Shadows of Loyalty

Bullets shattered the back glass of the Navigator, showering us in glittering safety shards.

“Down!” Roman shouted, throwing his entire body over mine and pinning me to the floor of the vehicle.

The sound was deafening—automatic rifle fire ripping through the steel doors. Our driver drew a Glock, kicking his door open to return fire, but was cut down instantly, collapsing into the wet asphalt.

Roman didn't panic. His breathing remained rhythmic, cold, calculated. He pulled a compact submachine gun from beneath the floorboard compartment, racked the slide, and looked directly into my eyes.

“Tessa, look at me.”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“When I say run, you sprint toward the administrative office behind that red container. Don't look back. Don't stop. Do you understand me?”

“Roman, they're everywhere!”

“They want me, not you,” he said grimly. “On three. One... two... three!”

Roman kicked open his side door, rolling out into the rain while firing controlled, lethal bursts into the catwalks above. Two snipers plummeted from the scaffolding, their weapons clattering against the metal containers.

I scrambled out the opposite door, staying low, boots slipping on the slick dock. Gunfire cracked behind me, ricocheting off corrugated steel. I sprinted toward the administrative office, my lungs screaming for air.

Through the rain, a figure stepped out from the gap between two stacked containers, blocking my path.

He wore a dark tactical jacket. A jagged scar ran from his ear to the corner of his lip.

Julian Vance.

He leveled a suppressed pistol straight at my forehead.

“Long time no see, little girl,” Julian said, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You’ve grown up since that rainy night on Fourth Street.”

I froze, terror locking my joints. “You ruined my brother’s life.”

“Your brother was an unlucky bystander,” Julian sneered, taking a step closer. “Just like you’re about to be. Moretti sends his regards.”

A deafening shot echoed across the dock. Julian’s left shoulder jerked backward, blood spraying against the container behind him. He spun, firing blindly into the fog as Roman emerged from the mist like a wraith, his weapon smoking.

Julian cursed, clutching his ruined shoulder, and dove behind a forklift, disappearing into the labyrinth of shipping crates before Roman could line up a second shot.

Roman reached me in two strides, grabbing my arm to pull me behind cover. He was breathing heavily, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He checked me over with frantic, rough hands.

“Are you hit? Tessa, did he hit you?”

“I’m fine,” I gasped, shaking uncontrollably. “I’m okay. Roman, Carlo wasn't in the convoy. Where was Carlo?”

Roman’s eyes turned to flint. He pulled a radio from his vest, switching to the secure family channel. The frequency was dead static.

Carlo hadn't ridden in our convoy. He had claimed he was taking the second security car from the Queens warehouse to meet us here.