Page 59 of Scarred Angel

“Martin was meeting with his contact and two others.”

If that holds, we’re only down one man. Odds I can live with. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never to trust numbers until you’ve counted them yourself. Every deal, every exchange, it’s the same game. You prepare for what you know and bleed for what you don’t.

The headlights finally cut, plunging the lot back into shadows. Doors creak open, and boots hit gravel, more than three sets. Six to be exact. And my jaw tightens. Already, the math is off.

“Looks like your boy left out a detail.”

“Or he lied through his teeth.”

The group approaches, smug faces fixed on us, but my eyes aren’t on their expressions. I watch their hands, too stiff, not relaxed. Their tense shoulders tell me the rest. And right then, I know this exchange isn’t going down clean. I glance at Silas, and he’s already reading the same signs.

A taller man breaks from the pack and heads for the back of the van. Shane Oliver, Martin’s guy—or so he says.

“Belov,” he greets with a smirk, looking directly at me as if we’ve met before. Another red flag, and another reason why Martin is going to have a very bad day.

“I’ve heard great things about you.”

“Is that so? Funny. I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

He laughs, the humor failing to reach his eyes.

“I like to keep a low profile. Shane Oliver.” He extends his hand. I don’t move. “Around here, most people call me Ace. But since you’re new in town—ornew-ish—you can just call me Shane.”

“I’d rather not call you anything.”

Pleasantries aren’t my thing. Business is business. In and out.

His eyes cut toward Silas, that same fake laugh bubbling up. “Your friend’s a funny guy.”

The edges of Silas’s mouth pull into a grin, and he shrugs, but says nothing.

Shane exhales through his teeth, whistling low as he grabs the van’s back handle and signals his men forward. My palm slams the door shut before he gets it open.

“Three men on your side. Including you. That’s the deal. Tell the others to back off, or we walk.”

His smile strains. “Six crates is a lot. No harm in a little extra manpower.”

“Not my problem your guys skipped the gym. Three. Men.”

The smile drops, frustration seeping through. He sucks his teeth and pretends to think it over.

“Fine,” he says, raising his hands. He turns like he’s going to comply, but his body language says otherwise.

I trade a look with Silas. It’s go time.

Shane thinks he’s got the jump on us, and maybe we’re outgunned and outmanned, but no matter how this ends, we aren’t going down without raising hell and dragging them along with us. He reaches for his piece, too slow. Two rounds put him down, the back of his skull exploding outward, and he drops without a sound. Silas takes two of his men before we break for the van and shove inside as gunfire rips the lot apart.

Two more SUVs burn into the yard, boxing us in as automatic rounds hammer the glass and metal.

“It won’t hold much longer!” I yell over the thunder of bullets.

Silas’s hand finds my arm, his mouth is a hard line, but there’s a confession pressed against it. The noise outside turns into a distant roar as I lock onto his words.

“Maksim—” he says, voice cracking. “I just want you to know I’m proud of you. You were a pain in my ass for a long fucking time.” He laughs, watery. “But that’s what being a parent is. You taught me how to be a father. I love you, son.”

My throat tightens, and I blink fast, sweeping moisture away.

“Don’t get soft on me, old man. We’re not dying yet.”