There’s no squeal of tires outside, no revving of high-performance engines, no shouting to mark Vane’s departure.
There’s only the silent, absolute efficiency of men who arrive in expensive suits, smoothly perform a lethal liquidation, and disappear back into the upper-tier underworld before the dust has even settled on the concrete floor.
The warehouse drops into a heavy, suffocating stillness.
It’s a violent silence, though, ringing in my ears like the aftermath of a proximity blast.
The single hanging bulb overhead sways gently on its frayed wire, casting long, nauseating shadows that rock back and forth across the blood-stained floor.
Three bodies lie sprawled on the floor. To my left, the one guard rests in a grotesque, crumpled heap, his throat opened by two rounds. Near the r
