Page 55 of Crusher's Illusion

Nevaeh doesn’t know every detail, but she’s pressed against my back, arms locked tight, and I can feel her pulse through my cut. She knows enough to hold on.

We cut the lights three blocks out, formation tightening until we’re a single shadow moving down the street. Steel’s voice is steady in my ear, breaking down positions, but my focus snags ahead to chrome glinting under a security lamp. Black sedan. Long, low, armored.

I’ve seen it in photos from our intel briefings. Dominic Vassaro’s car.

It’s parked just inside the chain-link gate like it owns the pavement, Syndicate guards flanking it. The sight hits me like a fist to the chest. Months of chasing his name, watching his moves from a distance, all come down to this. He’s here.

Steel raises a gloved fist, and the line reacts instantly, splitting into two teams, peeling off into pre-set positions. My boots hit gravel as I dismount, shotgun in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. Not tonight, Dom. You don’t slip away tonight.

The warehouse looms ahead, its windows dark except for the glow spilling from the loading dock. Voices carry over the cold night air. Syndicate muscle laughing, unaware the Saints Outlaws are about to blow their night to hell.

“Go,” Steel’s voice snaps in my earpiece.

The first shots crack like thunder. Metal screams as bullets chew into the vans. I’m moving before the first body drops, Rock at my side, his rifle barking short, controlled bursts. We push through the gate, close and fast, taking cover behind a stack of pallets when I hear it.

A low, commanding voice, cutting through the chaos. “Lock down the dock! Get the shipment out of here, now!”

Dominic Vassaro.

Even without seeing him, the sound spikes my pulse. I’ve heard recordings, snippets on intercepted calls, but hearing it in person is different. The arrogance, the certainty that men will jump the second he speaks, makes my teeth grind.

I shove past two Syndicate soldiers, Rock on my flank, cutting through the path toward that voice. Every shot I fire, every step I take, is aimed at closing the distance between us. I don’t care about the rest of the warehouse. He’s mine.

Another Syndicate soldier rounds the corner with his gun up. Rock drops him with a clean headshot. It’s chaos. Flashes of muzzle fire, shouts, the tang of blood and cordite in the air. And in the middle of it, movement catches my eye. On the catwalk above, a shooter is lining up on Rock.

“Rock!” I bark, but I’m too far.

Movement flickers at the corner of my vision, Nevaeh. She’s sprinting along the narrow service stairs that zigzag up the wall, chain wrapped around her fist. Her boots slip on a rung slick with oil, metal shrieking under her sole. She stumbles, one hand catching the railing just as a round smashes into the steel beam inches from her head, showering her with hot sparks and the tang of scorched paint.

For a split second, she freezes. I can see her chest heave, see the decision hang in her eyes to stay low and survive, or push forward into the line of fire.

She goes forward.

Her breath’s ragged as she clears the last step. The chain slides in her grip, cold and greasy from the oil, but she yanks it tight and swings with everything she’s got. It cracks across the shooter’s forearm, the sound sharp as breaking bone. His rifleclatters over the rail, hitting the concrete below with a hollow clang.

Before he can grab her, she drives a knee into his gut, the air whooshing out of him in a grunt. She shoves hard, her boots skidding on the catwalk grating as he topples over the edge.

He hits the floor with a wet crunch.

Rock glances at her, just once, and nods. “Owe you one.” Then he’s back to work.

The black sedan is still there when I hit the dock, its chrome fenders smeared with dust and someone’s blood. I don’t need a nameplate to know who it belongs to. Vassaro’s ride hasn’t left my head since I saw it at the gate.

And then I see him.

Dominic Vassaro stands in the shadow of a half-loaded van, long coat swaying, suit pressed like he didn’t just crawl through a warzone. Even now, even with his men bleeding into the concrete, there’s that smug curve to his mouth. The same one I heard in his voice when he barked those orders inside. The same one that’s been etched into my brain through grainy photos and intel briefings.

“Crusher,” he says, like we’re at a goddamn reunion. “Finally.”

I don’t answer. I close the distance, slam him against the van hard enough to rattle the frame, my forearm pinning his throat. My pistol digs into his ribs.

He coughs, still smiling. “You can’t kill me. I’m the one who...”

The butt of my pistol cracks against his jaw, cutting him off. Blood blooms down his chin. “You’re the one who had Lena snatched. Who put a knife in Jordan. Who’s been pulling strings while good people bled out in alleys.” My voice is low, steady. “You’ve been on my list a long time, Dom.”

His laugh is wet with blood, but the arrogance never leaves. “You think killing me stops it?”

“No.” I shove the barrel between his teeth, leaning in until my breath fogs against his cheek. “But it stops you.”