2025-05-02 18:16:35
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231. The Storm
The door to the warehouse banged open, hard enough that everyone inside jumped.Carla spun, gun raised. Boyd was already halfway out of his chair, reaching for his own piece.Then they saw him.Van. He staggered inside. Blood streaked down one temple, jacket torn, eyes wild. Breathing like he’d outrun death itself."Jesus Christ," Carla gasped, lowering her gun."Van—"But he was already collapsing against the wall, sliding down, chest heaving. The door creaked shut behind him, sealing the dark back in.Louisa dropped the flash drive she’d been clutching for hours and ran to him. "Are you—are you hit?"Van waved her off, voice raw. "Not shot. Just… tired of running."Boyd knelt, grabbing his shoulder hard. "Talk to me. What happened? Did the deal go bad?"Van laughed — harsh, bitter, humorless. "Wasn’t a deal. Was a damn execution waiting to happen. Ramos sold me out to Barron’s people. Seven men with guns. All set to take me in — or take me out."Dan groaned from his corner, cradling
230. Midnight Deal
The night swallowed him whole. Van moved like a shadow through the back alleys, boots silent against cracked pavement. No headlights. No noise, just the hush of a city holding its breath.The old mill loomed ahead — dead and forgotten.Rust covered the walls like rot, windows smashed out years ago.But tonight, it was alive again. Lights burned inside. Dim. Yellow. Flickering.Van’s gut clenched, there were too many lights.Too many cars parked just out of sight.He checked his pistol — loaded, safety off.One extra mag in his jacket.Not much.But it would have to do.He stepped through the busted gate, every nerve tight.His contact — Ramos — stood near the loading dock, arms folded, a cigarette glowing in his hand."Van," Ramos greeted, voice rough. Like gravel chewed up in a blender. "You actually came.Didn’t think you had the stones anymore."Van kept his face blank. "Let’s skip the warm-up.You got the guns?"Ramos shrugged. "You got the cash?"Van tossed a duffel bag at his fe
229. Regrouping
The sedan rolled to a stop at the docks, wheels crunching over loose gravel.The old warehouse loomed ahead — rusted, half-abandoned, but still standing.Safehouse Two.For now.Van was the first out, scanning the shadows.Nothing moved but the water lapping against the pilings.It was good... for now.Boyd staggered out next, coughing from the smoke that still clung to his lungs.He looked back at the road, half expecting black SUVs to come roaring around the bend.None yet.But he knew it was only a matter of time. They all did. Inside the warehouse, Carla flicked the light switch. Nothing. It was obvious that power was long dead here.She cursed and grabbed the old lantern from the shelf, sparking weak yellow light into the gloom. "Great. We’re living like rats now," she muttered.Dan slumped against a wall, wincing as he peeled back the bloody cloth from his arm. The wound was deeper than he let on but no one had time to properly check on him yet. Louisa stood frozen in the midd
228. Counterstrike
The first sign came quiet. Too quiet.Carla’s laptop froze mid-search.The screen flickered once, then died.She cursed under her breath, smacking the side."That’s not normal," she muttered.But by the time she turned to call Van, the lights in the safehouse cut out too.Dark.Total dark.Van's instincts snapped awake.He grabbed Boyd by the collar, yanked him back from the window."Down. Now."A second later, the glass exploded inward — a single sniper round carving through where Boyd’s head had been.Dan was already rolling for the back door, weapon drawn.But he barely made it two steps before the walls shuddered — an explosion outside, close enough to rattle the whole building."They're here!" Dan bellowed."Barron's men — they’re hitting us now!"Louisa screamed, clutching the flash drive like it was her last tether to life.Carla grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the back.Her voice was sharp but tight with fear."Move! Go! Go!"Van grabbed the rifle from under the couch — o
227. The Leak
By dawn, the first leak was already live.A small, half-forgotten blog out of Riverside — City Watchdog — dropped the bomb.No flashy headlines. No screaming sirens.Just cold facts: financial records, timestamps, and the name of a sitting state senator wired half a million from one of Barron’s shell companies.No context. No accusation, just enough to light the fuse.Van watched the post go viral in real time.At first, nobody cared. Then, somewhere around seven AM, a bigger account picked it up — a political gossip page with just enough clout to make people squint.By noon, national blogs were calling it "The Slush Fund Scandal."At around two PM, the senator’s office released a frantic denial.That’s when Van knew they’d drawn blood.Boyd let out a bark of laughter when the news hit the TV in the safehouse."Look at them squirm! Man, they thought they were gods. Now they’re crying on camera like school kids who were caught cheating."Dan just grunted, never looking away from the wi
226. The Accountant's Secret
The safehouse smelled like old coffee and fear when Louisa Martin finally showed up.She came alone, wrapped in a cheap raincoat two sizes too big, hair hidden under a beanie.Her eyes darted everywhere — ceiling corners, dark windows, even the cracks in the floor like they might bite her.Van watched her quietly from across the room, arms folded.She looked nothing like the sharp financial shark Keller described.This woman was frayed at the edges, like someone who hadn’t slept properly in months.Keller made the introductions. "Louisa. This is Van. Van — Louisa."Louisa’s voice was brittle as glass. "I know who he is."Her eyes flicked to Van, then away again like looking at him too long might get her killed.Van didn’t bother with small talk, time was blood now. "You worked for Barron, that means you know where the bodies are buried. You talk — I make sure you stay breathing.You stay quiet — and you’ll be next on his list."Louisa’s laugh was short and humorless."Sweetheart, I’ve
225. Next Move
By mid-morning, Van couldn’t step outside without seeing his own face staring back from every screen.Some called him a vigilante.Others spat the word criminal like poison.But the city was buzzing, and Barron’s name was finally dragged through the dirt alongside his own.Van didn’t care about the headlines. He cared about the numbers Carla showed him — accounts traced, shell companies linked, wires exposed like raw nerves.Money. That’s where they would cut next.She tapped the screen, her nail chipped and trembling slightly."See this? Phoenix Holdings. Looks clean on the outside, but dig deeper and it’s washing Barron’s trafficking money through luxury imports. Art, watches, cars—hell, probably gold toilets for his mansion."Van grunted. His mind wasn’t on art.It was on Lenny, still fighting for his life three floors up."You said we could burn him financially. How?"Carla smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked as tired as he felt."We leak it. Quiet first — to the rig
224. First Blood
The attack came at dawn.Silent. Surgical. Cruel.Lenny never saw it coming. He was stepping out of his apartment, headed to meet Van at the old mill, when the van screeched up.Three men in black masks.No words — just steel pipes and fists.Neighbors heard the commotion but kept their doors shut.Everyone knew better. When Barron’s men came calling, you looked away.By the time the van peeled off, Lenny lay in a broken heap, blood pooling beneath his head.His niece’s picture, which he always carried in his pocket, fluttered to the ground, soaked red.★★★Van got the call an hour later.Nora's voice shook."They nearly killed him, Van. Lenny’s in ICU. Skull fractures, broken ribs. They meant to send a message."Van stood frozen in the middle of Keller’s living room, heart pounding like a war drum.Carla looked up from her laptop, face pale."This is escalation. Barron’s going full scorched earth now. If we don’t hit back hard—"Van was already moving.★★★At the hospital, Lenny lay
223. Raising An Army
Van’s phone buzzed just past midnight, it was an unknown number but he answered without hesitation.A familiar voice, rough and low, crackled through."You said if we ever wanted payback, we should call. Well, we’re calling."It was Lenny — an old cellmate from the prison days. A man who’d lost his niece to the same trafficking chain Bianca had just escaped.Van’s chest tightened."Where are you?""Abandoned mill off 43rd Street. And we’re not alone."Van grabbed his jacket and keys.This was the sign he’d been waiting for.★★★The mill was a ruin of rust and cracked windows, but inside, the air was electric.Dozens of faces turned when Van stepped in.Ex-cons, street runners and women with haunted eyes — survivors of Barron’s network.At the front stood Lenny, his massive arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, a thin woman with a scar along her jaw — Nora, who had once testified and then vanished from public sight.Van took it in: a gathering of the discarded and the damned.People
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