Page 77 of Forced By the Bratva

“Do you recognize any of them?” Iris asked me, her voice low.

“No.”

The courier said something, gesturing toward the crates stacked near the truck. One of the men nodded, checking his watch.

“Boris, hold position,” I said into the radio. “Wait for the exchange to finish.”

Static answered back.

“Boris?” Suspicion crept into my gaze.

A shout came from the far side of the lot. One of Boris’s men, pinned behind a stack of pallets, had been spotted.

“Shit.”

Everything broke at once.

Muzzle flashes lit the dark.

“Get down.” I shoved Iris’s head down against the seat.

I was out the door in an instant, ducking behind the vehicle as rounds punched into the metal beside me.

Boris and Yuri were already moving, spreading out and drawing fire away from each other. I fired over the hood, taking down one man near the truck and another diving for cover behind a forklift.

The unidentified crew broke first, sprinting for their vehicles, engines roaring to life through the chaos. The courier went down hard, clipped by a stray round, the package he’d been carrying skidding across the concrete.

“Boris, the package!”

He didn’t hear me. He was pinned, trading fire with two men behind a dumpster. Yuri was worse off, three of them closing on his position.

I couldn’t get to it either. Three men broke off toward me, forcing me into cover behind the hood as bullets sparked off the metal inches from my face.

Movement caught my eye.

Iris.

She was already out of the car, running low, head down, straight through the open ground toward the package.

“Iris, get back in the car!”

She didn’t stop.

The courier, bleeding out on the ground, grabbed her ankle as she reached him. She went down hard for a second, then twisted and drove her heel into his face. His grip broke.

She snatched the package off the concrete and ran.

“Got it!” She dove back into the car, slamming the door.

I put down the last man in front of me with two center-mass shots and sprinted for the driver’s seat. Without hesitation, I started the engine and drove off, tires kicking up a cloud of dust.

My men were already in their cars, engines revving as we fled the scene, headlights cutting through the smoke and darkness.

More vehicles chased after us, rounds being fired.

“Split up,” I said into the radio, tires screaming as I pulled out. “Different directions. Don’t let them track which car has the package.”

“Copy that, Boss,” Boris said.