The Moscow warehouse was freezing cold, the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood and gun oil. Endrit stood motionless in the center of the chaos, black coat flapping in the draft from the shattered windows.
Three surviving members of the Voronov gang knelt before him, beaten, bleeding, begging for their lives. Normally, he would have listened. Calculated. Turned their betrayal into profit or leverage. But tonight, logic was gone.
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