The man shakes his head. “I don’t know. I only know where I get my orders from.”
“I don’t believe you.” I bring the point of the blade a fraction away from his eyeball.
The man whimpers pathetically. When Dom caught him, Felipe was antagonizing a junkie he’d just sold purple heroin to. I guess he isn’t so tough now.
“I don’t know!” he cries, keeping perfectly still. “They give me product, I sell it. They tell me to be somewhere with a gun, I go.”
“So, you’re just a good little soldier?” I ask.
“Yes. I promise.”
His word means nothing to me, but I believe him. Every member of the Cartel we have captured so far has said essentially the same thing. They operate under a cloaked chain of command, a tactical move that makes it difficult for me to determine the scope of the organization. I don’t know the size of the snake, and I don’t know where its head is.
I hand the knife to Antonio, and he presses a gun into my palm instead. The man starts to beg and plead, and I silence him with a bullet to the head.
Frustration leaks into my bones as I storm out of the cellar. I got information today, but not enough. I need to know more about my enemies if I’m going to fight them.
In this and everything else in my life, I feel like I have lost control, and I’m desperate to regain some semblance of it. I have given all the bribes I can to the police, and Alexis is a lost cause. That means the only other way to regain control is for me to smash the Cartel and Kevin Lynch into the ground. And I need to do it quickly.
I am familiar with the warehouse that the captured Cartel member named, and I initiate a plan to storm it that evening after dark.
The air from the open window is chilly on my face as I drive through the sleepy dockyard, moonlight casting a spotlight on the quiet convoy sneaking past the rusted structures and parked trucks. The sky is cloudless, though we are too close to the city to see many stars.
Antonio, Dom, and Mirko Bernadino—one of my other capos—follow behind me with a handful of their men. I keep an eye out for sentries, but the two men I sent ahead on foot have taken care of that. Dom’s reconnaissance earlier turned up only Irish on-site, though no sign of Kevin Lynch.
Our attack will be swift, and it will be fatal.
When we are just around the corner, we stop and pile out of our vehicles. Antonio lumbers up beside me, checking the chamber of his Glock 19, the misty plume of his breath twisting toward the black sky.
Antonio is in his fifties, and with all of the action recently, I wonder why he doesn’t just retire somewhere warm with his wife and their many cats. He had some quiet years under my father, but since my father’s ill-fated plan for expansion two years ago, it has been a bumpy ride.
Antonio cocks his gun and runs a hand over his bald head, muscles flexing. He stands around six-three to my six-five and is as wide as the warehouses that surround us. Maybe that’s why he has stuck around—this is the only thing he’s built for.
“I want you to burn it to the ground,” I tell him. “Don’t forget to clear the men out first.”
Burning to death is no way to go. Being shot—that’s noble. You get a chance to shoot back in that case, a chance to fight.
Antonio bounces on his heels and looks back to the assembled men. “Yes, boss.”
I pull my gun out and nod at him. We edge around the corner of the warehouse, and the group splits into two. Half of us go to the back door while the others jog to the front, where they will shoot those we flush out.
I wait enough time for everyone to get into position and then give the order. We charge.
The back door crashes in on its hinges as we burst through, and gunfire rips through the quiet air. The Irish inside the building yell in surprise and try to grab their guns and take cover, but we don’t give them time. All they can do is run as we push through like a powerful wave, washing them out into the open, where my men are waiting to cut them down.