On the other side, deep inside the alley where the frozen Warehouse had stood.
The flames had been extinguished. Twisted, deformed iron doors lay broken in the distance. In the spot where the main Warehouse entrance had been, there was now only a massive blackened hole.
Several armed gangsters hurried inside. The Curry Warehouse was now a hellish scene—charred corpses, burned gun remains, limbs and chunks of flesh littered across the scorched floor. It was impossible to tell what was human and what had once been frozen pork. The heavy stench of burnt flesh filled the air, so thick it seemed to stick to their lungs.
One man, searching anxiously through the debris, suddenly stiffened. He knelt down, turned over a blackened corpse, and froze.
The face was scorched beyond recognition, but the rough outlines, the shape of the jaw and nose, were still barely distinguishable. His pupils shrank violently—it was the man they were desperately looking for.
The blood drained from his face.
He fumbled out his phone with trembling fingers and made a call.
"Vladimir... there's been a problem at the transaction site," he stammered, voice quivering. "The Warehouse exploded. Jinbin's people are all dead. None of ours survived either. Your brother Anatoly... he's... dead."
There was silence on the other end of the line.
The man didn't dare hang up. He stood frozen, listening to the emptiness.
Finally, a voice came through—hoarse and low, like a beast barely suppressing its fury.
"Who did it?"
"We found two suspicious people leaving the scene... it's probably them—"
"Catch them for me!!!"
Vladimir's roar was so violent that it distorted the phone speaker.
"Send everyone! Mobilize all of them! I want those two alive, do you hear me? Alive!!"
BOOM!
A loud crash sounded through the phone before the line went dead.
The man wiped the cold sweat from his brow. He understood: this wasn't a task. It was a death order.
He turned to the others. His voice was no less grim than Vladimir's.
"Spread the word. Mobilize all members. Search the city if you have to. Find those two bastards!"
"And remember..." His voice dropped to a growl. "They must be caught alive!"
Meanwhile—
Da-da-da-da-da!!
The staccato rhythm of automatic gunfire tore apart the street. Robert ducked behind a ruined car, pulling the trigger wildly in return.
But aiming at a fast-moving motorcycle wasn't something he'd practiced. His muzzle wavered, bullets going wide. Blood splattered across his jacket as return fire clipped him.
At the same time, Frank coolly raised his modified Browning and bam—one clean shot. The gunman riding pillion slumped. Another shot cracked out, and the driver jerked sideways, the motorcycle skidding violently across the pavement and crashing into the wall with a bang.
Robert turned to Frank, wide-eyed. "Man, your aim's crazy!"
Frank didn't respond. His expression was cold as iron.
The alley was clearing of smoke now—and through the thinning haze, dark shapes surged forward.
More gangsters.
"Go check the bike!" Frank barked.
Robert needed no second invitation. He sprinted to the wrecked motorcycle, dragging it upright. It was battered, but miraculously still drivable.
While Robert worked, Frank fired steadily into the alleyway, each shot keeping the gangsters pinned down behind cover.
The magazine clicked empty just as Frank turned and sprinted for the bike.
But Robert was already straddling it.
Frank leapt on behind him.
"Drive!" Frank ordered.
Robert scratched his head awkwardly. "Uh... problem."
Frank narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"I, uh, don't actually know how to ride a motorcycle..."
Frank: "..."
Robert gave an embarrassed grin. "Instinct, I guess?"
Frank closed his eyes for a second, clearly questioning every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
"Just drive!"
Hearing the roar of engines behind them, Robert twisted the throttle.
VROOM!!!
The motorcycle screamed to life, and Robert instinctively twisted it harder.
The bike lunged forward like a mad bull.
Robert was nearly ripped off the seat, holding on for dear life.
Frank's face barely twitched, but his fingers clenched the back grips so hard the metal creaked.
The bike careened down the street at insane speed, weaving dangerously between wreckage and abandoned cars.
Behind them, the stunned gangsters were left coughing in dust.
The night whirled into a blur around them. Streetlights streaked past. Robert's hair was flattened by the sheer speed, and he couldn't even open his eyes properly against the howling wind.
Meanwhile, Frank sat stiffly in the back.
If a single thought was flashing through Frank's mind at that moment, it was this:
"Why did I get on this death trap?"
As for Robert—
He squinted into the night, shouted over the wind, "Don't worry! I saw how they did it in Fast and Furious! I can do it too!"
Frank's eye twitched.
This might just be the most dangerous moment of his entire career.
End of Chapter 22.
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