Chapter 26: The Dogs of Hell — Part 2
The warehouse sat dark against the Hell's Kitchen skyline.
I parked the sedan in the shadow of a condemned building, two hundred feet from the loading dock. Through the windshield, I could see two figures near the warehouse's rear entrance—guards, exactly where Sarah had predicted.
"Alpha in position," I murmured into the radio. "Two hostiles visible at loading dock."
"Bravo in position," Santos responded. "Service entrance is clear. Single padlock, no guards."
"Overwatch copies. Scanner remains clear. You have green light."
I checked my watch. 2159. One minute to the shift change window.
"On my mark," I said. "Execute in sixty seconds."
Bear's breathing was slow, controlled. The stillness had settled over him completely—no more fidgeting, no more weapon checks. He was ready.
The seconds crawled past. I watched the guards at the loading dock, tracking their movements. One was smoking, leaning against the wall with the casual disregard of someone who'd never been attacked. The other stood near the door, hands in his pockets, probably cursing the cold.
"They don't know we're coming. They've never had to know. The Dogs of Hell have operated in this city for years, and no one has ever come for them like this."
"Execute."
We moved.
Bear exited the sedan first, covering the distance to the loading dock with surprising speed for a man his size. I followed, angling toward the shadows along the warehouse's eastern wall.
The smoking guard looked up just as Bear reached him. His cigarette fell from his lips, mouth opening to shout—
Bear's arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off the sound. A quick twist, and the man went limp. Non-lethal. We weren't here to massacre people who surrendered.
The second guard had half a second to react. He reached for his weapon, started to turn—
My suppressed Glock coughed twice. Center mass. He dropped without a sound.
"One down. One incapacitated. Six to eight remaining."
"Loading dock clear," I reported. "Two hostiles neutralized. Moving to breach."
"Bravo breaching service entrance now." Santos's voice, followed by a distant metallic clang—the padlock being cut.
Bear positioned himself beside the loading dock door. I stacked on the opposite side, breaching tool in hand.
"Three. Two. One."
I swung the tool. The door's lock shattered. Bear drove through the opening, AR-15 up and scanning.
The interior was darker than I'd expected—industrial lighting flickering overhead, casting irregular shadows across rows of abandoned equipment. The smell hit me immediately: old blood, sweat, fear. The smell of a place where terrible things happened.
Movement to the left.
Bear pivoted, tracking the motion. A guard stumbled out of what looked like a break room, coffee cup in hand, eyes going wide as he processed the armed intruders.
"Don't—" he started.
The AR-15 spoke once. The guard collapsed.
"Suppressor would have been better. They know we're here now."
"Contact front," Bear reported. "Proceeding to—"
Shouts echoed through the warehouse. The element of surprise had died with that gunshot.
"Go loud," I ordered. "Clear to weapons free."
The next thirty seconds were chaos.
Two guards emerged from a hallway to our right, shotguns raised. I dropped behind a rusted conveyor belt as buckshot tore through the air where I'd been standing. Bear returned fire, driving them back around the corner.
"Moving to flank," I called. "Keep them pinned."
Bear's AR-15 hammered out three-round bursts, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. I circled left, using the industrial equipment for cover, working my way toward the hallway.
A guard popped out to take a shot at Bear. I put two rounds in his chest before he could pull the trigger.
Four down. Four to six remaining.
"Santos, status?"
"Basement clear. Two hostiles neutralized. Moving to support Alpha."
"Copy. Converge on ground floor."
I reached the hallway. The remaining guards had fallen back toward the front of the building—I could hear them shouting, coordinating, dragging furniture to create barricades.
And beneath their voices, another sound.
Crying. Muffled, desperate. Coming from somewhere above us.
"The victims. Second floor."
"Bear, I'm pushing for the stairs. Cover me."
"Copy."
I moved down the hallway, checking corners, weapon up. The stairs were at the far end—a metal staircase that led to the second floor.
Between me and the stairs: an open area where the remaining guards had fortified.
I pressed against the wall, assessing. Three guards visible, crouched behind overturned tables and crates. One had the AR-15 we'd identified in surveillance—their heavy weapon.
"Overwatch, need a distraction."
Wire's voice came back immediately. "Cutting their cell signals now. Might cause confusion."
Three seconds later, one of the guards pulled out his phone, staring at the screen. "Signal's gone. Someone's jamming us."
"Forget the phones! Watch the—"
Bear's rifle erupted from behind me, rounds punching through the makeshift barricade. The guards ducked, returning fire blind.
I moved.
The distance to the stairs was maybe forty feet. I covered it in a dead sprint, firing as I ran, not aiming to kill but to suppress. Rounds sparked off metal, thudded into wood, sent the guards diving for cover.
I hit the stairs at full speed, taking them two at a time.
Behind me, the firefight continued. Bear's measured bursts. The guards' panicked return fire. Santos's voice joining the chaos—"Bravo engaging from the east corridor."
The second floor landing. A hallway stretched ahead, doors on both sides. At the end: a heavy steel door with a padlock.
And through that door, the crying grew louder.
"Almost there. Almost—"
A guard emerged from one of the side rooms, pistol raised.
We fired simultaneously.
His round went wide, punching through the wall beside my head. Mine caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around. A second shot dropped him.
I kept moving. The steel door was ten feet away. Five feet.
The padlock was industrial grade. I raised my boot.
"Bear, status?"
"Three down up here. One rabbit—he's running."
"Wire?"
"Tracking the runner. He's heading east on foot." A pause. "Santos?"
"I've got him." Santos's voice, cold and professional. A distant impact, barely audible through the radio. "Runner's neutralized."
The holding area door stood before me. Behind it: twelve people who needed to be rescued.
I kicked.
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