Page 128 of Dirty Game

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.