Page 163 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

His weapon falls.

A second later, Marco’s team hits from the side.

Tomas fires over my head.

Two of the balcony guards go down.

But a third catches us with a suppressive burst, forcing our team behind cover.

The air smells like copper, gunpowder, and the burn of concrete struck too many times by bullets.

My earpiece crackles.

One of the side teams is flanking west. "They’re closing the gate," Tomas calls out. "They’re trying to bottleneck us."

I rise, fire off two shots, and move.

Marco tosses a flashbang across the square.

It detonates with a burst that drowns the next six seconds of sound.

I leap over the crumbled bench and take the west flank.

One of theirs rises to shoot, and I bury a round in his collarbone.

I don’t stop moving. Il Sangue Nero starts to break under pressure. Their center thins.

One man panics and runs.

Another shouts for someone named Ivo.

No one answers.

Tomas’ round hits the gate lever.

Metal shrieks as it crashes shut behind us.

The trap is theirs no longer.

I take out the last of the balcony men with a clean headshot.

Marco storms the center.

Two more men drop.

A third tries to fake surrender and pulls a knife.

It never lands.

The courtyard falls silent.

No shouts.

No fire.

Just the fog of smoke dispersing and the click of safeties being engaged.

Bodies litter the gravel.