The gym was turned into a fortress. Windows were boarded up with steel plating. Weapons were distributed—rusty AK-47s, pistols with filed-off serial numbers, and crates of Molotov cocktails.
Max was given a 9mm pistol. It felt heavy and cold in his hand. He had never fired a gun.
"Point and squeeze," Silas told him, shoving a magazine into Max's chest. "If you see anyone who isn't wearing our colors, you drop them."
"I'm a driver," Max protested. "I'm not a soldier."
"Tonight, everyone is a soldier," Silas growled.
The night dragged on. The rain returned, drumming against the corrugated iron roof like a thousand fingers tapping in anticipation. The gang members were high on fear and cheap cocaine, pacing the floor.
Max sat in the corner, staring at the gun. He thought about the orphanage. The nuns used to say that God had a plan for everyone. He wondered if God's plan included him dying in a sweaty gym over a turf war he didn't care about.
Around 3:00 AM, the lights went out.
"Cut the power!" Vara shouted. "Night vision, get to the windows!"
Then came the sound. Not gunshots. Not sirens.
Hissing.
"Gas!" someone screamed.
Canisters crashed through the skylights, spewing thick, white smoke. Tear gas. The Iron Dogs began to cough and choke, stumbling in the darkness.
Then the front doors exploded inward.
Silhouettes moved through the smoke. They wore tactical gear, gas masks, and moved with military precision. The Vittorio Cleaners.
Gunfire erupted. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Muzzle flashes lit up the smoke like strobe lights in hell. Max scrambled backward, crawling under a boxing ring. He saw Jinx stand up to fire his shotgun, only to be cut down by three precise shots to the chest.
Max covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. This wasn't a gang fight. This was a slaughter.