Page 16
Azrael
The industrial district loomed before me, all rust and broken windows under flickering streetlights. My body ached from the club fight, the cuts on my face and ribs throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I killed the motorcycle’s engine two blocks from the old Paz station, opting to approach on foot. The night had grown colder, or maybe it was just blood loss making me shiver. Three hits in one night was pushing it, even for me, but Mazida’s time was running out. The final target, Hassan, would be the easiest of the three. At least, that’s what I told myself as I melted into the shadows between abandoned warehouses.
When Stripes had said the Paz station was old, he hadn’t lied. It looked like a bomb had landed near this one at some point. The lights inside told me it was still somewhat operational, but the pumps out front looked like they hadn’t been used in a long time. According to Stripes’ intel, our target used the place to arrange drug drops and exchange information.
I crouched behind a dumpster across the street, watching. My ribs protested the position, the gash from Boris’s knife sending sharp reminders with every breath. I pushed the pain aside, focusing on the task at hand. A high-end Mercedes sat out front -- my target’s car, matching the description Stripes had given me.
From my vantage point, I could see a nervous-looking man pacing inside the store, periodically checking his watch and peering out the windows. This man wasn’t any less dangerous than the others I’d dealt with today. But he didn’t come across as being as ruthless. It made me wonder why he was so twitchy tonight. Did he know he was being hunted?
I checked my phone one last time. A message from Samurai: After this one, meet at the hotel. We get Mazida at 0200 . I hoped that meant Eli had already come through and given up the information we needed. Roughly two hours from now. It would be tight, but I could finish this job and get to the hotel, maybe even have time to clean up.
The sound of an approaching car caught my attention. Headlights swept across the lot as a black SUV pulled in, parking beside the Mercedes. I pressed deeper into the shadows, watching as two men exited the vehicle and headed toward the store. Not part of the plan. This asshole was supposed to be alone.
“Shit,” I muttered, reassessing. I could wait them out, but time was ticking. Or I could adapt. Three targets instead of one would be messy, but doable.
The men entered the store. Through the windows, I could see them talking with my target, gesturing animatedly. The conversation appeared heated. I couldn’t afford to wait. Decision made, I moved.
I circled around the back of the service station, finding a rear entrance as expected. The lock was old and simple. It took only seconds to pick. I eased the door open, wincing at a slight creak. Inside was a storeroom filled with dusty boxes and the smell of stale cigarettes. Voices filtered through from the front of the store.
“-- tells me you fucked up. Some asshole is picking off high-end players one by one.” The voice was deep, authoritative. And I had no doubt the asshole he’d mentioned was me.
“I don’t know why anyone would be after us,” he responded, his voice higher-pitched with fear. “I was careful --”
“Careful? Boris’s dead. Gutted in that club he practically lived in. And Mendoza got his brains blown out at his favorite café. That’s not careful, that’s a fucking message.”
Did that mean these three had some deal going? Maybe the targets had more in common than I’d thought. Didn’t matter. The job was the same regardless.
I moved silently through the storeroom, positioning myself behind a shelf near the doorway to the main store. From here, I could see Hassan and one of the men -- a tall, broad-shouldered figure in an expensive suit. The second man was out of my line of sight, but judging by the shadow cast on the floor, he was standing near the front door.
“Did you get the informant to talk?” Hassan asked. Informant? Looked like maybe the man calling the shots, the one who gave me a hitlist, had more on his plate than he realized. A rat.
“Not a peep, even after we took fingers. Tough bastard.”
The second man moved into view, heading for the refrigerated section. “We should just kill him, dump the body. Cut our losses.”
“The boss wants information first,” Suit replied. “He knows something about the Bratva shipments. Once he talks, then we’ll dispose of him.”
I’d heard enough. The element of surprise was my only advantage against three men, likely all armed. I reached into my jacket, retrieving the garrote wire I carried for situations requiring silence. Clean, effective. But not as quick as I’d have liked.
The second man had his back to me, examining beer options in the cooler. I moved, a shadow detaching from shadows, crossing the distance in three silent strides. The wire looped around his neck before he registered my presence, cutting off his startled cry before it could form. I yanked back hard, the thin metal biting deep into flesh.
His hands clawed at the wire, feet kicking as I dragged him backward toward the storeroom. I held my breath, straining to see if the others had heard him. Thankfully, the hum of the machines seemed to drown out his struggles. Ten seconds, fifteen, thirty -- his struggles weakened, then ceased altogether. I lowered him quietly to the floor and turned back toward the main store.
Hassan and Suit were still talking, unaware of what had happened mere feet away thanks to a display rack blocking their view. I drew my knife, calculating angles and distances. Two targets, at least one certainly armed. The door was fifteen feet from their position. No clean escape without being seen.
Suit checked his watch. “Let’s wrap this up. You’re coming with us. Boss wants to hear your explanation in person.”
Boss? So Hassan wasn’t the one in charge? Interesting. Not my problem, though.
Hassan paled visibly, sweat beading on his forehead. “Look, I can fix this --”
“Car. Now.” Suit turned toward the door, then paused. “Where the hell did Marcus go?”
That was my cue. I moved swiftly from cover, knife in hand. Suit spotted me immediately, his hand diving inside his jacket. Fast, but not fast enough. My knife found his throat before he could clear his weapon, a precise thrust that severed his carotid artery. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as he stumbled backward, gun clattering unfired to the floor.
Hassan stood frozen, eyes wide with terror as his associate collapsed, drowning in his own blood. Recognition dawned on his face as he took in my appearance, the cuts and blood on my face.
“You -- you’re…” he stammered, backing away, hands raised. “Listen, I don’t know what I did, but I have no problem with you.”
“Liar. If you know who I am, then you know men like you are my favorite types of prey. Much like the you enjoy hurting young women and children.”
“I’ll tell you where she is!” he blurted. “The woman. Mazida. That’s why you’re in this country, right? I heard they brought her here from the US, Florida. That’s your territory, from what I hear. The warehouse on Harborside, old fishing plant. There’s a basement level, that’s where they’re keeping her.”
I paused. We already had arrangements to get her. It wasn’t like I needed his intel. But just the same…
“How many guards?” I asked, letting him think his information might save him.
“Six, maybe seven. They rotate shifts. Heavier security at night.” The words tumbled out desperately. “Look, I’m giving you everything. You can rescue her. Just let me walk away. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”
I pretended to consider this, watching him relax slightly as hope flickered across his face. “One more question,” I said quietly. “How many of the young girls you snatched did you personally sample?”
His expression was answer enough -- the flash of guilt, the unconscious swallow. “I wasn’t -- I mean, I haven’t --”
My knife entered his stomach, angled upward toward vital organs. His eyes widened in shock and pain.
“For all the innocents you’ve harmed,” I whispered, twisting the blade.
He made a wet, gurgling sound, hands clutching weakly at my arms. I held him up as the life drained from him, watching the light fade from his eyes. When he was gone, I let him slump to the floor.
The store was silent now except for the humming of the refrigerators. Three bodies, a lot of blood. I moved quickly, wiping down surfaces I’d touched, retrieving my garrote wire from the first man’s neck. Outside, a car drove past slowly, headlights sweeping across the front of the store. I froze in the shadows until it passed.
Then I heard it -- the faint wail of sirens in the distance, growing louder. Had someone spotted me? Was there another man with the two unexpected guests? I needed to move.
I exited through the back door, keeping to the shadows as I made my way to my motorcycle. The sirens were closer now, maybe six or seven blocks away. I started the engine just as flashing lights appeared at the far end of the industrial park.
I gunned the bike in the opposite direction, taking back streets and alleys until I was clear of the area. Only then did I pull over briefly to check my phone.
A message from Stripes: All three confirmed. Return to hotel immediately. Extraction time.
Confirmed with who ? I hit send and waited.
One of Eli’s men . Good enough for me. I just had to hope they actually told Eli I’d done my job.
I typed a quick response. On my way. Target gave confirmation on location. Basement level .
The night wasn’t over. Killing the men responsible had been the easy part. Now came the real mission -- getting Mazida out alive. I accelerated onto the highway, heading for the hotel where Samurai and Stripes would be waiting. The clock was ticking. In less than two hours, we’d launch the rescue operation, and God help anyone who stood in our way.
* * *
I parked my bike next to Samurai’s and made my way into the hotel and up to my room, my body running on fumes and adrenaline. The cuts on my face and side had stopped bleeding, but every movement sent fresh pain radiating through my ribs. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting Mazida back. I found Stripes and Samurai waiting in the hall. They looked up as I approached, eyes taking in my bloodied appearance without comment. They’d expected nothing less.
“You good to continue?” Samurai asked, his voice betraying no emotion though his eyes lingered on the gash across my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I replied, moving to unlock the door. We all stepped inside, letting it shut behind us. “What’s the plan?”
Stripes straightened up, his face set in hard lines. His Russian accent thickened as it always did before violence. “We have confirmation Mazida is still alive. Security cameras show seven guards on rotation, three at entrance points, four patrolling interior. But if Eli keeps his word…”
“And if he doesn’t?” I asked.
“Basement level, as your target confirmed. Single stairwell access, reinforced door. They are not expecting us to know location, but after tonight’s activities, they will be on high alert.”
“Breaching charges are ready,” Samurai said. “I was hoping we wouldn’t need them but prepared just in case. I only wish we had more men.”
“Any word from Eli?”
“ Nyet .”
“Extraction plan?” I asked. If Eli wasn’t going to help us like he’d said, then we’d handle it on our own. Either way, we were getting her out of there, and all of us were going home. Now.
Stripes allowed himself a small, grim smile. “My old Bratva connections have arranged a private jet at the municipal airstrip. Once we have Mazida, we fly back to the US.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The Bratva is helping us again? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Stripes replied. “More old debts being repaid. Plus, these men who took Mazida -- they stepped on Bratva toes too. Enemy of my enemy, da ?”
Preparations moved quickly after that. I quickly tended my wounds, changed my clothes, and donned tactical gear, strapping on a Kevlar vest that pressed painfully against my injured ribs. Fresh magazines for my pistol, extra knife, flashlight, zip ties -- the tools of extraction rather than assassination.
Forty minutes later, we were in position. The warehouse loomed against the night sky, a hulking shadow punctuated by security lights around its perimeter. From our position, I could see two guards patrolling the fence line, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders.
Samurai’s gaze held mine. “On my mark. Three. Two. One. Execute.”
Our SUV lurched forward, accelerating toward the chain-link fence. The guards spotted us too late, raising their weapons as our vehicle crashed through the barrier with a metallic scream. We were inside the perimeter. Thank God for armored vehicles! Whoever had procured this one for us had saved our asses.
Everything moved with practiced precision after that. I was out of the vehicle before it fully stopped, dropping the first guard with a double-tap to the chest while Samurai took down the second. Stripes covered our flank as we approached the main entrance.
I pressed explosives against the door, then backed off. Samurai nodded, and I pressed the detonator. The door blew inward with a concussive blast that left my ears ringing.
We moved through the smoke and debris, weapons up, communicating with hand signals. The interior was industrial -- concrete floors, exposed pipes, the lingering smell of fish processing still detectable beneath the newer scents of gun oil and cigarettes. An alarm began to wail, red emergency lights casting everything in a bloody glow.
The first resistance came at the intersection of two corridors -- a guard emerging from a side room, eyes wide with surprise. I dropped him before he could raise his weapon, the suppressed shots making dull thwacking sounds that were nearly lost beneath the alarm.
“Stairwell, twenty meters ahead,” Stripes murmured, gesturing with his weapon.
We moved forward, encountering two more guards who put up more of a fight. Bullets pinged off metal pipes above our heads as we took cover. Samurai signaled, and I laid down covering fire while he flanked their position. I heard rather than saw the resulting struggle -- grunts, a wet gurgling sound, then silence.
“Clear,” Samurai’s voice rang out.
The stairwell door was locked -- a heavy steel affair with a keypad.
“Allow me,” Stripes said, kneeling to examine the lock. From his pack, he produced a small electronic device that he attached to the keypad. Numbers flickered across its display for several seconds before it beeped. The lock disengaged with an audible click. “Thank Shade for this one. He sent me prepared for anything.”
“We have ten minutes, max. After that, we’ll likely be dealing with police.”
I took point down the stairs, sweeping each corner with my weapon. The basement level was cooler, the air heavy with moisture and the metallic scent of blood. A single corridor stretched before us, four doors visible -- two on each side.
A guard appeared at the far end, shouting into a radio. My shot took him in the throat, cutting off his warning mid-sentence. We moved quickly down the corridor, checking each room. The first contained supplies, the second empty. The third held a makeshift torture chamber -- a chair with restraints, a table of implements that made even my stomach turn. Blood spattered the floor and walls, some of it fresh.
The final door was reinforced steel with another electronic lock. Stripes went to work while Samurai and I covered the corridor.
“Got it,” Stripes whispered as the lock disengaged.
Samurai took a deep breath, then nodded. I pushed the door open, weapon raised, and stepped inside.
The room was small, concrete on all sides, illuminated by a single bare bulb. In the center sat Mazida Quadir, bound to a metal chair. Her face was barely recognizable beneath the bruising and dried blood. Her clothes were torn and stained. Despite everything, her eyes remained defiant as she looked up at our entrance.
“Took you long enough,” she rasped, her voice cracking a little.
Stripes moved past me, his face softening as he knelt before her. “Mazida. We’ve come to take you home.” He spoke gently, as if to a child, while his hands worked quickly to free her from her restraints.
“How did you know we’re here to rescue you?” I asked.
She snorted. “Three men: Russian, Japanese, and Middle Eastern. You’re clearly not from here. Otherwise, the three of you wouldn’t be working together, much less breaking into this room.”
I stood watch at the door while Samurai assisted Stripes. Behind me, I could hear Mazida’s sharp intake of breath as they helped her stand, the muffled sound of pain she tried to suppress.
“Can you walk?” Samurai asked.
“If it gets me out of here, I could fly,” she answered, though her voice wavered with the effort.
I checked the corridor. “Clear for now, but we need to move fast.”
Stripes supported Mazida on one side, Samurai on the other. Her legs threatened to buckle with each step, but determination kept her moving. I took point as we retraced our steps to the stairwell.
Sirens were closing in on our location, and I quickly altered course, moving toward an emergency exit. Behind us, the sound of boots on the stairwell announced the arrival of more guards. I dropped back, stepping behind a concrete pillar.
“Go,” I told the others. “I’ll cover.”
The first guard appeared in the corridor, and I dropped him with a headshot. A second followed, more cautious, firing wildly in my direction. Bullets chipped concrete near my position, sending fragments stinging against my cheek. I waited for a pause in his fire, then leaned out and put two rounds center mass.
I caught up to the others at the emergency exit. Samurai was working on the alarm system, trying to prevent it from triggering when we opened the door. Mazida had slumped against Stripes, her strength failing.
“Almost got it,” Samurai muttered, sweat beading on his forehead as he spliced wires. The door clicked. “Done.”
Samurai pushed the door open carefully, scanning the exterior. “Clear. Vehicles in position fifty yards south.”
We emerged into the cool night air, moving as quickly as Mazida’s condition would allow. I could hear sirens in the distance, see flashing lights reflected against nearby buildings. The police perimeter was closing in.
“There!” Samurai pointed to where two motorcycles and a van waited in the shadows of a loading dock. “Looks like Eli at least somewhat came through for us.”
I hoped like hell it was Eli. If not, I wasn’t sure who would be helping us. Had Stripes told him where we’d be? I wasn’t going to stop to ask questions. We needed to get the hell out of this country.
We were thirty yards from the vehicles when a spotlight caught us, the harsh beam momentarily blinding. A loudspeaker crackled to life, the man speaking in a language I barely remembered from my childhood.
“What the fuck did he say?” Samurai asked.
“Police. Stop where you are.” My brow furrowed. “At least I think that was it.”
Instead, we ran. Bullets pinged off the concrete around us as officers opened fire. I returned fire, not aiming to hit but to force them to cover, buying precious seconds. We reached the vehicles, Samurai and Stripes carefully loading Mazida into the van.
“Go!” Samurai ordered. “We’ll rendezvous at the airstrip.”
I hesitated, not wanting to leave them.
“Now, Azrael,” Stripes snapped, his accent thicker than ever. “We need all vehicles moving to split pursuit.”
I nodded, jumping onto one of the motorcycles. Samurai took the other. We roared away in different directions as the van peeled out, drawing the majority of the police pursuit. I cut through back alleys and service roads, losing the single patrol car that attempted to follow me.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the small municipal airstrip on the outskirts of town. A sleek private jet sat on the tarmac, engines already running, stairs deployed. Samurai arrived shortly after me, his motorcycle skidding to a halt beside mine.
“Any sign of them?” he asked, voice tight with worry.
Before I could answer, headlights appeared on the access road. The van, moving at high speed, two police cruisers in pursuit. The van swerved through the gate, tires squealing as it made directly for the plane.
“Cover them!” I shouted, drawing my weapon and firing at the pursuing vehicles. One cruiser veered off, a tire blown. The second kept coming.
The van screeched to a halt beside the plane. The side door slid open, and Samurai emerged, supporting Mazida. Stripes followed, firing back at the police cruiser. A bullet struck him in the shoulder, spinning him around, but he recovered and continued covering their retreat.
Samurai and I laid down suppressing fire as they made for the plane. The wounded Stripes moved with surprising speed despite his injury, his face set in grim determination. More police vehicles appeared at the gate, lights flashing.
“Go!” Samurai shouted to us as they reached the stairs. “Now!”
I sprinted for the plane as bullets whined past. I felt a sharp sting along my arm where one grazed me but kept moving. We reached the stairs, Samurai going up first. I turned to provide one last burst of covering fire, then scrambled aboard.
The stairs retracted immediately, the door sealing with a pressurized hiss. Inside, Mazida had been strapped into a seat, Stripes beside her, pressing a bandage to his bleeding shoulder. Samurai stood by the cockpit door, speaking rapidly to the pilot.
“We clear?” I asked.
“For now.” Samurai nodded. “Bratva pilot says he has clearance to take off immediately. Claims his paperwork will check out if they try to ground us.”
The engines roared louder as the jet began to move, taxiing swiftly toward the runway. Through the windows, I could see police vehicles giving chase across the tarmac, but they couldn’t stop a plane already in motion.
I dropped into a seat opposite Mazida, finally allowing myself to feel the exhaustion and pain of the night’s activities. She looked at me through her one unswollen eye, a ghost of a smile on her battered lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the engines. “Whoever you are.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The plane accelerated down the runway, pressing us back into our seats. As we lifted off, banking sharply away from the pursuing lights below, Stripes reached over with his good arm and patted my knee.
“You did good tonight,” he said. “Your woman will be pleased.”
Outside the window, the city lights receded, the night sky opening up before us. Behind us lay three dead targets, countless wounded enemies, and a trail of destruction. Ahead lay uncertainty, but also the knowledge we’d done what family does -- protected our own, no matter the cost.
As the jet climbed into the clouds, I closed my eyes and let the adrenaline finally ebb from my system. The job wasn’t finished -- Mazida needed medical attention, Stripes’ wound required treatment, and Mazida’s brother was still out there. But for now, in this moment, we had won. We had our family back.
And God help anyone who came after us again.