Page 34 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Varrick

It’s been a few days since we’ve had Dante, and things have been moving along since Rosalynn was discharged from the hospital.

We’re at a different safehouse now, Rosalynn’s been cleared by the doctor, and I just want to fucking move on with our lives.

The office is fucked with paperwork.

There’s no way I’d beat Sienna in a court to legally take my son from her.

The system is rigged against fathers, even if this one happens to be the King of Vancouver.

This has to be done the old-fashioned way.

It’s barely five in the morning, and the city’s blackout is mirrored in the glass, my own face a ghost behind the array of screens.

The only color comes from the blue glare of monitors, every inch mapped with ledgers, camera feeds, and photos of men I mean to erase.

The centerpiece is Rosalynn’s work.

Her handwriting is a dream: tight, slanted, every number on point.

She’s stitched together the whole route. How Mikhail moves crates through the port, how the weapons vanish into railcars, and pop up on the Bratva’s auction floor.

She left the paper files on the desk, but what matters is the digital trace, the impossible-to-fake signature of her mind working through the numbers.

My eyes burn, but I don’t blink.

I track the incoming wire transfers, the ghost names on every account, until the whole network starts to flicker at its seams.

There’s a photo at the edge of the desk—Dante, forced to smile, Sienna’s hand gripped too tightly on his shoulder.

He’s trying not to cry.

The photographer thought they’d edit it out, but I see it clear as day. I always see it. The rage comes, but I box it away.

Cyrus stands behind my shoulder, glasses smudged and hair perfect, watching my every move.

He doesn’t speak.

He knows I don’t want the commentary.

Korrin’s a low rumble in the background, pacing, chewing a matchstick until it’s pulp.

We’ve been at this for two hours, and the hit goes down in three.

I turn to my brothers. “Warehouse on 17th is a shell. The real operation is here—” I tap the screen, a red dot pulsing.

“West edge of Mikhail’s compound. There’s a tunnel entrance under the garden shed.

That’s where the transfer happens. We go in, and we kill them.

We make sure nothing else comes out but ashes. ”

Korrin bares his teeth. “No mercy, then.”

“None,” I say.

I stand, cracking my knuckles.

My hands are fucked from last week, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t slow me down.

I take the 9mm from the drawer, check the slide, rack the first round, then load the spare mags.

Clean, fast, unthinking. The ritual calms me.

There’s a knock on the frame, but I don’t need to turn.

Rosalynn steps in, gait uneven but steady.

She’s wearing black jeans, a soft hoodie pulled up over her hair, and she’s walking without her cane today. Stubborn as always.

She doesn’t waste time. “I’m coming.”

I look her over, notice the swelling at her knuckles, the splints on her fingers. “You’re not ready to come out on the field.”

“I found the evidence. I earned this,” she says, louder than I’ve ever heard her.

Korrin’s eyebrows spike. Even Cyrus glances up from the screen, interested.

I step closer, drop my voice. “You’ve done more than anyone. But if you get shot tonight, it’s all for nothing.”

Her jaw sets. “You think I’m afraid of getting hurt again?”

I admire her for her honesty. “No. I think you’ll do something heroic and die.”

She shakes her head, eyes gone icy. “You need me on comms. Those files aren’t finished.

If the Russians wipe the servers, you lose the only proof of Mikhail's shipping warheads through Vancouver and the rest of Canada. You need my hands.” She holds them up, trembling a little.

“Even broken, they’re better than yours. ”

A rare thing happens. I almost laughed.

Instead, I nod once. “Fine. You come. But you listen to every word Cyrus says. You’re not expendable.”

She relaxes, just a fraction. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Korrin slaps a hand on her shoulder, a gentle giant for once. “You got a weapon?”

She taps her forehead with her forefinger on the hand that wasn’t touched, nodding. “I have a job to do.”

He tosses her a tactical earpiece.

She catches it, almost fumbles, but keeps her chin up.

I scan the room.

My team is the best—because they know how to listen.

“Everyone ready?” I ask.

They all nod.

We move to a room I like to call my armory, hidden behind some art piece I had Jensen buy a few years back.

In it is everything we need for a mission.

Once I’m inside, I take the bulletproof vest, heavy and hot, and put it over the dress shirt I never bothered to button.

I slide the gun into my holster, place a knife at the calf, and put a spare in the boot.

Cyrus loads the laptop, a backup drive, and half a pharmacy’s worth of pills just in case.

Korrin takes the shotgun, his favorite toy, and smears black grease on his cheeks like the animal he is.

Rosalynn follows us out. She has a phone, a notebook, and her mind. She doesn’t need anything else.

We pile into the elevator, the ride down silent except for the whirr of cameras tracking us.

At the garage, the cars wait—black SUVs, bulletproof, with a heavy tint.

My driver, a slab of flesh named Leon, opens the back door.

We slide in, Rosalynn wedged between me and Cyrus.

I catch her glancing at my hands, the tremor just under the skin. She reaches over, brushes her pinky against mine.

The touch is barely there, but it anchors me to the moment. I squeeze back, once. Then I run my thumb over her hand.

We ride through the dead city, the convoy a serpent winding toward the kill.

Nobody talks. There’s no need. All that matters is the target and the moment the world tilts.

Twenty minutes out, Korrin starts the music—old-school punk, all snarl and drums. It rattles the windows, filling the car so loud that I know none of us can even think.

Cyrus checks his watch. “About five minutes until we’re there.”

I lean forward, staring at the road, every turn and alley locked in my head.

At the compound gates, the first line of guards stands ready, faces blurred by night vision.

I know every one of them and their weaknesses.

They think they’re waiting for a delivery.

Leon rolls down the window, flashes a forged ID. The guard squints, hesitates, then waves us through.

He probably thinks asking questions will get him in more trouble than anything else.

Inside, the main house is lit up. Party night, Bratva style—whores, guns, and enough coke to put half the city in cardiac arrest.

But the real action is in the back. The warehouse, the garden shed, the tunnels.

I tap Rosalynn on the arm. “Remember, you listen to everything Cyrus says.”

She doesn’t argue. I didn’t expect her to. But I see the way her jaw grinds, how much she hates being sidelined.

Korrin leads the way, shotgun tucked under his coat. Cyrus and I follow, blending into the shadows.

The security here is better than ours, but their men are lazy, cocksure, thinking no one would dare make a move on Mikhail’s newfound home turf.

Idiots .

We reach the shed. It’s smaller than I expected. Just a tool rack, a broken lawnmower, a trapdoor with two locks.

I open both, easily.

I go first while Cyrus covers the rear.

We move quickly, silently. The tunnel is lit with naked bulbs, every twenty feet a camera, every corner another chance for a bullet in the gut.

But there’s no resistance. At least not yet.

We hit the first checkpoint and find two men playing cards, their guns on the table.

I shoot both before they register the threat. Heads down, blood pooling, no sound but the slap of cards hitting the floor.

Korrin grins. “Nice.”

Cyrus checks the bodies, pockets a flash drive from one man’s jacket.

“Onward,” I say.

The tunnel opens into a vault. Inside: crates, stacked floor to ceiling, every one marked as farm equipment, every one packed with death.

We head up the stairs.

Inside, it’s less disciplined.

Mikhail’s got his Bratva recruits hopped up on amphetamines, loud and loose.

The cameras blink, then cut, thanks to Rosalynn’s pre-programmed blackout. The electronic fence dies. In thirty seconds, the entire outer defense is a graveyard.

We split into teams: Korrin and Leon sweep the ground floor, while I take the stairs, Cyrus at my back, quiet as a shadow.

Rosalynn lags at the tail, two men flanking her.

Her phone is out, thumb flicking images into the cloud: crates, codes, faces.

She doesn’t look up when a body slumps in front of her just steps over it, eyes locked on the next target. I want to tell her to stay back, but there’s no time.

Upstairs, the party is in full swing—vodka bottles, drugs, and high-priced girls.

We move through the chaos, ignored by the guests until a silenced shot takes out the first armed guard.

Then it’s screaming, panic, the herd rushing toward the exits.

Cyrus peels off, drops two more with calculated shots, and signals: clear. I find the hallway that leads to the master suite.

At the end, two men guard the door. I double-tap the left through the eye, knife the right in the femoral. He tries to scream, but his throat is already full of blood.

I take a breath at the door. Beyond is the reason for everything.

I don’t hesitate. Kick it in, gun level, ready for hell.

The suite is gold and white, blinding in the overheads.

Sienna sits on a couch, her eyes are glass, cold and unblinking, but I see the sweat at her hairline.

She laughs, brittle. “I should have expected this of you.”

Behind me, footsteps. Korrin and Leon enter, guns raised and surprisingly, Sienna flinches.

“This is it, Sienna,” I say, my voice dead calm. “All of this is over.”

She shakes her head. “You took our son from me, Varrick, and I’ll get him back. He’s worth more than both of us put together. The heir to the Cross and Bane bloodlines.”

She stands, and edges toward the far door.

I step sideways, cutting off the exit.

She bares her teeth. “He’s not safe with you.”