There are places in the L.A.'s industrial backyard that look like a backdrop from a dystopian movie. Obviously, Hollywood crews aren't crazy enough to shoot here. Even LAPD only visits whenever they can't dodge it. I'm crouching behind stacked barrels in a dingy warehouse, feeling right at home here.

A soldier from a rival gang comes within six feet of me, stops, spits his wad, shoves a new one into his mouth. This time he came so close, I could count splotches of acne on his cheeks, see his jowls move as he chews, his eyeballs move as he scans the barrels.

My hand tightens on the gun. It won't be ideal, but—

The soldier's chewing slows down as he walks away. His boots step into his own footprints on the stained, cracked concrete floor. Like a fucking ballerina.

They cleared the middle of the room to push together five crates. Around this makeshift table, in a circle of yellowish light, sit my targets.

Four men, grisly, despite being younger than my thirty-six. Two women, the sort that learned to cut men's balls off, 'cause life. I can just make out a couple of bodies piled out of reach of light. As if to send me a signal that they mean business.

Despite the heat, the conspirators wear hoodies, navy or black. The clothes could have come from the same discount bin in K-Mart, but the facial features, the skin colors I catch underneath ratty hoods are hodgepodge.

Put two and two together, and this is a gang bound by necessity, not ethnicity. I wish they weren't either dumb, or gutsy, or both to cross those far bigger than them. Greed makes people stupid, but so does despair, and when it's despair... eh, fuck it!

It's all the same in the end.

The papers rustle on the table. Questions and answers come in hushed voices. Shoulders look relaxed. Long threads of flavored smoke push to the greasy ceiling whenever someone stops talking. Can't blame them for vaping non-stop, since the place stinks almost as bad as a meth lab.

I pull the collar off my t-shirt over my mouth and nose. Bulgari from this morning still wafts from its depth, smothering a sour note of sweat. Body odor is far better than the stink here. The illegal waste dumping is a dirty business in more ways than one. However, money doesn't smell and with drug supplies running low, one has to improvise.

Our problem is that the dumbasses in front of me are dumb enough to improvise by planning to hijack the Russians' next delivery. I've just heard enough to confirm it.

Dammit! So fucking stupid. Just fucking why? Now I have to put a stop to this sorry business. I roll my shoulders, getting ready, when the phone vibrates in my back pocket.

I dart a glance at the patrolling soldier.

Fortunately, one of his bosses coughs, and this sound covers the buzz from my back pocket.

The soldier stomps on, oblivious, far enough away from me to live another minute. I should expel a breath of relief, but my teeth clench as I reach for the damn phone.

One woman in the world bypasses every muting function. My girlfriend. My fiancée. My Bryn.

It doesn't even matter that she's the only one. I know it's from her, from Bryn. Who else could call me a split second before shit hits the fan? She alone has this uncanny sense of timing. It must be Bryn, and because it's Bryn, I can't act rational. I'm never rational with her. I can't do it.

Sweat cools between my shoulder blades as I take a peek at the screen instead of shutting the phone off.

Scali, something ain't right.

No shit, Bryn! I have to dish out death to these fucking idiots so at least someone—the feds, the Russians, the family—gets off my back for a hot minute.

None of it is right, but her text burns my brain. She knows about the feds, the Russians and the family sticking to me like white to rice. She should be out of town, scouting out our wedding venue. Safe, for God's sake. Safe! But it's Bryn, something is not right, so I can't act rationally.

The soldier's boots crunch on grit. He's almost on top of me again, so I'm out of time to tell Bryn to hang in there. Hang in there, until I sort the problem out, whatever she's gotten herself into. It's a wedding venue in the Napa Valley for crying out loud.

Ten minutes tops—and I'll get back to her. With a shaking hand, I shut the phone off and stuff it into the back pocket. Touch the handle of my gun as I do it. Ten minutes tops.

The shakes multiply, vibrate my core and lift me to my feet. Battle euphoria swirls my mind, raises my gun for me, pulls the trigger, sends me walking forward, shooting, shooting and shooting. The bullets spray ripping through the soldier's hoodie, then flesh. They come out of his back to hit the wall before anyone hears the boom of the first shot.

He topples backward, red worming down his pointy jowls.

The survivors jump and grab their guns.

The woman closest to me screams, because her mouth gapes black in the contorted pale face. No sound reaches my ears. I'm deaf from the gunfire, friendly and returned, when my men join the fun.

The bowels of the warehouse explode into blurry motion. The rounds pepper stacked barrels. Metal strikes sparks on metal. Mud-colored liquid trickles out of these holes. It's vile, but at least it's not volatile or toxic. Blood leaks from flesh too, but dark clothes and bad lighting hide those holes. Until it runs freely down the sloping floor toward a sump.

I should duck for cover, but I don't.

Euphoria twists reality. Makes me feel invincible. There's a one in ten chance that this instinct isn't lying. Or one in one hundred. In a thousand? Fuck if I know, I'm not good with math. I'm not even rational. I'm just a finger on the trigger, Matty the Trigger, they call me. That's all I am at the moment, despite striving to be more.

Fuck this warehouse, fuck DEA, FBI and Corona virus. Burn this sorry world! Fuck. This. World.

The gunfight is over before the odds turn against me for trusting the feeling and not ducking in cover. I stash the gun and survey the carnage. Two dead Russians in the corner, plus seven dead morons who'd murdered them.

One of my crew is being half-carried, half-walked to the doors of the warehouse. His screeches are the first sounds my returning hearing picks up. No dead for the Tangorello Crime Family. I like this scoresheet.

"Go. Take him to the doc," I shout to the rescuer and point to another man who has blood on him, but stands upright. "Drive them. Anyone else need stitching up?"

The wounded are hurried to the van and driven off. So far no sirens in response to our barrage. People of this industrial zone don't rush to the phone when they hear shots fired. They cower and pray it doesn't concern them.

I snap a few pictures on the burner phone and toss it to my lieutenant. "Send this to Jora. Tell him we've mopped up a mess for him and he's welcome. And that he knows where to find me if he wants to talk."

Some of the Tangorello captains won't be happy about this raid, but I'm tired of the gang war with the Russians. It's time to kiss and make up, even if I have to sacrifice a few heels for it. I'm getting married. I have Bryn to think about and the kids we'll have. Being Matty 'the Trigger' won't work anymore.

Relieved stress lets strained muscles send delayed signals to the brain. On stiff legs, I march to the van, climb inside and pluck out the other phone, the important one, from the back pocket.

I tap the speed-dial. My heart gives a lurch after I listen to the uninterrupted dial tone. Fingers that handled the weight of the gun no problem, now clutch the harmless gadget like it weighs fifty pounds. Another lingering dial tone.

She knows I'd call her as soon as I can. She should pick up.

"Bryn, babe, come on. Pick up the phone. Pick up the damn phone."

My neck, shoulder blades and back are aching as adrenaline drains from my veins. "Bryn, why aren't you picking up the fucking phone?"