Damian lifted the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the front door of Skin for the tenth time that hour. It was a small flat-roofed building with peeling paint huddled between an empty lot and an electronics store. He’d never understood the fascination with strip clubs, but most of his men enjoyed them, which meant he spent time in them whenever a celebration was in order.

“Anything?” Cole asked next to him.

Damian shook his head. “Couple guys just walked in, but they look like car salesmen. Doubt they’re connected to Anastos’ operation.”

“Locke and Derek have been in there for over two hours,” Cole said.

“They’re okay,” Damian said. “We’d know if something went wrong.”

They’d established signals beforehand, setting up a series of taps on the mic that would allow Damian and Cole to know what was going on — one tap if they were in trouble and needed help, two if they’d spotted Anastos and were ready for Cole and Damian.

They could hear what was going on around Locke and Derek through the comms system, but so far it had been nothing but music and the broken English of the waitress asking them if they wanted another drink.

“I just hope they’re going to be sober enough to pull this off when the time comes,” Cole said.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that.”

For all of Locke’s recklessness, Damian had never actually felt like he was in trouble in the other man’s company. Locke was unconventional, a little wilder than the people Damian liked to employ in his own organization, but he wasn’t stupid or unreliable.

“Think he’s in there?” Cole asked. “Anastos?”

“No way to know until we get the signal,” Damian said. He thought about the dark eyed girl in the alley in Omonia. She’d taken a chance coming to him, and while there had been money in it for her, he’d felt her urgency, had seen the flash of anger in her eyes when she’d spoken of her cousin who worked as a dancer at the club. “My gut says yes.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cole said. “We need to get back to New York.”

Damian put down the binoculars. “Everything is relatively stable in New York.”

“I know,” Cole said. “But I don’t like not being there with Gatti still on the loose.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable position. The Syndicate — via Damian’s organization — had a handle on the city’s most important assets, but none of them were foolish enough to consider the job done until Anastos and Gatti were out of the picture for good.

A sudden commotion on the mic forced Damian’s attention away from New York. He looked at Cole who had obviously heard it too, and they listened as Derek negotiated a lap dance with a woman inside the club.

Four seconds later two distinct taps came across the mic.

“Let’s go.” Damian checked his weapon and reached for the door.

They’d parked on a street that ran perpendicular to the strip club. It would mean a tougher getaway, but they hadn’t wanted to risk being made with Locke and Derek inside the building.

“We’re on our way,” Damian said into his mic as he got out of the car.

They walked quickly past crumbling apartments and mini-markets, an assortment of people slouching through the streets smoking cigarettes, and in two cases, taking swigs from bottles of clear liquid that was probably either ouzo or vodka.

“Think they have cameras on the doors?” Cole asked as they approached the building.

“I don’t know,” Damian said. “Best to assume the worst. I’ll take the front. Stay against the building while you head to the back. The overhang should hide you from any cameras mounted near the roof.”

“Will do.”

Damian wished there was more to talk about, that they had more of an idea what they were up against, but they’d opted to avoid dialogue from Locke and Derek on the comms system as a precaution. The muffled tapping was the best they could do without risking detection by someone inside the club.

They would have to play it by ear.

They reached the front of the club and Cole immediately cut to the left, staying close to the building as he disappeared around the corner.

Damian made a show of digging in his jacket for anyone who might be watching him. To the casual observer, he might appear like a possibly intoxicated customer just off work, making sure he had enough singles and fives for the dancers.

He turned his back to the entrance for a split second.

“Tell me when you’re heading in,” Damian said into the mic.

“I’m at the door,” Cole said a few seconds later.

“Good.” Damian headed for the door. “Give me thirty seconds to get oriented.”

“Copy.”

Damian opened the door.

A bouncer sat on a stool, his stomach spilling over his jeans, the buttons on his shirt straining against the pressure of too much flesh.

Damian nodded at him and acted like he’d been there a thousand times before. It was best not to speak. English would only draw attention to him.

Locke and Derek had taken the opposite approach, choosing obviously American apparel and making no effort to hide their nationality. They would need to make small talk with each other and the waitresses to not appear suspicious.

The bouncer gave him a quick up and down, lingering on his face long enough that Damian casually moved his hand toward his jacket, prepared to draw his weapon.

The man let him pass, but that didn’t mean they were home free. Damian had no idea if Anastos had distributed pictures of him to his army.

They would have to move fast.

He got the lay of land in less than ten seconds: Locke sitting alone next to the stage where a raven-haired dancer spun on the pole to Madonna’s Ray of Light, three more men sitting nearby — laborers from the looks of it, and very, very drunk — three waitresses in various positions around the club. the bartender, the bouncer by the front door and another one standing between the main room and a curtained doorway that Damian assumed led to the VIP room, where Derek was undoubtedly well into his lap dance. There were two doors besides the one leading to the VIP room, one that looked to be a dressing room from its position off the stage, the other behind the bar and more than likely leading to a kitchen.

There was no sign of Anastos, but Damian knew Locke and Derek wouldn’t have sent the signal unless they’d had visual confirmation he was in the building. Damian’s money was on Anastos in the VIP room, which was probably why Derek had paid for the private lap dance.

They would have to watch the exits.

Damian had less than ten seconds before Cole came through the back door with guns blazing.

He was nearing the bar, using it as an excuse to reach into his jacket — he would need a wallet to pay for a drink — when the sound of splintering wood sounded from the back of the building.

It was followed by shattering glass and the muffled thump of Cole’s silenced gun.

There was a split second delay as everyone in the room caught up, looking toward the VIP room like they weren’t sure they’d heard what they thought they’d heard.

Their reflexes got faster when a round of semiautomatic gunfire rang through the building. The customers and staff dove to the floor en masse as the dancer crouched on stage, screaming as she tried to crab walk to safety in acrylic platform stilettos.

Locke was already on his feet, weapon in hand and heading for the door behind the stage.

Odds that Stefano was in the kitchen: slim and none.

Damian headed for the door of the VIP room where another smattering of gunfire sounded, intercepted by the quieter shots of the guns carried by Locke and Cole.

It was one of Damian’s protocols to outfit weapons with silencers when they were headed for a firefight. The enemy rarely used them when caught unaware, which made it easier to tell who was shooting who when they didn’t have visibility.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said to the bartender as he passed, waving his gun in case the guy didn’t speak English.

The man nodded frantically and held up his hands to indicate that he didn’t have a weapon.

Damian reached the doorway to the VIP room and flattened himself against the wall next to the curtains, listening to the gunfire.

“How many?” Damian said into his mic.

“Three so far,” Cole said through Damian’s earpiece.

With Derek and Cole already in place, plus Damian, they were evenly matched.

Which wasn’t even at all.

They had the element of surprise as well as the comms system to enable communication.

And Damian had his rage.

“I’m at the door to the VIP room,” Damian said. “Locke’s got the room off the stage.”

As soon as there was a lull in the shooting, he stepped through the door, firing indiscriminately into the ceiling. It gave him a chance to look around while Anastos’ men figured out he wasn’t actually firing at them.

It was all the time he needed.

Derek was crouched behind an overturned sofa, a buxom woman with platinum hair nearby, her mascara smearing as she sobbed into her fist.

A smaller version of the stage in the main room stood across from Derek’s position, purple and blue light still blinking around its perimeter.

At the back of the room, a door swung on its hinges, bullet holes marking its surface. Several pieces of furniture were overturned, but it was impossible to tell if they’d been upended in the chaos of the shooting or if they were being used to provide shelter to Anastos and his men.

He got low just before a round of bullets embedded themselves in the wall where he’d been standing. He pulled down a long table littered with drinking glasses and bottles of beer and took up residence behind the thick wood.

He’d only been there a few seconds when another round splintered the wood as Anastos’ men marked his hiding spot.

“You still in the back, Cole?” Damian asked.

“Still here.”

“Anyone have eyes on Anastos?”

“On the other side of the room,” Derek said. “Behind the stage.”

Anastos was his, but Damian would need cover to get to him.

Based on the trajectory of the bullets that had rained down on the overturned table he’d been using as shelter, Damian placed one man near the door at the back of the room near Cole.

The angle of the gunfire that was concentrated on one side of the table meant that at least one — and maybe both — of the other men were with Anastos behind the stage.

“I’m making a move for the stage.” Damian spoke quietly. “I think one of the guys is near the back of the room by Cole. Can you take him on my cue, Derek?”

There was a pause while Derek assessed his position.

“Yeah,” he said. “I got him.”

“Cole, I need you to approach the stage from your position and cover me with Anastos’ men. I’ll flank him from the other side.”

“Waiting for your cue,” Cole said.

Damian double-checked the magazine in his weapon. “Now.”

He was only dimly aware of the gunfire erupting around him. He couldn’t afford to think about whether it would hit him as he bent low and headed for the stage.

This was it: their chance to get Anastos out of the way.

There might not be another.

Cole came into his line of sight as he approached the stage from the opposite direction.

Let it be him, Damian thought as he peppered the area with bullets, saw the carpet explode around him as shots were fired in his direction.

Time seemed to slow down, the distance between him and the stage stretching as if he were walking through quicksand.

By the time he came around the corner of the stage, the shooting behind him had quieted and Cole was rushing forward with his gun drawn.

Anastos was there, his back against the wall, blood leaking from his stomach. Two men were slumped over next to him, one bleeding from his head, the other from his chest.

An eerie smile played on Anastos’ lips. If Damian didn’t know better, he would have thought the other man was happy to see him.

“You couldn’t protect her,” Anastos choked out, still smiling. “You couldn’t save her.”

The words were like shards of glass in Damian’s skin.

“Maybe not,” Damian said. “But I can avenge her.”

Damian squeezed the trigger, emptying the magazine into Anastos’ body until he slumped over, blood spattering the wall behind him.

“We clear?” Cole called out.

“Clear,” Derek said behind them.

Damian lowered his weapon and turned around, surveying the carnage around them. Derek was helping the mascara-stained dancer up from the floor and handing her his jacket to cover up when Locke sauntered into the room.

“Figures,” he said, surveying the mayhem. “We pull a sting on a strip club, and all I got was an eyeful in the dressing room.”