjoy this anymore, but his body remembered what to do.
Raven laughed, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.
Half the overhead lights were dead, and the rest were dull, flickering like fireflies trapped in glass.
Jacob was dead. Had been for months, judging by the state of the warehouse. He wasn't involved in the group's direct operations, but he oversaw and coordinated these quarterly meetings. The first thing he'd have done was change the light. This place was chosen at the last meeting, which meant the enemy had that time to plan.
There were drums all around the room. The paint on them was new, and there was no rust. Pallets stood in uneven stacks across the concrete floor, providing cover for his assailants. But also for him. Chains and rope were on the floor. He'd have to watch out for those. A forklift was near the loading bay, but the left tire was flat.
Eight exits.
Three blind corners.
The catwalk was empty.
No footsteps echoed.
But he could hear them breathing.
All the party's guests were already inside, but all of his people were dead, and that was telling. It was someone they trusted, but not the inner circle.
Raven kept walking. His handcrafted, Italian loafers strike concrete at an even pace, shoulders loose, hand holding his gun. The magazine had fourteen rounds left.
Should have planted a bigger bomb in the car. Messy. Amature. Someone wants a show. This was a statement.
A man stepped from behind the farthest pallets. He was silhouetted by darkness but gave the impression of being young.
The man raised his gun and fired.
Raven didn't move.
The bullet chewed into concrete by his feet, sending stone chips and metal fragments into his leg.
No shouting.
No threats.
Professionals? Or men who thought they were?
Raven moved behind a pallet, firing at the man who ducked back behind the pallet.
"Left!" A familiar voice shouted.
Not professional.
A picture was starting to form.
Raven fired once through the pallet, then shifted his position. A scream followed the resounding crack.
A muzzle flashed to his right, hitting his previous position. Wooden shards grazed his cheeks and embedded in his coat.
"Shit."
Raven fired at the person who spoke. There was a scream. He lunged to the side, running to the forklift. He dived, landing hard, every bone in his body feeling it. If he were twenty years younger, this would have been nothing, but his lungs burned, his bad knee trembled, and his hands were shaky. Age made mistakes expensive.
Great. Keys in the ignition.
He waited, hiding behind the bulk of the forklift's body as bullets stitched parks across metal.
Ten left.
The rain of bullets paused.
There were snicks as magazines were reloaded.
"Who won the bet?"
"Is he dead?"
Two more familiar voices.
"Ken is dead." A girl said, her voice trembling.
"Someone go check." This voice was different, calmer. That voice belonged to Jacob's son, Dian.
Raven sneered. He left Jacob to clean up that mess. Another mistake, he should have checked the body.
He jumped into the seat and, with a twist of the key, the engine roared to life.
The forklift lurched forward as he slammed the accelerator.
The forks rose, steel teeth facing forward, and he sent the machine straight into the heart of the warehouse.
Men scattered.
Boys forced to hold guns by their fathers had training but no experience. They panicked instead of opening fire.
He impaled one and ran over the other before they rallied.
The girl was screaming and crying.
They were shouting orders at each other, but Dian didn't reveal himself.
Raven claimed a blind corner, using the forklift's body for more cover.
He came on one knee, ignoring the fire on his side and leg. Raven fired twice. One man dropped, clutching his leg. Another spun and fell, cracking his head on the floor.
Eight left.
They adjusted. One climbed the catwalk, two flanked left, and the rest hid behind the pallets. More stayed back, laying suppressing fire and forcing him to keep his head down.
Dian had studied me.
Raven chuckled. "You've had years to plan, and this is the best you could do."
He emptied his clip, and as he guessed, the gunfire stopped.
Poor, pathetic Dian. He wanted revenge, and he wanted this to be personal.
That didn't mean Dian was stupid. He was throwing disposable men at Raven, expecting them to die.
Raven combed his hand through his hair. He'd clung to life ever since his mother left him in the trash, and he wouldn't stop fighting now.
He abandoned his cover, waiting for the men to approach. Raven didn't hesitate. As soon as the man was in reach, he slammed his forearm into the man's throat and sank a blade into his side.
The man's eyes widened as he slid to the floor, hands clutching his side. "Ambulance, call an ambulance."
Raven tried to guess what Dian promised these boys. They'd mentioned a bet.
The catwalk creaked as someone leaned over the railing. Raven was the main attraction at the zoo. They gawked in fear and awe, walking closer, but just out of reach, until they circled him. Their admission fee would be paid in blood.
Raven grabbed a loose chain from the floor and looped it around his fist. He swung it wide, then flicked it upward. The chain coiled around the railing.
He yanked down.
The catwalk groaned, metal screeched.
"Fuck." The railing tore free, dumping the man over the side. He hit the ground hard and didn't move.
The shift was instant. They'd seen death. Their friends had died, but that didn't affect this group. It was the surreal death that made them start thinking about survival. Shock broke courage faster than blood.
The men shuffled. Stepping back, they put space between themselves and him.
He wondered what he looked like, whip in one hand, knife in the other. He dropped the chain, smiling at the way they flinched when it hit the floor. He dropped the knife, and they shuffled, glancing at each other. They watched his hand as he stuck it in his pocket and pulled it out. There was a collective sigh when he took out a cigarette and a lighter and lit up.
"Relax," Raven said. "If I wanted you dead already, you'd be quieter."
He took a long drag, waiting.
It wouldn't be long before the leaders revealed themselves. They needed to regain control.
He tapped ash from the cigarette tip and took another drag.
They shifted, murmurs growing louder.
"Enough," Dian said.
There. Confident voice. Center back.
He was in the dark and blocked by the crate. For a second, Raven thought he'd misread him, that he'd stay back and control from a safe spot, but then he moved into the light.
"You should've stayed dead," Raven said, his tone conversational, but he couldn't hide the wheezing and pained note.
Dian smiled. "I tried." He shrugged, hand lifting to scratch at the scar Raven had left on his cheek. "Wasn't personal." His mouth said one thing, but his actions told the real story.
"It never is," Raven said. "Didn't your father tell you how to kill me?" Raven asked, walking closer. Just a little closer. Raven watched for the right moment.
"It won't be clean. Don't send boys. Don't be cheap, get the best. Do it fast before he even realizes it's happening." Dian held up his hand, putting down fingers as he listed.
Idiot. You should've listened.
Raven drew and fired.
Kurt wasn't a total waste, slipping him an extra magazine.
Dian staggered, hand twitching up before he slumped like a puppet whose strings were cut.
Turning in a circle, he fired around the room, hitting only a few people. There were screams as they hit people, and clinks as they hit metal.
Fifteen bullets. It was over in seconds.
There was a hush before someone stepped up.
A bullet rocketed into Raven's chest. The kid who made the kill shot wore a smug smile.
Couldn't these idiots smell it? Young, stupid, fuckers.
Raven's knee gave out. He slipped, falling back.
He laughed, the sound wet and gurgling.
What a life!
The lighter snicked.
There was a violent flash as flames bloomed, swallowing the room.
They froze.
It was half a second, but that was enough.
It was too late.
They were swallowed.
Scrambling, running, screaming.
The smell of burned flesh.
Something must have cracked in him, or he was already dead and seeing things. There was smoke curling on the roof like clouds, and ash fell like snow with a single black feather drifting down.
He'd owned this city: cops, judges, dockworkers, even old ladies knitting on their porches.
As the world closed in, one thought cut through sharp, bitter, and clear.
I built this, and it'll burn with me.