Chapter 2

The truck idled in the alley behind a different nightclub half-way across the city. A logo for a popular brand of beer was proudly displayed on the sides and even if someone had wandered past the alley, nothing would strike them as unusual about the situation. If this innocent bystander stopped for a longer look and managed to see past the old van carelessly parked at the other end of the alley and down to the beer truck, there was still nothing of note. One door to the truck hung open, and stacked cases of beer were visible inside. All perfectly normal. Except there were no deliveries scheduled today.

Razor stood inside the truck, pressed out of sight against the closed door. Aiming his small submachine gun at the club's metal back door, he took a moment to glance at his watch. This was the most dangerous of the uncontrollable variables. A week of watching had given them the general flow of deliveries, and a quick hop into the club's computers had put solid numbers to their observations. Sam had looped 40 seconds of empty footage from the cameras in the alley before pulling the truck up. As far as the people inside the club knew, the alley was empty. That wouldn't do a thing to stop a bored guard from sneaking a quick cigarette out back.

At least he'd have a warning, Razor thought. Sam was in the cab of the truck, laptop open and displaying the security camera feeds from inside the club. Combined with the floor-plans, they knew the general location of every person that wasn't an honest customer. Which wouldn't help if some bonehead walked out that door and blew the timeline. Razor scowled at the thought and relaxed his grip on the gun, mentally shifting to his internal layout of the building and the path he would take. Just then, his phone buzzed quietly.

Razor tapped the screen and the message from Bossman flashed on the screen. There was no text and there didn't need to be. If the boss sent a message, Delacroix was dead. If the message had come from Noman, Delacroix lived. It didn't matter now. Dropping the phone into a pocket, Razor lowered the silenced MP5 and let it dangle from the quick-release straps as he hopped out of the back of the truck. He picked up the breaching charges from where they had rested behind a case of beer. Moving at a quick trot, he hurried over to the rough-looking door to the club.

A metal plate had been welded over where the handle would normally be and a camera sat above the door. The normal routine had legitimate deliveries being buzzed in, with a couple of toughs watching them and the alley. This was going to be a little different. Razor attached the charges to the door, working with a familiarity born from years of practice and practical experience. As the last section of explosive was attached to the door, his earpiece hissed and Sam's flat voice broke his concentration. "Razor, you've got one hostile headed for the exit. He's got a pack of cigs."

Razor stepped back from the door, pulling out his phone as he took position against the alley wall. He punched a single speed-dial number into the phone. Reaching up with his other hand, he tugged his ballistic mask into place, adjusting it carefully. Placing his thumb on his phone, Razor closed his eyes, leaned his head into his arm, and pressed Send. The sound of the charges on the door was nothing compared to the explosions from the front of the club.

Nobody died. The main bomb was on the roof of the club. It was a shaped charge, directed into the sky, and designed to make a hell of a loud noise with minimal shrapnel. It broke a few windows, set off every car alarm for a couple miles, and shook the nightclub. The ones inside were smoke and tear-gas bombs. Glass shattered, fire alarms and sprinklers went off, and choking clouds of smoke roiled. The front of the building was a carefully designed hell. The back of the building was the real deathtrap.

The timing was perfect. Sam cut the cameras a second after the bomb went off. Now the security guards inside were confused, scared, and blind. Razor didn't have those handicaps. Sam's emotionless voice whispered into his ear as she updated him on the situation. "Hostile by the door is down. Attention is on the front."

Razor brought the MP5 up to his shoulder as he pivoted around the empty door-frame. It was almost unfair. The thug was pinned against the wall by the twisted door, bleeding profusely from his nose and coughing in the dust-filled air. Razor shot him twice in the head. The muffled thumps were quickly swallowed by the thick walls and blaring fire alarms. Clicking the fire selector on his gun to three round burst, Razor stepped deeper into the building.

The eye-searingly bright beam of the tactical flashlight on Razor's MP5 caught the security guard–slash–mobster stepping out of a room. Razor put a burst into his chest and the guard staggered back through the door, crashing to the ground. Sam hadn't seen that one, not that it mattered. Razor's keen instincts had him watching every door and corner. Not every part of the club was covered by cameras, and Razor's final destination led to a deliberate blind spot. Razor shot the guard again, and continued down the hallways, picking up the pace. According to Sam, the chaos at the front of the club was keeping most of the personnel occupied, and no one had noticed the assault from behind. No one that was alive, to be exact. Razor spoke softly, his throat microphone picking up every word. "Hey, Sam. Any sirens?"

She answered immediately. "Nothing yet. A bit of chatter about the blast. Emergency response is still responding to Overlord's work. I'm going to keep jamming outgoing calls for another 30 seconds."

Seconds after the confirmation of Delacroix's death had appeared on their phones, Sam had set off a prerecorded sequence of calls to police. Panicked reports of gunfights, shooting, dead bodies and men with guns running around piled with the handful of real calls had triggered a large emergency response. A response that was half-way across the city from the large explosion that had ripped into the sky minutes ago.

Razor grinned as he hurried down the hallway. "You're still calling him Overlord? Seriously, just use Bossman like the rest of us."

She didn't respond to that. Sam was probably the most serious and focus of them when on a job and certainly wouldn't argue over names in the middle of a op. They had all picked out or (in Bossman's case) gotten stuck with a call-sign of sorts. Work names, usually based on the aliases used when dealing with clients. Noman was a fan of classic mythology–and while it was odd to see a big guy like him reading a well-worn copy of the Odyssey–the name fit. Bojack was lazy and shortened his assumed name of Bob Jackson. Sam was Sam. All Razor knew was that it wasn't short for Samantha. As for Razor, he had–"Razor!"

The voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Two armed hostiles in the room ahead. They're waiting for you."

"Just for me? I'm flattered." Razor slid to a halt and pressed his back against the wall next to the open door. This was the last room before the blind spot. He reached into a pouch."Probably guarding the target. Figures there are at least a couple of people doing their job. What have they got?""Handguns. I can't see the make. No go on if they have armor."

"Doesn't matter if they do." Razor dropped his MP5, letting it hang from the quick-release straps. He pulled the pin on the flashbang grenade and hurled it into the room. A flash of light spilled out and leaked right through his closed eyes, followed with an ear-splitting bang. Inside the confined space of the room, it had been much worse. Razor swept around the doorframe, MP5 leading the way. Only one of the two mobsters was still standing upright. He was also the only one that had retained his gun, and with a remarkable sense of timing for a deaf and blind man, started shooting.

The first bullet buried itself harmlessly in the floor. Razor's gun tracked towards the thug, and the second bullet also smashed into the ground as Razor stitched three holes up the man's torso. The mobster's arm jerked as he fell and one more shot rang out. A hard impact on Razor's mask shook off his aim, and ragged wounds opened in the mobster's throat and cheek as his second burst tore his face to shreds. Razor didn't pause as he smoothly switched targets. Another double-tap to the chest and head of the remaining disoriented gangster sent him crashing to the ground. Razor immediately aimed at the door into the next room. The blind spot. Any hostiles back there had probably heard the shots. He didn't have much time. "Shit. Sam, I think he winged me. Can you see if anyone heard the shots?"