Chapter 11 - The Meat Grinder
Z
Sparks flew from the steel support beams as a hail of automatic gunfire chewed through the concrete wall behind us. Lorenzo’s men immediately scattered, returning fire with synchronized, disciplined bursts that echoed like thunder inside the hollow warehouse.
"Cover!" Lorenzo roared, diving behind a line of rusted stainless-steel fish troughs.
I dropped low, sliding behind a heavy cast-iron ice generator as a stream of 7.62mm rounds shredded the wood beside my head. Splinters flew into the air like shrapnel.
Above us, on the steel catwalks, six Bratva shooters were raining fire down on our position. I pulled my Sig Sauer, leaned out from behind the iron generator, and fired three controlled shots upward. The first shooter stumbled, his hands flying to his throat, before tumbling over the yellow safety railing and crashing thirty feet onto the concrete floor below.
"Russo! Flank the left stairs!" I shouted over the deafening roar of weapons fire.
Russo and two Philly soldiers moved swiftly, laying down suppressive fire as they charged up the metal staircase leading to the upper gantries.
I didn't stay behind cover. I moved forward, using the heavy machinery as concealment, advancing steadily toward the stairs that led directly to Adrian’s office. A Russian mercenary stepped out from behind a conveyor belt, aiming an AK-47 at my chest. Before he could squeeze the trigger, I closed the distance, grabbed the barrel of his rifle, twisted it upward, and drove the titanium trench knife straight through his neck.
He went limp instantly. I dropped him, grabbed his sidearm, and kept moving.
The warehouse was a chaotic meat grinder of smoke, shouting, and muzzle flashes. Lorenzo’s men were ruthless, systematically clearing the lower floor, pushing the remaining Bratva fighters back toward the harbor exits.
I reached the foot of the wooden stairs leading to the second-floor office. Blood dripped down the steps from a wounded Russian lieutenant who lay unconscious at the top landing.
I kicked open the reinforced door at the top of the stairs.
The office was plush, carpeted, and smelled of expensive cigars and fear. Kazakhov, a massive man with a shaved head and a face covered in prison tattoos, was standing near a desk, frantically trying to clear a jammed automatic pistol.
Beside him, backing toward the rear window overlooking the ocean, was Adrian. His face was white as a sheet, his expensive suit rumpled, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold his own weapon.
Kazakhov looked up, saw me standing in the doorway drenched in water and blood, and let out a guttural curse in Russian. He abandoned his pistol and drew a long hunting knife from his belt, charging at me with the speed of a cornered bear.
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I didn't engage in a knife fight. I raised my Sig Sauer and placed two rounds directly into his chest. Kazakhov’s momentum carried him forward two steps before his legs gave out, and he crashed face-first onto the oriental rug.
Silence descended on the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire below and Adrian’s ragged, terrified breathing.
