Chapter 8 - Ambush in the Warehouse
The celebration of the most bizarre alliance in Chicago's underworld was cut brutally short.
Before Julian could signal his men to pack up the equipment, the heavy steel roll-up door at the far end of the loading dock screeched upward with a violent rattle.
Red and blue emergency lights? No. Too quiet, too synchronized.
The harsh glare of high-intensity tactical flashlights cut through the gloom, followed instantly by the deafening sound of automatic gunfire chewing through the corrugated metal walls.
“Ambush! Down! Everybody down!” Viktor roared, drawing his weapon and diving behind a concrete support pillar as a hail of lead shredded the air above them.
“Down, Maisie!” Julian shouted, lunging forward with reflexes honed by a decade of street warfare. He swept the blind girl off her feet, dragging her behind the heavy steel frame of Cyrus’s empty cage just as a barrage of bullets shattered the aluminum briefcase, sending hundred-dollar bills fluttering through the air like green confetti.
Leo screamed, curling into a tight ball behind a stack of wooden pallets as glass shards rained down from the overhead skylights.
“Who is it?” Julian yelled over the deafening roar of gunfire, his pistol already drawn and cocked, his eyes scanning the smoke-filled loading dock.
“It’s Morra’s crew!” Viktor shouted back, firing three rapid shots into the shadows. “They tracked the payout! They want the dog, and they want the territory!”
Dozens of masked figures poured through the loading bay, armed with suppressed submachine guns and wearing heavy ballistic armor. Marco Morra, a ruthless rival capo who had been trying to usurp Julian’s throne for two years, stepped into the dim light of the arena, a cruel grin splitting his scarred face.
“Sorry to crash the party, Hart!” Morra’s voice echoed wickedly across the cavernous room. “Drop your weapons! I’m taking the beast, and I’m taking the cash!”
Julian’s face went deadly pale with a cold, murderous fury. He glanced down. Maisie was huddled against his side, her small hands trembling not from fear of the gunfire, but from the sudden, deafening chaos. Beside her, Cyrus wasn't cowering. The German Shepherd was standing tall, his hackles raised, his lips curled back to reveal razor-sharp teeth glinting in the gunfire flashes. The old terror was gone, replaced by a cold, protective rage.
“Cyrus,” Julian whispered, his voice dangerously low as he looked directly into the dog's amber eyes.
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The German Shepherd locked eyes with the mafia boss, and in that single second of silent communication, a lifetime of hostility dissolved. They weren't master and beast anymore. They were allies defending the same pack.
“Sic 'em,” Julian commanded.
