objectives: Kill any who resisted and capture Darko Stjepanić. The intel Chry delivered from Harry Grant had sent the team here.
And, if he needed a quiety kill, the knife he carried in an upside-down sheath secured to the front of his vest would do an efficient job.
When it came to a knife fight, he’d had the best teacher. His LT. Fast Lane had been tough, but fair. Most of it was physical, but Fast Lane advised him. Be cautious you don’t lose your way and turn into that which you’ve taken an oath to defend against. There is a thin line between darkness and madness.
Razor thin. He knew the importance of taking care. Fast Lane had made damn sure he knew. He’d lectured 2-Stroke, and he sensed that no one on his team walked the edge of darkness more carefully or with a surer step than Fast Lane.
Work the problem, don’t get lost in it.
Was he already lost?
He’d asked his brother that question, and he’d replied, “We all work close to the line, but we’re still the good guys, brother.”
He was convinced Fast Lane knew how easy it would be to take the last step, and he knew there wasn’t any coming back from it. Once you cross over that way, you’re the enemy. Worse, you’ll be your worst enemy.
It occurred in their line of work more often than anyone official would ever acknowledge. Skilled operators going rogue, doing it for the money, or for the glory that was no longer officially authorized or theirs to take. They aged, they got injured, they got kicked off the team they had given their all to, and some of them rolled. The abilities they had were a invaluable service in the global arena, and the scum of the earth secured them with huge payoffs.
He’d be utterly lost without the brotherhood.
“Set,” Dragon said. He was across from 2-Stroke on the roof, hunkered down.
“In position,” 2-Stroke murmured, then he heard a scuff behind him. “Fuck, move, Dragon.”
His teammate moved not a moment too soon as the bastard behind him opened fire. 2-Stroke rolled to his back with lightning speed to the target he instantly acquired, and he was no longer a threat. “Dragon?”
“I’m fine,” he said low and uneasy. “Are we fucking compromised again?”
“Yeah, the fuck-you-over fairy throwing around her fucking fuck-you dust,” Max growled.
“Boss, do we abort?” Pitbull asked.
2-Stroke waited for Fast Lane’s orders, but there was nothing but static on the line.
“LT?” Max tried again.
“Fuck! Find him!” Pitbull ordered. “Now.”
2-Stroke headed for the gutter pipe and a fast rope as the sky opened up and a deluge poured down and gunfire erupted from the warehouse across from and below him. Thunder mixed in with the firefight, rumbling around them. There was only one way to get off this roof and neutralize the threat. Dragon was pinned down. All his brothers were caught in the crossfire.
He sprinted for the door. Using his breaching tape, he blew it in a matter of minutes. “Egressing from the roof through the warehouse. Clearing,” 2-Stroke said into his mic.
“Moving, in the alley,” Pitbull said. “I’m going for the SUV and Fast Lane.”
2-Stroke started down the stairs, encountering one tango after another. He took them out as he progressed. “At the warehouse floor.” He took cover behind some barrels.
“Inside with Jugs,” Mad Max said, coming from the North. “Don’t shoot us, junior.”
“Copy that,” 2-Stroke said, then grinned. “Release the beast, Max.”
“Missile away.”
The minute 2-Stroke heard the growling, he moved away from cover. All the attention was on the front of the warehouse. He moved in from behind and Max moved in from the front. They took out the six tangos who had Dragon and his teammates pinned.
“The second warehouse is clear.”
“Move out!” Pitbull said, his voice wobbly as he ran.
Max called Jugs to him, and the three of them broke out of the warehouse, toward the back where Fast Lane was waiting in the SUV. 2-Stroke dove for the hole they’d made in the fence. Max, Jugs, and the other team members were right behind him. His gut clenched in fear for their CO.
Dumpsters, abandoned cars, a couple of freight containers flew by. Rain was running down everything, pooling on top of the containers.
As the gloom cleared and they neared the SUV, he saw Chry crouched protectively over Fast Lane’s limp body, both of them partially hidden by their vehicle, her gun in her hand. He searched frantically for any sign of blood but couldn’t detect anything in