Final Call for Mercy

55

The world was moving too fast like for me to stop any time soon. So, I didn't. The moment I came through the doors of Red Point, I rejected the offer for a shower and, despite the grumbles I received, didn't allow anyone else their much needed rest just yet.

"The moment every report is right here on this desk," I let them know, "you will all be allowed the rest of the day off. Now, get working."

I didn't stop to rest. My own report had to be made. And I decided to juggle helping with that, while also taking inventory of the weapons we had and an estimate of how to spread the men we had left around our properties. I already knew we had suffered great losses. Only the fact that our wins were greater kept me from feeling dejected.

The warehouse bustles with movement as the dead bodies of our men are brought to the back. Most don't have families, their jobs here being the only lives they had, so I send them out back to be cremated. At the end of the night, in the dark of the moon, we say a proper goodbye. Until then, we don't stop.

The warehouse is still recovering from the attack. The Eyes have been juggling the pressure I put on them, making the security systems even better than before, and searching up all the information I have asked of them. I don't even feel sorry. Anyone who fails me dies. I don't give second chances anymore.

Sometime around nine p.m, I was informed of the last attack outside Italy. Success, like most had been. So far, out of all of them, only two had failed. 

"I want someone to make sure not a single person survived," I order Diego. "If the attacks failed, make sure it's because every one of ours is dead. And if they aren't, they die. They're compromised for all we know."

Diego did a double take before nodding, confirming to me that he'd get on that immediately. He, too, has felt the pressure on his back now that Elijah is away. He hasn't dared to ask why he isn't here. I seriously hope he doesn't fold on me, or I'll be faced with the annoying task of replacing him after I get rid of him.

"So far," I speak to no one in particular after Diego sets off to carry out his task, "how many are dead in Italy alone?"

A dark, curly haired woman comes forward, holding a paper list in her hands. "Uh, so far...in Italy, there are...236," she quipped the end, glasses bouncing on the tip of her nose when she whipped her head back to look at me. 

I held my breath. That was a lot of dead men. 

"And how many in my lead attack alone?"

She looked down again before answering, "forty-three, ma'am."

Fuck. Forty-three.

"The entire front line died, ma'am. Two snipers were shot down and seventeen from your other lines were also killed."

I nodded, feeling the weight of all those dead threatening to pull me down. "Thank you. Are all the reports done?"

"Yours is finalized, Boss," Carlos, one of the men Elijah trusts, says from his seat at the big, round table by the corner of the room. He sits with eleven others, all working on the Italy reports. "Most are on the finishing touches and only one is being started right now."

"Great. I'll have someone bring you all something to eat while you work. This'll be a long night."

"How about a shower, Boss?" One man called out from the ground, where they were helping me work out the new inventory. Maps of our properties scattered over the ground and lists with red marks and tallies sat on their laps.

I scoffed, leaning forward to grab the ringing phone. "I have pieces of flesh in my hair and I'm not complaining. If I have to stink like a butcher shop, you bunch will come for the ride."