[Jason Todd's POV]
The leader's eyes flickered with fear for just a moment—a brief crack in the facade he'd been desperately trying to maintain—before he covered it with a vicious snarl. His steps faltered as he backed away, boots scraping against the dirt while the wreckage of his men lay scattered behind him. I recognized the look on his face because I could see it plainly. He was out of options, and he knew it.
I and this geezer of a mercenary stood over the scene, freshly freed and looking like two wolves that had just cornered the last sheep in the herd. The metallic tang of blood and gunpowder lingered heavily in the air, mixing with the smell of rust and dust. For a few seconds, the scrapyard was completely silent, and somehow that silence felt louder than the gunfire that had filled it moments ago.
Maybe it was because my muscles had been on high alert ever since we'd stepped onto foreign ground, but I found myself preferring the distant hum of background noise to this unsettling silence. Call me paranoid or whatever, but there was something about the complete lack of sound that put me on edge.
It painted a picture in my head of a sniper lying somewhere in the distance, holding his breath as he peered through the scope and patiently waited for the perfect moment to squeeze the trigger.
Slade casually wiped a smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His movements were slow and with the absence of causality, almost unnervingly relaxed considering the bodies scattered around us. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and rough, like gravel grinding beneath a boot.
"We didn't come all this way to waste time dealing with middlemen," he growled, taking another step toward the leader. "You said your boss wasn't available. So here's what's going to happen. We're going to make him available."
The leader squared his shoulders, trying to reclaim some of the authority he'd lost, but it was all an act. I could see the slight twitch in his fingers as they hovered near the sidearm strapped to his hip. His voice came out rough and full of forced bravado as he spat, "You don't know who you're messing with. This isn't America. This isn't some playground for wannabe tough men."
I couldn't help but let out a low, dry chuckle. "Wannabe? That's rich." I turned my head just enough to meet Slade's gaze, and for a brief second, we exchanged a silent look. No explanation was necessary. We both knew exactly how this was going to end. The only question was how much fun we'd have getting there.
Apparently, the guy sensed it too, because the moment I shifted my weight, his hand darted toward his weapon.
Big mistake.
I moved before he could even clear the holster. In a blur, I closed the distance and clamped my gloved hand around his wrist. His eyes widened as I twisted his arm with precise, controlled force, wrenching a sharp yelp from his throat. The pistol slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the dirt. I kicked it away without even looking, sending it skidding across the scrapyard until it disappeared beneath a pile of rusted metal.
"You were saying?" I muttered, letting the sarcasm drip from every word.
Slade was already behind me. He didn't bother giving the man a chance to recover before grabbing him by the collar and hauling him clean off the ground. The leader's boots scraped uselessly against the dirt as Slade held him there with one hand, his feet dangling several inches above the ground. The man's hands instinctively grabbed at Slade's wrist, but after a few seconds of struggling, he realized it wasn't getting him anywhere. His breathing became short and frantic as panic finally began to take over.
"You're going to take us to him," Slade said, his voice impossibly calm, which somehow made the threat far more terrifying. He leaned closer until their faces were almost touching. "Or I'll let my colleague here finish what he started."
I cracked my knuckles, the sharp pops echoing through the otherwise silent scrapyard. "I don't mind waiting," I said with a grin, letting just enough amusement creep into my voice to make it clear I wasn't bluffing. "But my patience isn't exactly legendary."
That finally broke him.
The leader's shoulders sagged, and he swallowed hard as beads of sweat formed along his forehead. His eyes darted between Slade and me, desperately searching for some way out of the situation. There wasn't one. "Alright, alright!" he croaked, his voice cracking beneath the pressure. "I'll take you to him! Just—just don't kill me! You don't know what kind of hell you're bringing down on yourselves."
Slade released him.
The man dropped to the ground in an undignified heap, catching himself on his hands before scrambling back onto his feet. He rubbed his aching wrist while glaring at us with barely restrained hatred. Around the scrapyard, the few men who were still conscious watched nervously from the ground, their eyes shifting between us and their leader as if debating whether they should intervene.
None of them did.
Smart move.
"Good choice," Slade said coldly.
I bent down and picked up one of the abandoned rifles. After checking the chamber with practiced motions that'd tell anyone watching that I wasn't new to this shit, I casually rested the weapon against my shoulder before leveling the barrel loosely in the leader's direction.
"Now, point us in the right direction," I said. "Unless you'd prefer the next bullet to find your kneecap."
The man's entire body tensed. Whatever remained of his bravado vanished instantly. He raised a trembling hand and pointed toward a warehouse in the distance, its rusted exterior barely visible beneath the pale glow of the moon.
"The boss is in there," he muttered, his voice trembling despite his attempt to keep it steady. There was genuine fear behind the words, and it wasn't hard to understand why. Who wouldn't piss their pants with a muzzle pointed straight at them, especially when the two foreigners holding the guns looked like they couldn't give less of a fuck about what happened to him? The poor bastard had every reason to believe that one wrong answer could be his last.
"But you're making a mistake. You'll regret this."
I glanced at Slade, unable to suppress the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"Regret?" I repeated, my tone coming off light and mocking. "Yeah, that's not really my thing."
Without waiting for another word, Slade and I started toward the warehouse, with him moving slightly ahead of me. I glanced over my shoulder as we walked and caught the leader still standing there, rubbing his wrist while watching us disappear into the darkness. There was fear in his eyes, but something else too. Maybe pity. Maybe he actually believed we had no idea what we were walking into.
Whatever it was, I didn't care.
"Don't try anything," I called back without slowing down. "We'll know."
He didn't answer, but I could feel his eyes following us as we walked away, silently hoping we'd just stepped into whatever trap was waiting inside. Maybe we had. For all we knew, the warehouse could be crawling with men twice as dangerous as the ones we'd just put down. But that's the thing about guys like me and Slade—we don't scare easily.
As much as I didn't like the guy, I'd admit we shared a certain shred of insanity. We'd both walked into situations far worse than this with far fewer advantages, and neither of us had ever made a habit of backing down simply because the odds looked ugly. Maybe that was the problem with people like us—we'd seen enough bad situations to know exactly how stupid the odds could get, yet somehow, that had never been enough to make us turn around.
The warehouse loomed larger with every step, its massive doors coming into clearer view beneath the pale moonlight. Rust and grime covered the weathered metal, streaking down the surface like old scars, while years of neglect had left the entire structure looking as though it had been abandoned by everyone except the people who had something to hide inside. The sight alone was enough to put me on edge, but instead of fear, I felt adrenaline beginning to course through my veins, cranking up my senses and making every distant sound stand out.
"Ready for round two?" I asked, keeping my tone casual, almost playful despite the tension settling over the scrapyard for they'd certainly be expecting us. My fingers tightened slightly around the rifle, and I kept my eyes fixed on the warehouse doors as we approached.
Slade's gaze swept across the perimeter, checking the surrounding shadows, rooftops, and every possible angle an ambush could come from. His movements were smooth and on guard, his expression as calm as ever. After a moment, he looked toward the doors and gave me the simplest answer possible.
"Always."
That was all I needed to hear.
Whatever was waiting for us on the other side of those doors, I was ready. Maybe they had numbers. Maybe they are packing heavy artillery. Maybe they had something neither of us had even considered.
- - -
The warehouse doors groaned as Slade and I pushed them open, revealing a scene that immediately made my blood simmer. Two men sat comfortably in the middle of the cavernous space, lounging behind a table like kings in their own private kingdom. A handful of armed guards stood around them, weapons visible but surprisingly relaxed, as if none of us had just fought our way through the men outside. The stale smell of tobacco and whiskey hung heavily in the air, mixed with the faint metallic tang of oil and old machinery beneath the distant hum of fluorescent lights.
"Oh, you're here. Come join us," the man seated on the left said casually.
His clothes were casual but expensive, an outfit that practically screamed that he didn't care what anyone thought while simultaneously making damn sure everyone noticed him. Two buttons of his shirt had been left undone, exposing a patch of dark chest hair, while rings covered nearly every finger.
An oversized gold watch caught the light whenever he moved his hand, the jewelry making it painfully obvious that subtlety wasn't exactly his strong suit. His smile was warm and welcoming, but there was something acute behind his eyes—a calculating intelligence that immediately put me on guard. This wasn't some carefree rich guy playing gangster. This was a predator waiting for his prey to sit down.
My attention shifted to the man sitting beside him.
Miguel.
The same Miguel who had brought us here, pretending to be nothing more than a guide while leading us straight into that ambush outside. The moment I saw him, every instinct in my body screamed at me to walk over and put my fist through his jaw. I could practically feel my fingers itching for it.
I held myself back.
Not because I wanted to.
The only thing keeping my fists from introducing themselves to Miguel's teeth was the mission. We hadn't come all this way just to settle a personal grudge. Our job wasn't finished.
Yet.
"Relax, Jason," Slade said beside me, his voice came off ever calm and measured, as though he couldn't feel the tension practically suffocating the room. "Let's hear what they have to say first. Then we'll decide whether or not to kick their asses."
I clenched my fists at my sides, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure. My eyes remained fixed on Miguel.
"I really want to knock his teeth out for setting us up in that screwed-up trap."
Miguel merely grinned, apparently finding my hostility amusing rather than threatening. He gestured toward the two empty chairs positioned across from the table.
"Have a seat, amigos."
Slade and I exchanged a brief glance. No words were necessary. We both understood the plan. Play along for now, gather whatever information we could, and decide what happened next once we knew exactly what we were dealing with.
We moved forward, our boots clicking against the concrete floor as we crossed the warehouse. I pulled out one of the chairs and sat opposite the two men, while Slade took the seat beside me. My blood was still boiling, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.
Barely.
"Sorry for what happened back there," the man with the chest hair said, spreading his hands in a gesture of apology. "My boys and I don't trust outsiders easily, especially given the... situation we're in."
His eyes briefly flicked toward the warehouse entrance, as though the men we'd left lying outside were nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding. Apparently, he expected a few polite words to wash away the blood we'd left behind.
Neither Slade nor I gave him the satisfaction.
We simply stared across the table at them, silent and unblinking, like wolves deciding whether the two men sitting before them were worth the trouble of hunting.
Miguel eventually broke the silence.
"This is Dante, the boss you came here to see." He gestured toward his companion, who responded with an easy smile and a slight nod.
Again, neither of us said anything.
I glanced sideways at Slade. He gave me a subtle shrug, his expression as stoic as ever, giving away absolutely nothing about what was going through his head. I turned my attention back to Dante and fixed him with a hard stare.
Dante, however, seemed completely comfortable beneath it. He leaned back in his chair, resting casually against it as though this were nothing more than a friendly business meeting.
"We had to put Ghost's reputation to the test," he explained, his voice smooth and self-assured. "Rumors say his men are terrifyingly capable. We wanted to see if you lived up to the hype."
A dry laugh escaped me as I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms against my thighs.
"You call that a test?" I asked, my voice carrying a sharp edge. "Another minute of your little game, and your boys would've been unrecognizable."
Dante chuckled, seemingly more amused than offended. He tilted his head slightly, studying me with traces of renewed interest.
"Fair point," he admitted. "But you're here now, and that's what matters."
Slade finally spoke as his gaze remained fixed on Dante with a cold and unwavering stare.
"You've wasted enough of our time already. Time we could've used productively to solve the issue your incompetence has caused us to get on a plane for."
- - -
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Maverick_DaSupreme