Page 84 of Deadly Alliance
The docks erupt.
Thirty assault rifles open fire at point-blank range. The element of surprise is a butcher's best friend, and tonight, we areslaughtering pigs. The first line of Russians drops instantly, their bodies shredded by the crossfire before they even realize the enemy is standing right behind them.
Screams replace the shouts. Panic ripples through the Bratva ranks as the men at the front realize they are trapped. The barricades they built to keep us out are now the walls of their own execution chamber. Dante is pushing from the street, and we are pushing from the sea. There is nowhere to run.
I move forward, my finger held tight on the trigger. The recoil is agonizing. Every time the weapon kicks, it sends a jagged spike of white-hot pain through my right pectoral. I can feel the fresh blood seeping through my bandages, sticking to my shirt, but the adrenaline masks the worst of it. I drop two men trying to turn their weapons on us. Matteo takes down three more, tossing a frag grenade into a cluster of mercenaries trying to regroup behind a forklift.
The explosion sends shrapnel and body parts raining down on the slick concrete. The smell of cordite, blood, and saltwater is suffocating.
I don't stop moving. I am not looking for the foot soldiers. I am hunting the head of the snake.
I weave through the maze of blue and red shipping containers, stepping over groaning, bleeding men. The gunfire is deafening, a chaotic symphony of violence that I have orchestrated to perfection.
I turn a corner near the harbor master's elevated office and find exactly what I came for.
Ivan Volkov.
The Bratva Pakhan is a giant of a man, standing six-foot-five with shoulders like a fucking vault door. His bald head gleams under the flickering dock lights, his face a roadmap of old scars. He is barking frantically into a radio, trying to call in reinforcements that are never going to arrive. Four of his elite bodyguards are frantically returning fire toward Orlando’s advancing Capos.
I don't use the rifle. I let it hang on its sling and draw the customized 1911 from my waistband.
I step out into the open. "Volkov!"
The Russian boss snaps his head toward me. The arrogant, untouchable superiority he wore at the peace summits vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed shock. He drops the radio.
His bodyguards turn their weapons toward me, but they are too slow. I put a hollow-point round through the eye of the man on the left, and Matteo, appearing like a ghost at my flank, shreds the other three with a sustained burst from his carbine.
Volkov is alone.
He realizes it instantly. He drops his empty assault rifle and draws a massive hunting knife from his tactical vest, the serrated blade gleaming maliciously in the rain. He looks at my arm strapped tightly in its sling, a cruel, mocking smile stretching across his scarred face.
"The wounded Italian prince," Volkov sneers, his heavy accent butchering the words. "You think you can take this port from me with one arm?"
"I don't need two arms to put you in the dirt, Ivan," I reply, raising my pistol.
I squeeze the trigger.
Click.
The gun jams. A faulty casing caught in the chamber.
Volkov doesn't hesitate. The giant lunges forward with astonishing speed, closing the ten feet between us before I can clear the jam. He swings the massive blade in a brutal, sweeping arc aimed directly at my throat.
I drop the useless gun and duck, stepping inside his guard. I drive my left elbow violently into his jaw. The impact rattles my bones, but the Russian barely flinches.
He grabs me by the throat with his massive, meaty hand, lifting me entirely off the ground. He slams me backward against the corrugated steel wall of a shipping container.
The impact is catastrophic.
My vision goes completely white. The sutures holding my chest together snap like cheap string. Agony explodes in my right shoulder, so intense it forces a strangled, pathetic gasp past my lips. I can feel the warm rush of blood pouring down my ribs.
"You die tonight, Vellutini," Volkov spits, his foul breath washing over my face. He rears his right hand back, preparing to plunge the serrated knife directly into my gut. "And then I take your pretty little wife and break her."
He made a mistake.
He mentioned her.
The blinding pain is instantly incinerated by a homicidal, psychotic rage. I don't give a fuck about honor. I don't give a fuck about fighting like a gentleman. This isn't a boxing match, this is the gutter, and I am going back to my wife.
