Chapter 16 Warehouse of Truths
The warehouse was a tomb.
Darkness swallowed them the moment they stepped inside, the only light coming from the cracks in the rusted ceiling where sunlight struggled to penetrate.
Liam raised his hand, signaling the men to spread out.
Six O'Sullivan soldiers moved left. Six Scarpetti soldiers moved right. Alessia stayed close to Liam, her heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it.
The air smelled of rust, oil, and something else. Something is wrong.
Gunpowder.
"Liam," she whispered urgently.
"I know," he murmured back, his hand moving to his weapon. "Stay close."
They moved deeper into the warehouse, their footsteps echoing off concrete floors. Shipping crates were stacked in haphazard towers, creating a maze of shadows and blind corners.
The perfect kill zone.
Alessia's training screamed at her. Every instinct said run.
But she couldn't. Not without blowing everything.
Thorne's voice crackled in her ear, so faint only she could hear. "Maintain position. Do not engage."
A bead of sweat rolled down her spine.
They reached the center of the warehouse. Empty pallets. Scattered debris. No merchandise. No hijackers.
Nothing.
"It's empty," one of the O'Sullivan men called out.
Liam's jaw tightened. "Fall back. Now."
That's when the lights came on.
Blinding. Industrial. Flooding the warehouse with harsh white light that made everyone freeze, momentarily blind.
And then—
Gunfire.
It erupted from every direction at once—muzzle flashes from behind crates, from the catwalks above, from doorways they hadn't seen.
Chaos.
Complete, absolute chaos.
Men screamed. Bodies dropped. The air filled with the deafening roar of automatic weapons and the sharp smell of cordite.
Liam grabbed Alessia, shoving her behind a concrete pillar. "Stay down!"
But she couldn't.
Because one of the Scarpetti men—barely twenty years old, someone's son—was exposed, scrambling for cover as a masked gunman advanced on him with a raised weapon.
Alessia moved without thinking.
Her training took over, muscle memory from years of FBI combat drills, from hours spent on shooting ranges and in tactical simulations.
She grabbed the fallen weapon of a downed O'Sullivan soldier, rolled out from behind the pillar, and fired three precise shots.
The masked gunman dropped.
The young Scarpetti soldier stared at her in shock before scrambling to safety.
Liam's voice cut through the gunfire. "Alessia! Get back here!"
But another attacker was coming at them from the left, his weapon trained on Liam's exposed flank.
Liam didn't see him.
Alessia did.
She moved like water—fast, fluid, lethal.
She closed the distance in seconds, her body low and controlled. As the attacker's finger tightened on the trigger, she struck.
Her hand shot out, redirecting the barrel upward. The gun fired into the ceiling. Before the attacker could recover, she drove her knee into his stomach, twisted his arm with brutal efficiency, and slammed his head into a metal support beam.
He crumpled.
The entire exchange took less than five seconds.
Alessia turned, breathing hard, blood pounding in her ears.
And found Liam staring at her.
Not with gratitude.
With absolute, stunned shock.
"Move!" she shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward better cover as another volley of gunfire tore through the space they'd just occupied.
They ran, ducking behind a stack of crates. The remaining men—maybe eight total—were pinned down, returning fire but vastly outnumbered.
"We need to get out of here!" one of the O'Sullivan soldiers yelled.
"The exit's blocked!" another shouted back.
Liam's mind was clearly racing, calculating odds, searching for a way out. But his eyes kept flicking to Alessia, questions blazing behind them.
She couldn't think about that now.
"There!" She pointed to a service door on the far wall. "Thirty yards. We lay down cover fire, move in pairs."
"Who put you in charge?" one of the Scarpetti men snarled.
"Do you have a better plan?" she shot back.
Silence.
"Didn't think so. On three—"
More gunfire. Closer now.
They were being herded. Pushed toward the back of the warehouse.
Into a trap within a trap.
Liam seemed to realize it at the same time. "They're corralling us."
"I know."
"We need—"
An explosion rocked the far side of the warehouse. Smoke billowed. Men screamed.
"Go! Now!" Liam ordered.
They ran.
Alessia provided covering fire with precision that would have made her instructors proud—controlled bursts, efficient targeting, no wasted ammunition.
They made it to a small storage room, the last four of them—Liam, Alessia, and two soldiers.
Liam slammed the door, shoving a metal shelf in front of it. It wouldn't hold long.
His weapon clicked empty.
"Out," he said, checking his pockets. "I'm out."
The two soldiers checked their weapons. Also empty.
Alessia had half a magazine left. Maybe ten rounds.
Against at least a dozen attackers outside.
The pounding started on the door. Voices shouting. They'd be through in seconds.
Liam turned to her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with adrenaline and something else.
Betrayal.
"Who the hell are you?!" he snarled, grabbing her shoulders. "That wasn't luck. That wasn't instinct. That was training. Professional training."
"Liam—"
"Don't lie to me! Not now!" His grip tightened. "You move like a soldier. You shoot like a trained operative. You disarmed a man twice your size like it was nothing."
The door shuddered under repeated impacts.
"So tell me," Liam's voice dropped to something dangerous and desperate. "Who. Are. You?"
Alessia's mouth opened.
The truth sat on her tongue, heavy and poisonous.
I'm FBI. I've been lying to you from the beginning. This ambush is because of me.
But before she could speak—
Something small and metallic rolled through the gap under the door.
Round. Green. With a lever.
A grenade.
Time stopped.
All four of them stared at it.
Liam's eyes went wide. "GET DOWN—"
He grabbed Alessia, throwing his body over hers, shoving her into the corner as the two soldiers dove in the opposite direction.
The world exploded into fire and sound and pain.