Boris's pupils contracted slightly. "Our enforcers will take heavy casualties."
"That is exactly the point," Anya said, tracing a finger lightly across his chest. "If Viktor is leading the assault and he dies in the ambush, Anthony loses control of the family's muscle. What do you think the captains who already despise him will say then?"
Boris caught her wrist. "But it bleeds the Tarasovs. It hurts the family's interests--"
"Family interests?" Anya pulled her hand away, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Boris. Viggo is dead. Now his bastard sits in the chair. He has purged his opposition and he cares nothing for us."
She walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a measure of whiskey.
"Once he solidifies his grip, the first people he puts in the ground will be you and me." She turned back. "Your father only knows how to compromise. But you are young. Are you content to live in Anthony's shadow until he decides he doesn't need you anymore?"
Boris stared at his hands. The glass trembled slightly.
"Think about it." Anya walked back and pressed the rim of the glass to his lips. "If this assault fails, Anthony's reputation breaks. The old guard is already furious about his spending. They will demand answers. That is when you step into the light."
"But my father..."
"Your father will mourn," Anya said, her voice smoothing out into something venomous and soft. "But he will understand that Anthony is steering the Tarasovs into the grave. The family will need stability. They will need someone who respects the old rules."
She let the silence hang for a beat.
"What right does a man who cannot even avenge his own father have to lead us? As long as Anthony is at the head of the table, the other syndicates will tear us apart. The Staten Island refinery was only the first bite."
Boris looked at her. He saw the raw ambition in her eyes.
He knew she was using him, and he found he didn't care.
He wanted the seat just as badly.
"How do we contact the Crips?" he asked.
Anya smiled. "You just give me the time, the location, and the numbers."
Boris hesitated for three seconds.
"Tonight. Eleven o'clock. The Paradise Nightclub in Queens. Fifty men, led by Viktor himself."
Anya memorized the details. "Leave the rest to me."
She untied the sash of her nightgown. The dark silk slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the hardwood floor.
Boris looked at her, his eyes burning hotter than the grate in the fireplace.
In the warehouse command center, Sergei walked up to where Anthony stood flipping a High Table gold coin across his knuckles.
"Boss. Deshawn took the deal," Sergei reported. "He's worried about NYPD response times, but I told him we had it handled. He bought it."
Anthony knew there was no need to call the police precincts to buy a blind eye. If Gramont's people were operating in the area, the High Table's invisible gravity would pull the police away automatically. Any 911 call within a five-mile radius would simply vanish into the dispatcher's void. Gramont would ensure the perimeter was sterile better than the Tarasovs ever could.
Anthony nodded, catching the coin mid-flip. "And Nick?"
"Confirmed," Sergei said. "Nick is en route with a twelve-man element from the farms. Two Delta, three SEALs, seven Marines. They swapped the tactical gear for street clothes. Weapons are standard-issue cartel loads to match the profile."
Anthony tossed the coin one last time and pocketed it.
"Since Preston got the tip-off about our strike, Gramont's handlers should be waiting at the nightclub right alongside him."
He checked his watch.
"Tell James and his strike team to wait until the Crips pull their main force out of the nightclub to celebrate. Then let James breach the Lucky Seven Casino."
"Leave Preston alive. I need him. But tear the truth out of his French handlers -- find out exactly where their staging ground is."
"Boss," Sergei asked, "why not just burn the Crips down to the roots tonight?"
Anthony smiled, but his eyes were flat. "We have the firepower, but the Crips aren't the real enemy. Tonight is about amputating the hand that holds their leash. Replenishing our cash flow is just a bonus."
10:55 P.M.
The Paradise Nightclub, Queens.
Viktor spat a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the asphalt. His ribs throbbed fiercely under his ceramic plate carrier.
A 5.56mm round had skipped off his armor the moment he stepped out of the van, the kinetic transfer nearly dropping him. Another of his men hadn't been so lucky -- hit square in the jaw from a second-story firing angle before his boots hit the pavement. A third man had taken a three-round burst to the chest, the impact throwing him backward onto the street.
"You crippled sons of bitches," Viktor snarled into his comms. "Team A, sitrep."
"Three down! Jack's leg is shattered!" The radio cracked with static and panicked breathing. "They had a mounted heavy gun behind the dumpsters! They were waiting for us!"
The alleyway was a chokepoint of intersecting fire.
Short, disciplined bursts of M4 fire chewed through the brickwork and the rusted cars where the Tarasov gunmen huddled. The rhythm of the shots was surgical. This wasn't street thugs spraying wildly into the dark.
Viktor recognized the distinct, suppressed crack of at least two HK416 assault rifles -- standard issue for elite military contractors.
Pavel, Viktor's son and newly appointed lieutenant, huddled beside him behind an engine block. He clutched a bleeding shoulder, his face pale.
"Dad," Pavel gasped. "If Sergei hadn't called... we'd all be dead right now."
"The traitor sold us down the river," Viktor ground out. "Left us standing in the open."
Viktor thought back to the burner phone call from Sergei thirty minutes earlier.
[The plan leaked. They have heavy arms waiting -- M4s, shotguns, maybe RPGs.]
[Play the part. Make noise, take hits, make the retreat look real. But do not push the line. Get the men out alive.]
Viktor slammed his fist into the pavement.
"Team B, pop smoke! Team C, suppressive fire, sixty seconds! Everyone else, fall back on the primary exfil route!"
Three canisters bounced into the alley. Thick gray smoke billowed outward, instantly blinding the choke point. The disciplined fire from the Crips' positions faltered.
In that sixty-second window, the Tarasov gunmen dumped their magazines blindly into the machine gun nest, keeping the enemy heads down.
Silhouettes moved frantically through the smoke. Men grabbed the wounded by the drag handles of their vests and pulled them down the rehearsed retreat path.
Bullets chased them out of the alley, chewing the walls into dust.
One Tarasov shooter stumbled and fell. Viktor roared, lunged back into the open, grabbed the man by his collar, and hauled him the rest of the way, rounds snapping inches from his face.
They scrambled into the waiting vans. The floorboards were already slick with blood.
One dead. Four critical. A dozen wounded.
Before the doors slammed shut, Viktor glanced back down the alley.
Through the thinning smoke, several men in black tactical gear advanced methodically. They moved with tight cornering discipline, checking angles with military precision.
Not gangbangers. Professionals.
"Drive!" Viktor yelled, slamming the door. He keyed his radio. "Sergei. The play is done. One KIA, four critical. We are pulling out."
Simultaneously.
The Lucky Seven Casino (Crips Money Laundering Hub).
BOOM.
The heavy bass of hip-hop and the electronic chime of slot machines shattered in a concussive shockwave.
A block of C4 took the reinforced steel security door completely off its hinges, blowing it inward along with a chunk of the drywall.
Before the dust could settle, three cylindrical canisters bounced across the casino floor, hissing violently.
Thick, acrid white smoke flooded the room in seconds.
Panic erupted. Gamblers screamed, choking and vomiting from the tear gas, surging toward the exits in a blind, trampling crush.
The casino floor dissolved into total chaos. The Crips' security scrambled to draw weapons through the fog.
Aldridge, one of Deshawn's Bloods lieutenants embedded with the strike team, racked the slide of his shotgun and stepped through the breached doorway.
"You want to wear our colors and start a war?" Aldridge roared into the smoke.
"Kill every last one of them."
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