Chapter 9 The Firestorm

The nightclub didn't just get loud; it vomited fire and steel. Gunshots ripped through the air, each crack tearing through the gaudy decorations. Velvet curtains shredded like paper in a storm. Bottles exploded, sending shards of glass raining down. Bodies hit the floor with heavy, final thuds. The air stung the nostrils – a brutal mix of burnt powder and the wet, coppery tang of blood.

Robinson's muscles coiled, and he dropped behind a tipped-over roulette table. His hand, a familiar weight, closed around the grip of his Glock. Screams, raw and desperate, clawed at the din. The heavy thud of a falling body punctuated the relentless barrage. His pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the chaos.

This wasn't just a fight; it was a slaughter. And the cold, hard knot in his gut told him one thing: they'd been led to the chopping block. Being played? That was a brand of insult he wore poorly.

Riko's breath hitched and shuddered beside him, his face bleached white under the emergency lights. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The hand gripping his pistol trembled, the metal catching the flickering light. "They... they knew, Boss," he choked out, his eyes wide and haunted. "Lorenzo... the old snake had us walking into hell."

Robinson's jaw tightened, a hard line. No need for words. The storm of bullets outside the flimsy cover of the table spoke volumes. He risked a sliver of a peek. The main entrance churned with masked figures, each weapon spitting orange death. His men, his crew, were pinned, their movements jerky and desperate. Dark stains bloomed on the once-polished floor around them.

Fewer guns. Fewer men are standing. They were caught in a kill zone.

But Robinson's mind refused the word 'lose'. It was a foreign language he'd long forgotten. His gaze, sharp and predatory, snagged on the shadowed rectangle of the emergency exit at the back.

A sliver of a chance. A breath of air in this suffocating nightmare.

Or another of Lorenzo's cruel twists, a welcome mat laid over a pressure plate.

Either way, he wasn't going to whimper and die here, a rat caught in a trap.

His fingers, quick and sure, snagged the pin of a grenade clipped to his vest. His teeth clamped down, the cold metal sharp against his molars. A grunt, and the pin was out, the small metal egg suddenly alive and dangerous in his palm. He swung his arm, the grenade arcing through the smoky air towards the massed figures at the entrance.

He roared, "Go down!" his voice cutting through the gunfire.

Suddenly, there was a shockwave, and fire licked at the ceiling, a thick, black cloud billowed outwards, swallowing the light. The force of the blast staggered the attackers, sending bodies sprawling, limbs flailing against the ruined furniture.

Robinson was already moving before the echoes died. A shadow weaving through the smoke-filled chaos. Two figures stumbled out of the grey – two sharp cracks from his Glock, and crimson blossoms bloomed on their foreheads. They dropped without a sound.

Another man, a desperate glint of steel flashing in his hand, lunged. Robinson shot out a steel, clamping around the attacker's wrist. And with a sickening snap, he sank his cold, sharp blade into the man's gut.

A wet, gurgling sound. A hot, sticky spray against his cheek. Then, the man was just a dead weight collapsing at his feet.

Riko and the few remaining members of their crew followed his brutal lead, a desperate, bloody surge towards the back exit. But just as Robinson's hand closed around the icy metal of the door handle, it exploded inwards.

And right there at the doorway, stood the old man, Lorenzo.

His black coat looked impossibly pristine against the backdrop of carnage. Two hulking figures stood like silent sentinels behind him. A thin, cruel smile stretched across Lorenzo's face, a sight that twisted Robinson's gut with a fresh wave of fury.

Age had etched lines around the old man's eyes, but those eyes themselves held the same cold, calculating emptiness that Robinson knew all too well.

"Well, well, Robinson," Lorenzo's voice, smooth as ice, cut through the lingering echoes. He stepped into the ruined club as if surveying his living room. "Quite the... renovation."

Robinson's Glock snapped up, the barrel rock-steady. "Your turn for a makeover. With a bullet."

Lorenzo chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Always the direct approach." He flicked a dismissive hand. "Hold your fire, boys. Let's have a little... understanding."

Robinson's finger tightened on the trigger, the metal a cold promise against his skin. "Understanding? You just signed your death warrant, old man."

Lorenzo's smile didn't waver. "Perhaps. Or perhaps... you just walked into mine." He gestured subtly.

The room erupted again. Not with a bang, but a sustained, deafening roar. Gunfire chewed through the air, screams mingling with the relentless thunder.

Robinson lunged, a raw, animalistic force, slamming Lorenzo against the graffiti-scarred wall. The old man grunted, surprisingly strong, but Robinson's rage was a physical thing, a battering ram. His elbow crunched into Lorenzo's ribs, a sickening thud, and the old man's breath hitched.

But Lorenzo was a survivor. Like a viper's strike, his knife cut through with speed as lightning, leaving Robinson with a pain-ripped arm.

In response, he kicked the old man, sending the knife skittering across the blood-slicked floor. Like a steel clamp, Robinson locked Lorenzo's throat, and choking him, he lifted him off the ground.

"You should have stayed buried." Robinson's voice was a low, dangerous growl.

Lorenzo's face turned a mottled red, his eyes bulging, his hands clawing at Robinson's grip.

Then a sharp crack, closer than the rest. And just below Robinson's rib, a burning agony tore through. He staggered back. One of Lorenzon's men had found his mark.

And now

The world tilted. The edges of his vision blurred.

Riko roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. His own weapon barked, spitting fire, and the gunman who'd shot Robinson crumpled to the floor. "Boss! We're burning daylight!"

At the entrance, a company of dark and menacing figures were approaching. Forcing himself to stand despite the threatening pain piercing his flesh, he gritted his teeth. Robinson was not ready to fall here, no, not this way.

With the help of Riko's coverage with gunfire, they soon were able to find their way through the shattered back exit. Bursting into the rain-slicked alley, Robinson gasped, and there was a ragged as bloody breath that tore from his lungs, leaving his shirt with a dark blooming stain which was spreading rapidly.

He was losing too much.

But stopping meant death.

More headlights cut through the darkness as cars screeched into the alley.

Riko's hand, strong and urgent, clamped around Robinson's arm, dragging him towards their getaway car. The driver shut the door and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. They veered off; the city became a blur of neon and shadow as they journeyed, the sound of gun battle fading behind them. He clutched his bleeding side, and with a swimming vision, Robinson was in great pain.

Lorenzo had shown his hand. A brutal declaration of war.

And now, the streets would drink deep. Robinson would make damn sure it wasn't his blood alone they tasted.