"Damn it, that slippery snake didn't show his face!" Mara growled from her perch atop a massive tree overlooking the bar. She peered down at the entourage that had arrived, counting about 17 burly thugs. "Looks like he only sent his rottweiler Santoro instead."
Mara's grip tightened around the sleek, black Glock in her hands, the weapon an extension of her very being. With a deft flick of her wrist, she released the magazine, checking the ammunition count before snapping it back into place. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows for her targets.
"Eyes up, Emilia," she hissed into the radio, her voice laced with deadly focus. "Santoro's headed your way."
"Shit!" Emilia cursed. She ducked behind a table as the lady she'd collided with earlier pulled a gun, ready to fire at Emilia just as the hulking Santoro barged in. "We've been made, Mara."
"Copy that," Mara barked back, a feral grin spreading across her face. This was going to be fun.
