Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
We’ve done this a thousand times. It goes like a ballet. Everyone turns and shields their eyes as the flashbang explodes with a deafening roar and a blinding light, and folks start screaming inside. Davide’s already through, gun up and screaming at the people to get on the ground, and I’m right behind him.
The place looks like a call center. Long tables with rows of computers and people with headsets staring at the screens with blank, dull stares, almost bored. There’s a manager’s office in the back, and a whiteboard displays names and numbers, probably some fucking sick competition to see who can steal the most.
Because this isn’t a normal call center.
“On the fucking ground,” I say, wrenching a young man away from his station and slamming him down. I put a knee in his back, my gun against his head, and I scan the area.
“Simon!” Davide shouts, and it’s just in time. I throw myself sideways as gunfire erupts from the corner of the office. There’s a security guard, an old guy in a blue-and-white uniform, and his hands are shaking as he pops off a gun that looks like it’s way too big for his skinny hands. If Davide hadn’t yelled, he might’ve blown off my head.
Instead, he took down a computer monitor, sending glass and sparks shooting into the air, before several of our guys put their own bullets in him. The guard’s blood splatters the wall, painting it red as he slumps down to the ground.
I get to my feet and shrug off my brother. “The manager,” I say through my teeth. One of the workers tries to stand, a middle-aged man with a paunch and bags under his eyes, but I slam the butt of my gun into his mouth, crumpling him to the ground. I barely even pause. Let the old fuck choke on his teeth for all I care.
These people are scum. These are the cretins that stole from Emily’s dad. Maybe not the exact crew, but a group just like them, a bunch of pathetic people willing to do disgusting jobs to earn a little cash. And the worst of them all is the manager, a slick-looking guy in his thirties in a polo shirt and a pair of black slacks. He looks like he spends half his life in the gym, and he’s down on his knees with his hands in the air when I kick open the door to his office.
“Please, we just work for them,” he says, terror in his face as I grab him by his thinning hair and yank him to his feet. I hold the gun against his head. In the other room, Davide’s people have the remaining employees rounded up and standing against the back wall while our tech crew scours the computers, downloading anything that might be useful.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I tell the manager and shove him back into the other room. Davide goes along with me, looking bemused as I kick the back of the manager’s knees and make him face his employees.
Everyone’s staring at me. All of them, including the man with the bloody mouth. They’re horrified, scared for their lives. A couple of women are crying. Let them sob like their victims. I press the gun to the back of the manager’s head.
“You people make me sick,” I say, meeting their gazes. “Each and every one of you deserves a bullet to the brain.”
“No, please don’t,” the manager moans, trembling so hard his head keeps banging up against the barrel of my gun. “I just work for them. I just work for them!”
“For who?” I ask, leaning down to speak right into his ear. “Tell me who you work for.”
“Santoro,” he says, moaning the name. “I work for the Santoro Famiglia!”
Just had to be sure.
I stand back and pull the trigger.
The manager’s head explodes in a shower of brain matter and bone fragments. The workers scream and one of the women pukes on her shoes as the manager’s corpse slumps over to the side.
My men barely pause in what they’re doing.
Davide’s at my side then, pushing my gun down. He gives me a hard look. “That wasn’t part of the plan,” he says quietly.
“Fuck the plan.” I turn away toward the door. “Get the data. Two minutes.” I shove my gun back into its holster and walk out into the cool night air.
Our soldiers are good. We’ve been working them to the bone these last few months ever since things with Santoro’s organization popped off. They filter out of the building one at a time, hurrying to their cars but not running, everyone staying calm and in control. Davide’s the last one out, and he shuts the door behind him.
“The rest of them are fine,” he says as we walk back to the parking lot. He pauses outside of my car. “Why’d you kill the manager?”