Page 141

BOOM.
The wall behind him explodes inward in a blast of fire and smoke, concrete shards spraying like shrapnel. The whole goddamn warehouse shudders like a bomb just kissed its ribs — because, well, it did.
Out of the dust strides Brando Gatti — shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes glinting with pure carnage, assault rifle slung loose and hungry in his hands. He looks like a man who woke up todayjustto murder.
He fires without hesitation, a sharp burst of rounds — one, two, three — a guard drops, leg blown out, screaming.
“Now we’re talking,” Brando mutters, grinning like the devil himself.
Chaos erupts.
Lucky Gatti slips in behind him, calm as a priest at confession, silenced Glock already aimed dead center on another man’s skull. The shot is clean. Efficient. Brain matter hits the far wall.
The air is thick — smoke curling, gunfire cracking, bodies scrambling. I hit the ground hard, roll, pull my sidearm, and put two rounds straight through the nearest bastard’s chest. Another lurches for cover — Lucky drops him with a single forehead shot, without hesitation or mercy.
Kiernan bolts, his feet slamming the concrete in sheer panic. But Brando’s faster. He grabs Kiernan by the collar and slams him into a steel beam with enough force to rattle every dead ancestor the man’s ever had.
I stalk forward, rage boiling in my blood.
“You set me up,” I hiss. “I gave you a fucking way out. And you.Sold. Me. Out.”
Kiernan’s coughing blood, gasping, trying to spit out some pathetic defense. I don’t let him.
My fist crashes into his mouth — bone crunching, teeth snapping. He hits the floor hard, a wet, broken sound.
I step on his chest, pinning him down, leaning in close enough to feel the frantic rattle of his breath. “You just signed your own death warrant,” I whisper.
And then I press the barrel of my gun to his jaw — and pull the trigger.
His body goes still beneath my boot. The air hangs heavy, thick with smoke and blood and the sharp, metallic sting of death. My breathing saws in and out, ragged, feral. Somewhere behind me, Brando lets out a slow exhale, shoulders loosening. Lucky lowers his gun, scanning the room like a surgeon inspecting a fresh wound.
I stand there, chest heaving, staring down at the shattered mess who was once my most trusted confidential informant. I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my hand — smearing more than I remove — and let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
Brando lingers, studying me under furrowed brows, his rifle slung casually against his chest.
“You’ve changed, North,” he murmurs.
His voice isn’t judgmental — it’s almost curious, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m still the same man he once shook hands with.
“I had to,” I murmur, the words rough in my throat.
Because the stakes aren’t abstract anymore. They have a face now. Maxine’s face.
Sirens wail faintly in the distance, growing louder, clawingtheir way toward us like a pack of hungry wolves. I reach into my jacket, fingers closing around the small, silver flash drive I ripped from Kiernan’s corpse. I turn it over in my palm, feeling its weight.
A list of names. Every name I need to bring the Aviary to its knees.
Brando’s sharp gaze flicks to it, then to me.
“You sure you’re ready to do this?” he asks quietly.
I meet his eyes. We all know the contents of the drive will be nothing short of explosive.
“It has to be done,” I say, my voice dark, hard, sure.
Lucky steps forward, his hand landing heavy on my shoulder, the kind of weight that anchors you in place — steady, solid, a silent promise. It stays there, heavy and grounding, as if he knows I need it and knows what this will cost. Because this isn’t just a list. It’s a reckoning. It’s the line between the man I was and the man I’m about to become.
And the truth?