"Goddamn flashbangs!" Dmitri yelled, diving behind the bar as bullets ripped through the air. Razor, his informant, cried out, "They're everywhere, Dmitri!"
Kostas, his face a mask, moved like a wraith, efficiently eliminating FBI agents. "Kostas! What the hell?!" Dmitri roared, the betrayal a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Business is business," Kostas replied, his voice cold. "Survival of the fittest."
Several other assassins, figures melting from the shadows, joined the fray, their weapons a blur of motion. The air filled with the crack of gunfire and the clang of metal on metal. An FBI agent yelled, "Get Volkov! He's our target!"
Dmitri, dodging bullets, saw a hulking brute, a crowbar swinging wildly. He threw a chair, momentarily distracting the brute. "This is getting crowded," he muttered, focusing on Kostas.
Razor, fighting bravely but hopelessly outnumbered, yelled, "Dmitri, I'm holding them off!"
The fight was a chaotic maelstrom. Dmitri, fueled by rage and betrayal, moved with deadly precision. He saw his chance and tackled Kostas, sending them both crashing to the floor. In the struggle, Dmitri palmed a small explosive device he'd secretly planted earlier and slipped it into Kostas's pocket.
He pushed Kostas away, the explosive now nestled against Kostas's side, and sprinted for the hidden passage. He didn't even glance at the other assassins; they were just faceless mercenaries, expendable pawns in a larger game. He needed to escape. He plunged into the cool, damp air of the underground passage, the sounds of the battle fading behind him as he made his way to the underwater escape route. He didn't care what happened to the others; his survival was his only priority. The murky water beckoned, a promise of escape from the chaos and betrayal.
The icy water stung as Dmitri hauled himself onto his speedboat, the engine already idling. He glanced back at the Golden Dragon, now a distant inferno against the city lights. He activated the device, a tiny click the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness. Then, a massive explosion rocked the night, a fiery bloom against the darkness. He didn't look back.
He steered the boat, the engine a steady thrum beneath him. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a bone-deep chill. He checked his gear, the rhythmic movements a calming counterpoint to the racing thoughts in his head.
Hours later, the Las Vegas skyline shimmered on the horizon. He lit a cigarette, the smoke a small rebellion against the encroaching dawn. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine a temporary balm for his frayed nerves.
The radio crackled to life. "Volkov? This is Ricardo Reyes. We're at the docks. Isabella Rodriguez is on comms, Javier Santos has the intel. We're ready when you are." A flicker of surprise, perhaps even a hint of apprehension, laced Reyes' voice.
Dmitri's voice was rough. "Good. Because I have a score to settle. And I need backup." He knew they wouldn't have expected him. They'd moved on, joined a different crew in Vegas. But they knew him. They knew what he was capable of.
Isabella's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the static. "We're watching your six, Dmitri. Be careful. They know you're coming. We know you're coming." The implication hung in the air – this wasn't just another job. This was personal.
Javier's voice was low and gravelly. "We heard about the Golden Dragon. Didn't expect to see you here, though." A hint of something akin to respect, or perhaps even grudging admiration, colored his words. They were his old crew, after all. The best of the best. And they knew he was still the best.
Dmitri gripped the wheel, the city lights blurring in his vision. The game was far from over. This was a reunion, of sorts. And it would be bloody.