out.”

Antonino shook his head, then folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not liking this. Not at all. It all seems shady to me.”

“It’s not, but if you want to take your chances with trying to kill us, I invite you to try,” Anna replied, turning toward Antonio and looking at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

Domingo stood from his chair, then shoved his hand into the front pocket of his trousers. He walked around the desk, past Antonio who sighed in frustration.

“Don’t do it. They’re—”

“I’ve heard your piece,” Domingo said.

My fingers readjusted over the hand grip of the AK as I watched Domingo pull his hand out from the pocket. He approached Anna, who didn’t flinch or reach for the piece in her waistband.

“Just remember what happens to people who try to mess me over,” Domingo said, handing her the thumb drive. “I’d hate to have to carve up this body of yours or dismember your associate over there.”

I stared at Domingo without blinking.

Anna took the small drive, then shoved it into the front pocket of her jeans. “I remember. How fast can you and your men mobilize?”

“How many men we have on site?” Domingo asked while looking down at Anna.

“Around fifteen or so if we pull everyone,” Antonio answered.

Domingo looked at me, then back down to Anna. “Get them prepared and ready to move in thirty.”

Anna nodded. “Perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

 

SCARFACE

Blood dripped from the tips of my fingers and splattered against the concrete floor. I towered over the dead man’s body. Another victim had fallen at my hands, set free from this unforgiving, cruel world.

I grabbed a handful of his vest and dragged his dead weight across the floor. I stuffed him into a small storage room out of the way and continued on. In his last moments of life, he’d divulged Jackal’s whereabouts—a secured room at the far end of the building. Only five men stood between me and Jackal.

I kept to the shadows of the hallway, moving at a good clip. The silence inside the building made it easy to track the men walking the halls. Each footfall gave away their positions, allowing me to stalk them with ease.

The dagger tasted their flesh, spilling more blood. Two fell with minimal effort, bleeding out from the gash across their throats. The third caught a lucky strike across the side of my face, adding to the scars already there.

We grappled in one of the rooms filled with various supplies and a few desks. He punched me, his gloved hand raking across the open wound. The damaged flesh burned hot as more blood seeped out and dripped from my chin.

He drove me back into a small desk. The feet scrapped across the tile floor, sounding a warning. His hand shoved against my chin, forcing my head back. He pinned my arm holding the dagger to the top of the desk.

I struck his forearm with my elbow, fighting to get free. Each hard blow weakened his grip some, but not enough to remove his hand.

He grabbed me by the throat and squeezed. My hand felt along the top of the desk, searching for anything I could use against him.

The world grew dim. Each breath was harder than the last. I gasped for air.

My fingers grazed something long and sharp, like a blade of some sort. I grabbed the handle and stabbed his forearm. He wailed in pain, but the mask muffled his voice.

His hold around my throat and arm lessened. I kneed him in the side, then rammed my foot into his chest. He stumbled backward, reaching for the letter opener that stuck out of his arm.

I sat up, struggling to breathe. My hand massaged my throat. He yanked the letter opener from his forearm, then tossed it to the floor. It clanged off the tile.

He charged me again. I stabbed him above his jugular notch. He stopped dead in his tracks, then reached for his throat. I stabbed him in the side of the neck twice. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward to the floor.

I searched near the desk and around his body for my pistol. He’d knocked it free from my hands during our encounter. It had slid across the floor, vanishing into the dark area behind the desk and stacks of crinkled boxes.

I settled for his sidearm, pulling the Glock 17 from the holster on the side of his hip. I racked the slide and headed for the hallway.

Footfalls sounded from the way I’d come, closing in on my position. I skirted the edge of the doorway and moved down the corridor with the Glock trained ahead. Lights moved along the wall from the hallway ahead of me.

I stopped shy of the corner and waited. The jostling of gear caught my ear. I peered around the edge and spotted two men inbound with rifles shouldered.

The lights swept the corridor, then shone at the blind corner. I leaned away, took a step back, and trained the Glock at the hall. The footfalls trailing me drew closer, boxing me in. I glanced over my shoulder, then faced forward.

My finger rested on the trigger. The lights grew brighter. They breached the corner. I pulled the trigger, shooting the armed gunman closest to me in the side of his head. He fell to the floor face first.

His partner turned toward me and ran forward. The beam from his light washed across my body. I rushed him, firing two rounds. One hit his vest dead center. The other went wide, clipping the side of his neck. His arm released the hand grip and palmed the hole in the side of his neck, trying to stay the blood that pumped out.

I knocked the rifle toward the floor, then slammed the Glock against

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