Chapter 156
Wesley
The rust-stained iron door groaned behind me. Cold wind cut through my torn shirt, making my bruised ribs throb with each breath. But the pain felt distant now. Muted.
Inside that warehouse, they were finalizing a deal worth millions. Drugs moving across state lines, money changing hands, empires being built on powder and pills.
And I was out here. The expendable alarm. The human tripwire they'd sacrifice without a second thought.
My eyes tracked across the Manhattan skyline to that familiar silhouette—the Lawson building. Seventy-three floors of steel and glass, Lance's monument to his own brilliance. I could almost see him up there, looking down at the city he owned.
Looking down at me like I was nothing.
The radio broadcast echoed in my head. Serena Vance, Yale graduate, five million dollar sale, Arthur Lawson's personal endorsement—
My hand found the gun at my waist. Heavy. Cold. Real.
"If I die out here," I muttered to the empty street, "would you even cry at my funeral, Lance?" I laughed—sharp, bitter. "No. You'd just be annoyed that I dirtied up your city. Well, fuck that. I'm not dying cheap."
The sirens hit like a physical blow.
Not one car. Not two.
Dozens.
I spun around, stomach dropping. Red and blue lights flooded the street from both directions—ten, twelve, maybe fifteen police vehicles converging on the warehouse. Marked cruisers. Unmarked SUVs. A tactical van.
This wasn't a patrol. This was a raid.
No hesitation. My fingers found the gun, flicked off the safety. Raised it skyward.
BANG. BANG.
The recoil shocked through my arms. Inside the warehouse, shouts erupted. Scrambling footsteps. Engines roaring to life.
But the police—they were already swarming. Doors flying open, officers pouring out like ants, weapons drawn.
"DROP THE WEAPON!"
"HANDS UP! NOW!"
I should have run. Should have sprinted for the back exit like Marcello had ordered.
But they were too close. Too fast. If I ran now, I'd be caught before making it twenty feet. And if I was caught, if I led them straight to the others—
I'd be marked a traitor.
And traitors got buried.
My eyes landed on the massive rolling door beside me. Industrial steel, designed to seal off the entire entrance. And next to it—the manual winch. The emergency brake.
If the cops breached that door, everyone inside was finished.
"Fuck it." The snarl came from somewhere deep in my chest. "At least I won't fail. Not this time. Never again."
I lunged for the winch. Grabbed the brake lever. Yanked with everything I had.
Metal shrieked. The counterweight dropped. The massive steel door came crashing down like a guillotine, slamming into concrete with enough force to shake my teeth.
Locked. Sealed. They'd need a battering ram to get through now.
"FREEZE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"
I spun. Eight cops, weapons trained on my chest. More flooding in from the sides, boxing me into a killing zone.
"YOU'RE SURROUNDED!"
"DROP THE GUN! LAST WARNING!"
The world crystallized into razor-sharp focus. Every detail burned itself into my brain—the sweat on one cop's temple, the tremor in another's hands, the way they positioned themselves for maximum coverage.
I was going to die here.
The thought should have paralyzed me with terror.
Instead, I thought about Lance. Every disappointed look. Every condescending comment. Every time he'd made me feel worthless.
About Serena. Flying high while I crashed and burned. Building an empire with my uncle while I'd been... what? Background noise. A mistake.
Something hot and vicious flooded my veins.
My eyes felt like they were burning. Like something inside me had caught fire.
"This is your fault," I whispered. To Lance. To everyone who'd ever looked through me. "You made me this."
I raised the gun.
And fired.
The recoil was massive, worse than the warning shots, sending shocks of pain through my ribs. But God, the power of it—watching cops scatter, hearing them shout, seeing actual fear flash across their faces—
I felt alive.
More alive than I'd been in my entire fucking life.
I didn't wait. The instant they ducked for cover, I was moving. Sprinting along the warehouse wall, using containers and abandoned pallets as shields, firing another shot over my shoulder.
They scattered again. Shouted. But didn't pursue immediately.
Because I wasn't some scared kid anymore. I was dangerous.
The fear I'd expected—the terror that should have frozen me—never came. Instead, there was this wild, electric joy. Like I'd been suffocating my whole life and finally, finally could breathe.
I rounded a corner. Fired. Kept running.
My legs burned. My lungs screamed. Every breath felt like knives through my broken ribs.
And I was laughing.
The sound was manic. Unhinged. I didn't recognize it as my own.