Upon seeing Ethan reappear on the monitor, Baz and the others ran to the car door, quickly going down toward the alley. Craig was holding a bulletproof vest. Deran carried on his back Ethan's rifle and his glock, everyone attentive to their earpieces, while they waited for a siganl.
The alley was drowned in shadows, barely lit by the intermittent flicker of an old neon sign buzzing above an abandoned store. The alley smelled of urine and rotten trash. Craig moved forward first, weapon already ready, his silencer glimmering faintly under the bluish light.
Baz and Deran followed closely, stepping over the dark puddles without making a sound.
There, under the rusty fire escape, two silhouettes were waiting, two men smoking a cigarette as they laughed between themselves. One smoked, the red ember of his cigarette drawing circles in the gloom. The other held a rifle, alert but distracted, with his gaze fixed toward the street.
Craig raised his hand, signal to stop. His partners pressed against the wall. Calmly, Craig leaned just slightly, watching the angle. Baz adjusted his Glock and nodded, ready. Deran, more nervous but with sharp eyes, drew and waited for the sign.
The guard's cigarette glowed one last time. Then, Craig lowered two fingers: fire.
Three mute flashes shattered the darkness.
—Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.—
The bullets tore through the silence. The first one fell backward, his cigarette rolling on the ground and dying out in a greasy puddle. The second barely managed to turn, eyes wide open, before a clean shot in the forehead threw him against the wall, leaving a dark trail as he slid down to the floor.
Baz exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon.
—In position, we're going up.
Craig stepped forward, checking the bodies to make sure they were dead. Deran, still with his pulse racing, holstered his gun again, but couldn't help looking upward, toward the fire escape that shook slightly with the night breeze, as he followed behind his brothers.
In the van by the monitors, Job and Smurf nervously watched the surveillance footage. Ethan staggered down the hall until he reached the door.
—Ethan, it's your turn the guys are in position.—shouted Job through the mic.
The hallway was empty, at the end, the heavy metal exit door glowed with its green fluorescent sign: EXIT. In front of it, two armed men were guarding it, rifles hanging from their chests and a bored expression on their faces.
Ethan appeared staggering from the corner of the hall. His shirt unbuttoned, hair messy and eyes half closed, like a lost tourist in the middle of a drunk night. He dragged his feet, mumbling something incomprehensible in English, while one hand leaned against the wall to not fall.
The guards watched him and laughed quietly.
—Look at that, cabrón… —said one, spitting to the side—. Another drunk gringo looking for a bathroom.
—Your turn, pendejo, get him out of here, he doesn't even know where he is —answered the other, lowering his rifle a bit.
Ethan smiled clumsily, getting closer as if he was going to ask for the exit. When he was close enough, the mask fell. His movements transformed into a lethal lightning strike.
With a dry blow, he stabbed the stir stick straight into the throat of the first one. The metal sank into the trachea, and the guard let out a choking sound, clutching his neck as he collapsed against the wall.
The second barely managed to lift his weapon, but Ethan was already on him. With his left hand he grabbed the pistol's slide, blocking the striker before he could fire. The sicario tried to fight back, but Ethan twisted his wrist violently, forcing him to let out a muffled grunt as he dragged him against the wall.
In the other hand, cold and firm, he carried the metal stirrer. Without hesitation, he stabbed it straight into the guard's eye with a dry move. The man screamed, the pistol fell to the floor, and Ethan twisted the improvised weapon inside the cavity, pushing it until the body shook and went rigid.
The guard slowly collapsed, leaving a dark trail on the wall. Ethan, unshaken, pulled out the bloodied stick and took a deep breath.
The hallway was silent again, except for the electric buzz of the exit sign.
Calmly, Ethan brushed off his shirt, picked up the pistol from the first guard, and approached the door to open it. On the alley stairs Baz, Craig and Deran were waiting for him.
The side door of the building opened just a few inches. Baz took a quick glance inside, making sure it was clear, and nodded. One by one they went into the place, their steps muffled by the bare concrete and the gloom that smelled of sweat and rusty metal.
—Let's go, we got five minutes—he whispered, looking at Ethan.
Baz was the first to move, pulling out a black tactical vest. The heavy, stiff material creaked as he unfolded it. He held it for Ethan, who put it on unhurriedly, tightening the straps on the sides until it fit against his torso. The "click" of the buckles echoed like a sentence.
Deran pulled out the pistol next, a Glock with a silencer already attached. He handed it over.
Ethan checked the weapon calmly, pulled the slide, checked the magazine and secured it in his side holster.
Finally, Craig lifted the rifle. A black AR-15, compact, with a full mag and the strap ready. He passed it to Ethan, who took it naturally. He checked the chamber, flicked the safety and loaded the gun with a dry slam. The metallic echo filled the silent hallway.
Ethan tightened his gloves, breathed deep and raised the rifle. His cold gaze set on the door that led to the heart of the building.
—Time to work —he muttered.
Baz barely smiled. Craig nodded silently. Deran swallowed hard, nervous, but ready.
Smurf sighed while watching the screans, patted Job on the shoulder, crouched down and sat behind the wheel.
The three moved calmly toward the hallway, to block the soundproof doors of the second floor with the two vending machines.
—Guys, you gotta hurry. Time is running.
—I know —said Ethan quickly, as he led the charge upstairs.
When they reached the iron door of the third floor, Job unlocked the switch and the red light turned green at once. With a click, the door burst open.
Deran, as planned, remained at the door.
On the surveilance camera, Ethan and his three partners had already rushed up to the third floor, fully armed.
Job looked at the notebook in his hand and said quickly:
—First room to the left, two people.
Ethan turned the knob of the door and inside, two men were watching the security monitors.
Puff, puff, puff!
Two bullets in the chest and another in the head. The shots painted the screens red.
Job's tampered footage kept playing.
—Now go in. Turn left, the second room. There's a lot of people there. Be careful —Job continued.
—Roger that —Ethan replied calmly, closing the door.
Ethan put his pistol in the pocket of the bulletproof vest, grabbed his rifle, pressed the butt against his shoulder and adopted a combat stance, advancing in short steps.
Baz and Craig exchanged a look and quickly followed Ethan's moves, they were astonished and scared that a guy like him could be so lethal, he looked like a Navy SEAL out of an action movie.
They didn't even have the chance to shoot.
At first they thought Ethan was going to slow them down in this operation, but now it seemed the opposite. They walked fast toward where Job had indicated. Ethan stopped in front of the door, aimed at it with the gun and waved his hand.
When it came to robbing, Baz and his friends were professionals. But in this kind of thing, not even two of them could be a match for Ethan. Without realizing it, he had taken command.
Following Ethan's instructions, Craig approached the wooden door. He breathed deep, grabbed the knob and turned it carefully. Luckily, there wasn't a lock either.
Just when Craig cracked the door open, a red light blinked over the hallway.
As it blinked, suddenly a piercing alarm blared.
—You got four minutes let's move fast.—Job's voice continued, enjoying the moment. With the help of the cameras, he felt like a god.
Bang!
Ethan didn't hesitate at the sound of the alarm. With a hard kick he smashed the door and went in shooting. The thud of the silencer mixed with the metallic echo of the place. It was the cocaine packaging area. Five or six men were working there, surrounded by tables covered in white powder and plastic wraps.
The sound of the alarm froze them just a second. Then, chaos. Some stepped back instinctively, but the quickest ran to a nearby table, where a dozen AK-47s rested ready to use.
They never touched them. The door burst open and the storm was already inside.
Da da da. Da da da. Da da da.
Ethan rushed into the room, pressing the trigger hard, and the mouth of the gun spewed a cloud of flames. As he moved, clouds of blood exploded all over the room.
—Done —he answered calmly, turned around and walked out of the room, leaving only the bodies of the Mexican gangsters on the ground.
Baz looked at the shotgun, still unloaded, and his eyes tightened.
At that moment, Craig froze. He looked at the blocks of pure cocaine piled on the table, and his whole body seemed to sink into them.
—Craig, wake up! Move damn it!—Job noticed in time and shouted quickly.
The shouts startled Ethan and Baz too. As they turned around, they found Craig still standing toward the door, about four or five meters from them.
Craig woke up right away and ran toward them.
Baz slapped him on the head and cursed:
—Shit! you with us or not?
—Sorry —Craig apologized quickly—
On the fourth floor, in a luxurious office, El skinny threw his fine Cuban cigar to the floor, and the scar on his face turned red. He only realized they had hacked him after a call from his men, telling him the doors on the second floor were blocked and nobody could come up.
El Flaco slammed the table in rage, sending up a puff of white powder that covered it. The echo of the alarm was driving him mad.
—Kill them all, cabrones! —he roared with a torn voice, pointing at the door where the gunfire thundered. His men didn't hesitate: several rushed for the weapons, loading AK-47s and shotguns with trembling hands, others grabbed pistols hidden under the drug packages.
With a frantic gesture, El Flaco raised a curved dagger that rested on the table. He plunged it into the white powder and with a quick move scraped up a thick line of cocaine on the blade. Without hesitation, he brought it to his nose and inhaled hard, snorting like a beast.
The effect was immediate. His pupils dilated until they almost devoured his eyes. Sweat burst on his forehead and his veins bulged like tight ropes under the skin. A twisted smile spread on his face as he slammed the table with an open palm, overflowing with frenetic energy.
—Come on, sons of bitches! I want their heads hanging on this table! —he bellowed, spitting saliva while waving the dagger in the air.
His men, emboldened by the leader's fury, scattered through the warehouse like a hungry pack, ready to hurl themselves at Baz, Craig and Deran.
Suddenly, his eyes fell on a wooden box resting on the table. He pulled it closer with a slap and lifted the lid with reverent slowness. Inside, lay a golden Colt M1911.
On the ivory white grips, small silver skulls were engraved in relief, with intricate details that seemed to mock you from the shadows. Along the side of the slide, in gothic letters, the phrase was carved: "I live for blood."
El Flaco took it with both hands, caressing the shining metal, and smiled with clenched teeth. Fury burned in his eyes, his breath was a growl. He raised the gun, spun it in his palm and slammed the mag in with a metallic click that echoed in the warehouse.
—Now yes… —he muttered with a raspy voice, raising the gun—. Let's dance, cabrones.
—Hold up, guys —Job's voice intervened—. Two men just came out of El skinny's office on the fourth floor, armed with aks…
—They're banging the door, calling for help. Be careful.
—Alright, keep me updated —Ethan replied, shaking his head as he looked at Baz.
It wasn't time to curse; there were still armed men upstairs. They went back the same route. From their observations of the past days, the other rooms were empty, probably storages.
—Four men coming down, armed with AKs and Uzis. Be careful, you'll meet them soon.
Despite El Skinny's men's extreme caution, moving with muffled steps over the carpet, their efforts were a joke compared to Job's vigilance. From his spot, Job tracked and transmitted each of their moves in real time, turning the mission into a board where Ethan always had the advantage.
Baz kept his shotgun steady, aiming at the hallway, ready to fire mercilessly at the first sign.
At the foot of the hallway, two Mexican thugs hunched cautiously. One of them, seeing the three guns pointed at him, felt a wet stain on his pants.
Bang!
Baz pulled the trigger, the shotgun burst in flames and the man was thrown against the wall.
Ethan, who had already set his rifle in auto mode, rushed out and squeezed the trigger, emptying the mag in a split second. Craig strode forward, his submachine gun firing non stop.
For an instant, heavy gunfire thundered through the building.
Smurf poked his head out of the van window. The staircase was right above, and the movement was especially noticeable. The sound of the shots roared and the flashes lit up the windows.
The shooting came with great force and vanished just as fast.
In just two or three seconds, the noise ceased.
Four bodies had already dropped, Ethan and the Codys walked among shells and rivers of blood from several sicarios riddled with bullets.
Ethan lowered his rifle and drew his Glock.
—Two more in the hallway —Job's voice rang through the earpieces—. They got scared by your noise and are arguing. Hurry up!
Ethan quickened his pace immediately and rushed up the stairs, in just two or three quick moves, like an agile monkey, disappearing around the corner.
—Shit! —Craig, shocked by his explosive power, cursed under his breath while running up—. Is this guy even human?
Ethan advanced through the hallway, senses sharpened to the max. He reached the corner and pressed against the wall, controlling his breath and tracking the enemies' path.
With a quick gesture, he signaled Baz and Craig to spread out on their side of the hall. Every move of his was calculated, every shadow an opportunity.
Peeking around the corner, he saw two gangsters armed with submachine guns blocking the route. Without hesitation, Ethan rolled forward and fired from the hip:
—Bang! Bang!
Two bullets found their marks: the first staggered and fell, the SMG rolling on the floor; the second tried to turn, but Ethan had already anticipated. He slid sideways against the wall, firing another two precise shots into the man's knee and shoulder, dropping him and dragging dust and debris with him.
Ethan used the corner cover to reload quickly and adjust the Glock. Each shot was exact, each movement fluid. The gangsters barely had time to react before the next blow hit them.
Baz and Craig advanced behind him, watching how the enemies tried to retreat toward the other corner, seeking cover. But Ethan was already there, anticipating each step. Two more shots and the men dropped with no chance to rise. The wall was scarred with bullet holes.
Ethan stayed crouched, Glock firm, breath steady.
Craig was a little confused. He stretched his fingers to count how many people Ethan had killed in the last minutes.
—What are you doing, stupid? —Baz pulled him down and crouched like Ethan.
—Job, anything we should know? —Ethan's focus was locked on the office door at the end of the hallway.
—Two minutes —Job checked his watch and said gravely— No surveillance cameras in this office. From now on, you'll be alone.
Job turned his eyes to another part of the screen. At the iron gate, Deran was nervously watching up and down.
He cleared his throat again.
—Deran, do your job. Watch the people on the second floor.
—Don't worry about the first. They can't get in.
Job shrugged, watching through the camera the soundproof door swaying slightly. Two machines, each more than 500 pounds, stacked against the door, wouldn't be easy to push.
On the third floor, Ethan and his partners went silent.
At the end of the hallway was their destiny. Yet there was an unsettling silence, not a single sound. Ethan couldn't believe the people inside hadn't heard the shots approaching.
Surely, they were fighting for their lives; this was often the most dangerous moment. After hesitating about ten seconds, Craig clenched his teeth and stood up.
Baz understood. He and Craig had only killed three men together, and letting Ethan keep pushing ahead was a shame for their family. He patted Craig's thigh and gave him a thumbs up.
Ethan didn't say a word.
The three moved in a triangle formation, with Craig leading and Baz and Ethan covering the flanks. Each step thundered in the narrow hallway, the echo of boots mixing with the tension in the air.
About seven meters from the door, Craig stopped cold.
Inside, El skinny's eyes narrowed like a predator sensing danger. He hunched behind his desk, grinding his teeth.
—Come on, shoot, sons of bitches! —he roared furiously.
His two sicarios rushed forward and opened fire.The hallway exploded in a deafening roar.
Ratatatatatata!
The rain of lead shredded the air. Wood cracked, walls splintered and the hall turned into a hell of smoke and gunpowder.
—Bang! Bang!
The answering shots cut the burst. A muffled groan echoed. Ethan took a hit in the chest, stumbling half a step back, but straightened with a grunt, jaw clenched.
He took a deep breath and moved forward. His eyes caught a shadow moving behind the old carved door, barely visible.
—Fire! —shouted Baz with a broken voice.
El Skinny shuddered. The next burst shook the office like a contained thunder. The mobster drew his Colt, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. But soon, his last men fell to the floor, dead.
With a roar, Craig charged against the door.
Crash!
The splintered wood flew inward, scattering fragments across the office.
Inside, El Skinny emerged with his scarred face twisted, his arm bleeding. He lunged desperately toward the fallen pistol.
—Bang!
Ethan fired without thinking. The bullet pierced his thigh.
El Skinny rolled over, letting out a roar of rage and pain. Ethan advanced calmly, kicked the gun away, and swept the room with the barrel, making sure there were no more threats.
Only silence.
Ethan lowered the weapon and exhaled.
—Clear.
Craig came in limping, leaning on Baz. He collapsed into a chair, blood soaking through his pants. He tore off his mask, revealing a face drenched in sweat and pain, though his eyes still burned with determination.
Baz and Ethan lifted the enemy and forced him into another chair.El Skinny panted, teeth clenched, the scar twisting into a grotesque grimace.
Shhk!
Baz pulled out a dagger and sank it into his thigh with brutality.
—Where's the money and the safe?
Ethan held him down firmly, immobilizing him. El Skinny spat blood, the scar as red as if it bled on its own.
Baz pressed the blade against his neck.
—You're tough, I get it… but listen closely —his voice dropped to an icy tone—. I'm a thief, not a killer. If you tell me the truth… I'll let you live.
El Skinny stared at him with burning eyes, breathing heavily. Finally, he nodded.
Baz stood up. With a swift movement, he ripped a large painting from the wall. The frame crashed loudly to the floor. Behind it, a huge safe appeared.
Baz rose slowly, as if savoring every second of silence. His footsteps echoed across the wooden floor as he made his way toward an old built-in closet tucked into the corner of the room. At first glance, it looked like a forgotten piece of furniture, the kind no one would bother to open twice, but when he slid the creaking door aside, it revealed a tall, heavy steel safe, with reinforced hinges and a weighty dial that gleamed under the dim light.