The headlights carved blinding paths through the swirling December snow, casting long, fractured shadows across the damp brick walls of the alley. Three matte-black SUVs idled at the curb, their heavy exhaust pluming into the freezing night air like the breath of mechanical beasts.

Glass shattered from the windows above as stray rounds chewed into the brickwork, sending red-hot sparks and brick-dust raining down like toxic snow. I hauled the little girl down into the frozen mud behind the iron chassis of the dumpster, using the heavy metal shield as a barricade against the relentless hail of lead.

"Stay down!" I roared over the deafening cacophony.

Bear didn't run. The half-starved beast planted his front paws over the girl's back, letting out a ferocious, blood-curdling snarl that defied his broken leg and emaciated frame. He was shielding her with his own frail body.

Smart dog. Loyal to the end.

I drew my dual 9mm pistols from their shoulder harnesses. The moment my fingers wrapped around the textured grips, the hesitation of the past twenty years vanished, replaced by the cold, calculated muscle memory of a man who had built an empire on blood and bone.

I didn't look. I didn't aim with my eyes. I fired purely by instinct.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Three precise, echoing reports that cut through the storm.

Across the alley, the operative on the right dropped his weapon, clutching his shoulder as he spun into the brick wall and collapsed into the snow. Another round punched straight through the side mirror of the middle SUV, showering the shooters behind it with diamond-dust shrapnel.

"Flank them! Flush them out!" Vance’s voice shrieked from behind the lead vehicle, panic finally cracking his polished exterior. "Burn the alley down if you have to! I want the girl and I want his head!"

Two men rushed forward, holding submachine guns at waist-height, spraying wild, blind streams of lead toward our position. Chunks of the dumpster peeled away, screaming metal shards tearing past my cheek, leaving a hot trail of crimson across my skin.

I waited. One breath. Two breaths. Let them spend their clips. In a gunfight, the man who shoots last is the man who walks away.

Click. Click.

Their magazines ran dry.

In that microsecond of silence, I vaulted over the top of the dumpster.

Gravity seemed to slow down. I fired twice mid-air. The first bullet took out the throat of the man on the left; the second shattered the kneecap of the man on the right, dropping him like a felled tree into the crimson-stained snow.

I hit the ground rolling, coming up right in front of the third SUV where Vance had taken cover.

Before Vance could re-load his suppressed pistol, I slammed the heavy butt of my gun directly across his jaw.

Crack.

The sickening sound of bone splintering echoed through the alley. Vance screamed, stumbling backward, dropping his weapon as he crashed hard against the cold metal door of his vehicle, spitting a mouthful of blood and broken teeth onto the pristine white snow.

I pressed the cold steel barrel of my gun right between his eyes.

"Checkmate, Vance," I whispered, my chest heaving, blood dripping from a graze on my forehead. "Now. You’re going to tell me where Julian is. And you’re going to tell me why my best friend’s daughter is running for her life from my own syndicate."

Vance gasped for air, his eyes wide with unadulterated terror, staring up at me not as a former boss, but as the grim reaper himself. Blood leaked freely from his split lip, staining his expensive designer collar a deep, bruised crimson.

"You... you think Julian is the victim here?" Vance wheezed out a wet, hysterical laugh, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "You stupid bastard... Julian didn't fake his death to hide from the cops. He faked it to hide from you. And the girl? She isn't just his daughter..."