The convoy of black SUVs cut through the Manhattan streets like a funeral procession. Dante and I rode in the lead vehicle, Marcus driving, silence heavy between us.
I'd changed into tactical gear black pants, boots, a kevlar vest that Dante had insisted I wear. The Glock 19 was holstered at my hip, spare magazines in my pockets. I looked like one of his soldiers now.
Maybe I was.
Dante's hand found mine in the darkness, squeezing once. His knuckles were split and bloody, his clothes still stained with Rosa's blood. He hadn't changed, hadn't cleaned up. He wanted Alexei to see what he'd done.
"The penthouse has two points of entry," Marcus said, breaking the silence. "Main elevator and service elevator. He'll have men on both, plus rooftop access. We're looking at maybe fifteen, twenty hostiles."
"We have thirty," Dante replied. "Enough."
"There's something else, boss." Marcus hesitated. "Intel suggests he's got hostages. Civilians from the building. Insurance."
