Page 24 of My Unhinged Alphas
Crap. That’s more than anticipated. Two cars usually mean three or four men. Twelve increases the risk of chaos. I breathe, trying to think what to do next.
The Brotherhood has cleaners. They come after. They erase. They sanitize the narrative. That was how I started—not as a shooter, but as the man who made it look like nothing happened at all. Gloves. Bleach. Reports. Disposal.
You learn quickly how much damage one room can hold.
I adjust my grip on my weapon and glance toward Havoc to signal we reassess.
He’s already moving. Damn it.
He doesn’t charge. He walks straight toward the light.
“Havoc,” I hiss under my breath, too quiet for him to hear.
He pushes the warehouse door wider and steps inside like he was invited. “Well,” he says casually, voice carrying through the space. “This looks cozy.”
Every head inside turns. All armed.
The surprise on their faces lasts half a second. Then guns rise. Vale and I step out of our cover simultaneously, weapons up, angles covered.
For a brief, taut moment, no one fires.
The room is larger than it looked from outside. Crates stacked along the walls. A folding table in the center. The target stands near it, hand halfway to his waistband.
He looks confused.
He should.
“Easy,” Havoc says, hands slightly lifted but nowhere near surrender. “Nobody has to die stupid.”
One of the men, younger and twitchier than the rest, shifts his weight. “Who the hell are you?” he demands.
“You know who we are,” Havoc replies lightly.
I see it happen before it fully does.
The twitchy one panics. He lunges at Havoc instead of firing, maybe thinking he can close the distance fast enough to make it messy.
He makes it two steps before Havoc drops him.
It’s not graceful. It’s brutal.
Havoc pivots, grabs the man’s arm mid-lunge, twists hard enough to tear something loose, and drives him face-first into the concrete. The crack echoes.
The room detonates.
Gunfire erupts.
Vale moves first, controlled and surgical, two shots in quick succession that drop a man near the back wall. I shift right, firing once at the man closest to the door before he can line up a shot.
Havoc doesn’t shoot. He moves through them. Close. Fast. Controlled violence in tight quarters. He slams one man into a stack of crates hard enough to splinter wood, then disarms another with a brutal elbow and uses the man’s own weapon against him.
It’s chaos. It’s exactly what I tried to avoid.
And it works.
Within seconds, three of the twelve are down.
One crawls toward the side door.
