Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
My uncle shifts to the edge of his seat and cranes his neck for a better view through the windscreen. “Is that yours?”
I lift the powerful night-vision binoculars to my eyes and check the registration plate.
Yeah. That’s mine.
“The vehicle is empty.” I lower the binoculars. “Pull over here.”
Once the driver has parked, I get out and survey the surroundings. The three SUVs that tailed us stop behind the 4x4. My men climb out, their movements quiet and their weapons aimed in front of them as they fall into a circle formation around the vehicles.
“Come with me,” I tell the man who rode shotgun in the 4x4. “The rest of you follow when I give the signal.” I wave my gun toward my uncle who’s gotten out and is standing next to the 4x4 with his robe billowing in the icy wind. “Handcuff him to the wheel. Make sure you take the car key with you.”
“Angelo,” Uncle Enzo says in protest, but I’m deaf to him, already making my way to the abandoned SUV.
The man I brought with me is ex-military. French Foreign Legion. His expertise is explosives. He goes ahead with the portable explosive detector and thermal goggles, scouting the ground for landmines and other devices. Booby traps are Marziale’s favorite hobby. It’s his signature trademark.
My man lifts a hand to show the way is clear. At the vehicle, he scans the door handles, the body, and the underside.
He catches my gaze and gives a single nod. I open the back door. The interior is empty except for the four schoolbags stacked on the backseat. My gut clenches at the sight of Sophie’s yellow bag with the fluffy white dog keychain on the zipper and Guillaume’s blue one that’s halfway unzipped to reveal the banana Heidi packed for his break-time snack.
I fit my thermal goggles and check the ground. Six sets of footprints—four small and two big pairs—run through the sand in the ditch next to the road.
At my signal, the men move. Four stay behind to guard the vehicles. Two go ahead to scout the area while we follow the tracks, my heart beating harder with every step I take.
After a ten-minute hike, smoke and the glow of a fire become visible. I raise a hand, signaling for the men to slow down. Not making a sound, we leopard-crawl to the top of the outcrop. A metal structure appears at the foot of the hill. The area around it is flat. Weeds grow tall around the building. An old well sits on the side. A quad bike is parked in the front. Two men sit not far from the bike, warming their hands over a fire.
I draw a circle in the air, instructing my men to surround the building. I want nothing more than to storm down there and kick the door open, but I wait patiently until the footmen have searched the area. I doubt Marziale planned an ambush. The landscape is too bare. The small bushes don’t provide enough shelter to hide a grown man’s body, not even if he’s camouflaged and lying flat on his stomach.
When my guard’s signal indicates the coast is clear, I give the order to go in quietly. The aim is not to scare the children if they’re inside the building. As I make my way down the hill, careful not to dislodge the rocks and send them rolling down, I pray to any god willing to listen that the kids are there.
The explosives guy appears next to me, lowering the infrared binoculars and showing me four fingers. Four people inside.
Just the children, maybe. Hopefully. With the two outside, they’re vastly outnumbered. I expected a man like Marziale to put more manpower into the operation. It strikes me as odd, but I don’t stop to ponder his motivation. What matters is getting those kids home.
The men who sit next to the fire are careless. Their rifles are propped up against the side of the building. They’re talking loudly, not paying attention to the night sounds around them. Their sloppy actions scream inexperience.
I study the building through the binoculars. The door is bolted from the outside. No lock.
We slip closer undetected, coming from the back. At the side of the building, I pause. Then I hold up three fingers.
One, two, go.
We’re on them before they know what’s happening. When the fat one opens his mouth to scream, I grab his head in the vise of my arms and twist to the side. His neck snaps with a satisfying clack, his body going slack in my hold. One of my men took care of the other one. I would’ve preferred to gut them, but I can’t risk letting the kids see the blood.
My men are like ants. In a second flat, the rifles are snatched up and the bodies dragged away. The guys in charge of cleanup know what to do.