My men pour through the smoke. Filing through the open gate and fanning out to the sides.
I signal to my three best shooters. “Up.”
They nod and rush around the plane, climbing up the stairs, and onto the wing, before laying themselves out on top of the fuselage.
This isn’t their first time. They know to shoot anything that moves.
The front door, approximately one hundred yards from the plane, opens. But before Mikhail’s men can squeeze off even one shot, they drop.
Sharpshooter headshots.
The pace of the swarm increases, and we close on the house.
My gun is at my side.
This part isn’t for me. This is when my men get their payback for the three we lost.
They want their pound of flesh, and they’re gonna take it. Tenfold.
King enters the building just ahead of me. His motherfucking rocket launcher discarded somewhere in the yard; his pistol held at the ready.
He breaks off with the men as they part into teams. They might not know him, but they don’t need to. He just proved he’s one of us now.
A trio of men walk ahead of me. One takes a bullet to the leg but stays standing as they mow down the opposition.
The carnage is satisfying. The pools of blood reminding me that I’m in control. That this is my operation. And that I’m going to be successful.
Inhaling a lungful of gunpowder smoke, I tip my head back and roar, “MIKHAIL!”
