139. FELIX YEATS (POV)

139. FELIX YEATS (POV)
To the left, a man tries to lift his head from behind a barrel. One of my guys shoots and takes off half his skull. The other trips over his own shadow and falls with a dry grunt. They’re not soldiers — they’re throwaway pieces in a game that’s already over.
And then I see him.
Vicent.
Standing at the end of the warehouse’s central corridor, between two metal structures and stacked crates. His arms are slightly open, his face half in shadow, half lit by the light spilling through the cracked skylight. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t lift his weapon. He just stares at me.
Like he already knew I’d come.
Like he wants me to see him.
Our eyes lock.
Everything goes quiet for a moment.
Silence. But not for long. The kind of silence that comes right before the cruelest sound: doubt.
Vicent doesn’t respond. I take my chance.
“Now,” I say into the radio, already raising my weapon and moving toward the warehouse’s side gate with steady steps. The vest under my coat presses cold against my chest. “Blow that shit open.”
The gate explodes with a dull thud and a long echo, muffled by the metal structure. The upper windows shatter from the blast. My men pour in fast from the sides, like a well-trained swarm — two up front, one crouched, cross-cover, cold eyes, precise moves. Vicent’s goons start screaming before they even see where the hit’s coming from. It’s the kind of panic that hits when you know you weren’t ready.
Simon yells. I hear him in my earpiece — and now in real time. His voice mixes with the noise of footsteps, metal, gunfire, and the sharp sound of a body hitting the floor. He dives behind a pillar. The mic crackles in my ear as his body slams against the concrete.
I move forward. The side door flies open with my kick. The place reeks of oil, sweat, and old cigarette smoke. Vicent’s already in motion — a blur slipping between two metal frames. He’s trying to run, trying to regroup. Trying to stay alive.
I aim. I fire. A shot scrapes past his cover. I don’t want to hit him — not yet. I want him to feel it. To understand.
“WHO’S THE FOOL NOW?” I shout, my voice echoing through the warehouse with the weight of a judge delivering a sentence.
Gunfire. More gunfire. Metal ricochets. One of my men yells, “Cover on the right!” and I see the flash of a firefight. One of Vicent’s guards drops with his shoulder torn open, blood splattering the wall and sliding down in silence.
Simon tries to crawl toward a stack of wooden crates — I catch a glimpse of him, his face pale, eyes wide like a rat trapped by fire. He was never ready for this.
Me? I’m right at home.
Smoke starts to spread slowly through the warehouse, mixing with the dirty smell of gunpowder and burnt metal. Every shot echoes like a hammer blow against the walls, and the sound of lead cutting through the air is so sharp it feels like it brushes against your skin.
I move between stacked crates, keeping low, one of my men ahead of me, clearing the path with short, precise bursts. Vicent’s guys aren’t amateurs, but they’re scattered. Most of them are yelling in Spanish — no clear commands. They’re firing blind — and that’s all I need.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Simon moving. He’s on the ground, elbows scraped, face smeared with dust and sweat. Crawling like a rat through the aftermath of the firefight, until one of Vicent’s men drops just a few feet from him. A dull thud. The guy’s chest bursts open, and the pistol slips from his still-twitching hand.
Simon freezes. His eyes lock onto the gun like it’s a ticket out of hell. The hesitation lasts a second. Two. Then he crawls over, grabs it in a rush, swallowing the dry panic in his throat. His fingers wrap around the grip too tightly.
“No, no, no…” he mutters, but he doesn’t let go. He gets up slowly, back hunched, eyes wide. He’s caught between instinct and fear, but he pulls the trigger anyway.
First shot — miss.
Second — it hits.
The Vicent guy, trying to flank my team, stumbles back with a muffled scream. The sound of his body hitting the concrete floor is louder than the shot itself.
Simon takes a deep breath, on the verge of a breakdown — I don’t think he’s ever been in the field like this. But he doesn’t stop. His arm is stretched out, fingers stiff on the gun. Now he’s shooting like he has no choice. And really, he doesn’t.
“Stick to the side, you idiot,” I shout, seeing him out in the open like a rookie. “You’re gonna die and won’t even know what hit you.”
He listens. Stumbles his way to a side pillar. A bullet tears through the concrete edge just behind him, sending shards flying into his face.
“SON OF A BITCH!” someone yells from Vicent’s side.
I duck down, aim, and take a deep breath. One, two. I shoot. Got him. I see the shadow drop — no time left to scream.
The warehouse turns to rubble. Wood exploding, metal ricocheting. And right in the middle of it all — Simon, gasping for breath, face dirty, gun shaking in his hands, trying to stay upright in the chaos he helped unleash.
And Vicent?
He’s pulling back. I know he’s going to try to escape through the rear.
But not today.
Vicent moves like an old rat in an abandoned building. He knows this kind of place always leaves him an exit route. And I know him well enough to be sure: now that everything’s gone to hell, he’ll run. He always runs when he loses control.
I see a shadow slipping behind the stacked crates in the northeast corner. Fast. Quiet. Has to be him. My guys are still pushing forward, but this part — this part is mine.
Personal.
“Cover the hallway,” I say into the radio. “This part’s mine.”
I move along the side, alert. The gunfire’s still pounding in my ears, but it’s no longer frantic — the shots are getting more spaced out. People dropping, people running. Only the stubborn ones are still standing.
Simon is leaning against a column, blood dripping from a cut on his brow. The gun’s still in his hand. He glances at me, and for a second — just one — it looks like he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t.
Because the sound of a shot comes first.
Sharp. Loud. Single.
And time stops.
Instinct kicks in — I turn my head. My shoulder pulls back, bracing for impact.
But it’s not me.
Someone staggers.
Simon yells my name.
A body hits the ground behind me.