Dinner on Friday

33. Dante

BULLSHIT VIEWS

The hangar, a relic of some forgotten industrial era, stood isolated on the outskirts of the city, shrouded in shadows. Dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the entrance.

We were close enough that I could smell the scent of motor oil and damp concrete in the air. We had trekked the last fifteen minutes on foot so as not to alert Mathias of our presence.

Dressed in all black, the group of men with me were hardly visible in the dark.

As I surveyed our surroundings, I counted the guards stationed strategically around the hangar. They were a formidable force, a visible show of Mathias's determination.

Their numbers seemed overwhelming, but I took solace in the quality of the men standing alongside me-Vlad, Schipper, Bruce, and Annabella's men were well-seasoned in battle.

Bruce pointed to my right and I nodded, moving in on the guard closest to me. I kept my footsteps light on purpose. Unsheating my switchblade, I loomed behind the unsuspecting guard.

The wind changed direction and he became aware of my presence. Before he could react, my blade was at his throat. The cut was clean, deep, and efficient.

His limbs surrendered to all the dead weight and he dropped at my feet like a puppet with its strings cut.

Around me, more guards were dropping like flies as we closed in on the hangar. Bruce worked fast and quietly. Vlad was more calculated but just as lethal. Schipper moved like an arrow through water, slow but precise. He never missed a target.

When we thought we were through with the guards on the outside, bullets rained down from above. One of Annabella's men took a hit, his shout of agony loud in the quiet night. His shout was followed by Schipper's harrowing grunt.

With my survival instincts on high, I ran toward the large metal roll-up door of the hanger. A train of bullets chased me, hitting the concrete floor like asteroids, narrowly missing my legs and toes. As soon as I was plastered against the door, the bullets stopped.

I scanned my surroundings. Vlad, Schipper, and Bruce were nowhere to be found. Rain started falling, hard and unyielding, shrouding the deserted landscape in a sea of white.

"Shit," I cursed under my breath as my clothes got wet.

The only good thing about this was that whoever was shooting at us could no longer see shit in the sudden downpour.

I stood for a minute, waiting to see if any of my men turned up.

Nothing.

They knew the plan, so I carried on, turning the doorknob on the door next to the metal shutter. To my surprise, it swung open.

An old seaplane sat in the center of the large open space, reminding me of the days when our family used to smuggle drugs and tobacco by plane. The scent of aviation fuel lingered in the air, despite it being years since the plane was last used.

To the left, a rusty metal staircase spiraled downward. I withdrew my gun and my black boots echoed my descent with every step I took.

I ended up in a short hallway lit with fluorescent lamps. There was only one door. Strange.

However, when I opened that door, there were two. The first one was locked. Desperate to find Carla and feeling like I was running out of time, I tugged on the second knob. The door didn't budge.