BREAK THE HANDLER

Bad Directions

The Watering Hole was quiet for a Tuesday night.

Dante pushed through the back door and scanned the room. Four tables. Two occupied. The bartender, a one-eyed man named Sully, nodded without looking up.

Naomi Chen sat in the corner booth, her back to the wall. She was nursing a glass of whiskey and pretending to read a newspaper.

Dante slid into the seat across from her. "You hung up on me."

"You're alive." She folded the paper. "That's unexpected."

"Webb sent three men to the drop. They killed Danny and Ana."

Naomi's expression didn't change. She was good at that. "I heard. The whole underground is buzzing. Someone put a price on your head."

"How much?"

"Enough that I shouldn't be sitting here."

Dante leaned forward. "You know where Viktor is keeping the prisoners before the transfer."

She hesitated. "I might."

"Tell me."

Naomi took a long drink. "There's a warehouse on the waterfront. Old shipping container facility. Viktor's men are holding them there until the convoy moves."

"That's not what the photograph showed."

"What photograph?"

Dante pulled the picture from his pocket and slid it across the table. "This. The convoy route. Viktor and his sister. It says the transfer happens at the airport."

Naomi studied it. Her jaw tightened. "That's old intel. The route changed yesterday. Webb switched the location to the port."

"Webb told you that?"

"He told everyone. It's standard protocol. Last-minute changes to prevent leaks."

Dante stared at her. Something didn't fit. "Webb never changes the route without consulting me. I'm the cleaner. I clear the path."

"Not this time." Naomi pushed the photo back. "You're out of the loop. Webb cut you loose the moment he decided you were a liability."

Dante pocketed the picture. "Then why are you helping me?"

She looked him in the eye. "Because I owe you. Remember Prague? You saved my life."

He remembered. Two years ago. A deal gone wrong. He'd pulled her out of a burning building.

"Fine." He stood. "Give me the warehouse address."

She wrote it on a napkin. "Be careful. Viktor has at least eight men there. And his sister is running the operation from a command post nearby."

"What's her angle?"

"Sasha wants the prisoners dead, not transferred. Viktor wants the payout. They're working against each other."

Dante took the napkin. "Stay low. If Webb finds out you helped me—"

"He won't." She finished her whiskey. "I'm already dead to him."

He left through the back alley. The address was three miles away, near the industrial docks.

He moved fast, sticking to shadows. Every corner could be a shooter. Every car could be Webb's.

The warehouse was massive, rusted steel and broken windows. Lights glowed from inside. Dante circled to the north side, found a gap in the fence, and slipped through.

He climbed a drainage pipe to the roof. Lay flat. Peered through a skylight.

Below, crates stacked in rows. Two guards at the main entrance. One walking the perimeter. And in the center, a metal cage holding seven figures.

The prisoners.

But something was wrong. They weren't guarded heavily. No interrogation. No paperwork.

Dante counted the guards again. Three visible. That was too few for a high-value hold.

He dropped from the roof, landing silently. He moved behind a crate, weapon drawn.

The perimeter guard walked past. Dante took him down with a choke hold, dragging him into the shadows.

He checked the guard's radio. One channel active. He listened.

"Target is in the building," a voice said. "All units, converge now."

Dante's blood went cold.

The trap snapped.

Lights flooded the warehouse. Armed men poured from every corner. At least fifteen.

Dante dove behind a stack of pallets. Bullets ripped through the wood.

He fired back, dropped two men, and sprinted for the side exit. He kicked the door open and ran.

More shots behind him. He zigzagged through shipping containers, using them for cover.

He reached the fence, vaulted over, and hit the ground running. A bullet grazed his side. He didn't stop.

Three blocks later, he ducked into an abandoned garage and pressed his back against the wall.

His breathing was ragged. His side bled.

Naomi sent him there. She knew it was a trap.

He pulled out his phone. No messages.

He could run. Disappear. Let Webb win.

Or he could go back to the Watering Hole and put a bullet in Naomi's head.

But if she was working for Webb, she'd already be gone. And if she wasn't, killing her meant losing his only lead.

His hand tightened on the grip.

She gave him bad information. Deliberately or not, she'd almost gotten him killed.

The question burned in his skull.

Did he trust her next move—or end her before she could betray him again?

---

Would you trust someone who already sold you out once, if it meant survival?