PART 7
Shut up and lift. Victor snapped. I watched them for 10 minutes. I took photos with a small digital camera. I kept in my gear bag, faces, crates, serial numbers on the weapons visible in the open boxes. This was federal prison time. This was life sentences for all of them. But prison was too safe.
Prison meant they got three meals a day and a bed. Tessa didn’t get that. I needed to thin the herd. I moved to the back of the warehouse where the power junction box was located. It was an old industrial box, rusted shut. I pried it open with my knife. I found the main breaker for the warehouse lights. I didn’t cut it yet. I waited.
A guard, one of Victor’s private security goons, not a brother, walked out the back door to have a smoke. He was standing right below me. I dropped. I landed behind him, silent as a cat. Before he could turn, I had him in a sleeper hold. 6 seconds later, he was unconscious. I dragged him into the shadows and zip tied him.
I took his radio. I put the earpiece in. Perimeter check. A voice crackled. Status. I clicked the mic twice. Click. Click. The universal signal for all clear. When you can’t talk. Copy. The voice said. I climbed back up to the roof. I looked down at the brothers. They were working hard, tired, stressed.
It was time to introduce a little fear. I pulled the main breaker. Clunk. The warehouse plunged into total darkness. What the hell? Victor’s voice echoed. Who cut the power? Check the fuse box. Dominic yelled. Flashlight beams started cutting through the dark. Frantic and shaky. I slipped through the open skylight, dropping onto the top of a stack of shipping containers inside the warehouse.
I was 20 ft above them, invisible in the gloom. I picked up a large bolt, a heavy piece of industrial steel I found on the roof and threw it against the far wall. Clang. The flashlight beams all swung toward the noise. Who’s there? Evan shouted. He pulled a gun. A flashy chrome pistol. He held it sideways like a gangster in a movie.
I moved along the tops of the containers, silent. I dropped another bolt on the opposite side. Clang. They spun around again. It’s Mason. Victor hissed. He’s trying to scare us. Mason, get out here, boy. I wasn’t Mason. I located my first target. Kyle. He had drifted away from the group to check the back office. He was alone. I dropped down behind him.
He heard my boots hit the concrete and spun around, shining his light in my face. For a second, all he saw was a figure in black. “Mason?” he asked. I stepped forward and knocked the flashlight out of his hand. It spun across the floor, the beam creating a dizzying strobe effect. “Not Mason,” I whispered. “I didn’t kill him.
” I swept his legs, dropping him hard to the concrete. As he tried to scramble away, I grabbed his right hand, the hand he used to hold Tessa down. I placed it on the concrete floor. I raised my boot. “Crunch!” Kyle screamed. A high piercing sound that cut through the dark warehouse. I vanished back into the shadows before the others could reach him. Kyle. Dominic yelled.
Kyle, where are you? They found him cradling his shattered hand, sobbing on the floor. He’s here. Kyle gasped. It’s Hunter. He’s here. Hunter? Victor sounded unsure. He’s a soldier, not a ghost. He’s in the dark. Kyle screamed. He crushed my hand. The brothers huddled together, their flashlights pointing outward in a circle.
They were terrified. They were the prey now. I watched them from the top of the containers. One down, six to go. And the night was still young. Panic is a virus. It spreads faster than any infection. I watched from the high ground a top a stack of shipping crates as the wolf pack crumbled below me. They were no longer a family.
They were a terrified herd of animals flashing their lights into the darkness, jumping at shadows. Victor was trying to maintain control, but his voice was tight. Stop screaming. Everyone form a perimeter. Watch the doors. He broke my hand. K was still sobbing on the floor, clutching his mangled fingers. He just appeared out of nowhere. He’s a demon. He’s one man.
Victor roared, slapping Kyle across the face to shut him up. One man with a grudge. Grant Ian, check the loading dock. Dominic, Evan, get the guns loaded. We kill him if he steps into the light. I smiled under my mask. If I stepped into the light, I didn’t plan on stepping anywhere they could see me. I watched Grant and Ian move toward the loading dock doors.
They were shoulderto-shoulder, their pistols raised. Their technique was sloppy. They were looking straight ahead, tunnel visioned. They forgot to look up. I moved silently along the metal rafters. The warehouse was old, and the beams were thick with dust, but sturdy. I was directly above them. Ian was shaking. I don’t like this, Grant.
Did you see Kyle’s hand? It looked like hamburger meat. Shut up, Grant hissed. Just find the breaker and turn the lights back on. They reached the door. Grant reached for the handle. I dropped a heavy coil of rope I had found on the catwalk. It hit the ground 10 ft behind them with a loud thump.
Both of them spun around, firing blindly into the dark. Bang! Bang! Bang! Muzzle flashes lit up the warehouse like lightning strikes. They were shooting at nothing. “Hold your fire!” Victor screamed from the center of the room. “You’ll hit the crates.” I used the noise of their gunfire to drop down behind a forklift. I was now on the ground level behind their line of sight.
Grant and Ian were reloading, their hands trembling. I hit him, Grant said, trying to convince himself. I think I saw him fall. You shot a pile of pallets, I said. My voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the echoey warehouse. They froze. Who said that? Ian whispered. I picked up a large wrench from the forklift seat.
I threw it hard, skidding it across the floor to their left. As they turned toward the noise, I moved right. I was on Ian before he could turn back. I didn’t use a knife. I used my elbow, driving it into the solar plexus. The wind left him with a wet wee. He folded in half. I grabbed him by the back of his tactical vest and hurled him into a stack of empty oil drums.
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The crash was deafening. Grant spun around, eyes wild. Ian. He saw me then, just a silhouette in the gloom. He raised his gun. I was faster. I closed the distance in two strides. I grabbed the slide of his pistol, pushing it out of battery so it couldn’t fire. With my other hand, I struck him in the throat. A precise controlled chop to the Vegas nerve.
Grant gagged, his eyes rolling back. He dropped the gun, clutching his neck. I swept his legs and he hit the concrete hard. I leaned over him. That’s two, I whispered. Four to go. I didn’t break their bones this time. I wanted them mobile enough to run back to Daddy. Fear works better when the victims can tell the story.
