Page 59 of Dirty Game

I kill the engine and let momentum carry us the last twenty yards. Nobody dares to even breathe too loud.

When the tires kiss the curb, I pop the door and step into the breeze.

Salt air, diesel, the distant sweetness of rotten seafood.

I scan the roofline, then the windows.

Two heat signatures upstairs, three more on the catwalk, one at ground level, probably a dog.

I gesture—three fingers, then a slash.

My crew fans out, soundless.

I circle wide, coming up on the blind side of the guard.

He doesn’t see me until the barrel is pressing his temple.

He tries to talk—I cut the words with a 9mm hollow point.

His skull splits open like a peach, blood dark against the ground.

His body spasms twice, then stills and I drag him behind the dumpster and move on inside.

Inside, the warehouse is fucking chaos.

Guns, drugs, and crates everywhere.

Machinery hums somewhere overhead, a pulse that keeps time for the coming bloodbath.

My boots leave tracks, but I don’t care.

The shipment’s somewhere in the back.

I can feel it—six crates, each one packed with more firepower than some governments get in a fiscal year.

We will take their shit too, just as an inconvenience tax.

I take the stairs two at a time.

My men are machines: the first floor is cleared in thirty seconds, each target dispatched with the same economy as a light switch flicked off.

The air fills with death and fear.

The scent’s familiar, almost comforting.

I catalog the dead as I pass: one face-down in a puddle, another slumped over the guard rail, arterial spray painting the wall behind him.

On the second floor, I pause.

There’s a whisper of movement to my left—just a shoe scuff, but I don’t ignore it.

I raise my sidearm and pivot.

The shooter’s not even twenty, acne shining through his stubble, finger too tight on the trigger.

He fires first and misses by half a meter. I shoot once, twice, and his ribcage blooms red. He drops, twitching, eyes glassing over.

For a moment, there’s quiet. My heartbeat’s in my ears, heavy, slowing with each breath.