About a dozen, maybe fifteen men stepped into the mud. This was not a bunch of roadside punks with bats. These were serious enforcers, carrying pump shotguns and modern rifles.
They moved with some discipline, but they were too relaxed. They thought they were showing up to help their own and collect a profitable score. At the front of the group was a tall, lean man with a scar running down one cheek.
He wore a long leather coat, and underneath it you could clearly make out the shape of a compact rifle. This was Butcher—the right-hand man to the boss Boar had called. In local circles, he was known for being ruthless and short on mercy.
Butcher walked up to Boar’s SUV, kicked the tire, and shouted into the dark. “Boar! Get out here. What’s the holdup? And where’s that bus full of paying customers you bragged about?”
Boar, tied to the tree just outside the beam of the headlights, felt the cold touch of a rifle barrel against the back of his head. The operator hidden behind him in the grass had given the signal. Time to play his part.
“Over here, Vic!” Boar shouted, forcing his voice to carry. “We’re here. Everything’s clear, boys. Driver’s cooperative. Passengers are quiet.”
Hearing the familiar voice, Butcher turned toward the trees, squinting against the glare of his own headlights. He could make out Boar standing there in an odd, stiff posture. Something about it didn’t sit right.
Boar was standing too straight, with his hands held behind him. At first Butcher figured he was just leaning against the tree, tired and annoyed. But the expression on his face looked wrong—tight, strained.
“Why are you standing over there like a fool?” Butcher snapped, taking a cautious step forward. “Bring the driver out here. I want to know why this whole night’s gone sideways.” The other gang members relaxed at the sound of his voice and lowered their weapons.
One lit a cigarette. Another wandered over to the dark bus and kicked the closed door. That was the moment Warren chose to act. From his position ten yards away, he gave one short word into the mic.
In the next instant, the dark clearing exploded with light. Two powerful spotlights mounted on the roof of the old drying shed snapped on at once, blasting the gang full in the face. The men were instantly blinded and disoriented.
Then flash-bangs flew from the brush. A series of deafening blasts shook the clearing, and burning white light wiped out what little night vision the gang had left.
The men who had felt in control one second earlier became a stumbling, panicked crowd. They grabbed at their eyes, dropped weapons, and fell in the mud. The chaos was total—and carefully engineered.
“Special operations! Drop your weapons now!” The command, shouted by dozens of voices, hit harder than the explosions. Black-clad operators emerged from the darkness as if they had grown out of the woods themselves. Red laser dots danced across the chests and foreheads of the stunned gang members.
The few who tried to raise a weapon were immediately hit with precise disabling fire. The snipers on the roof worked with surgical control, taking the fight out of the most aggressive targets. Their suppressed rifles sounded like dry little snaps in the night…
