Page 50 of Tainted Blood
“How the hell does someone buy up an entire town, no questions asked?”
“That’s the power of Villefort... Città Fantasma doesn’t need anyone’s permission to exist, and those entrusted to protect its secrets are usually up to their eyes in dirty money.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. We aren’t good men, but we’ve never professed to be anything more than that. Those who wear the face of salvation while hiding their sins deserve to die a slow, painful death.
Speaking of inhuman bastards…
“Show me that image of Zaccaria again. I want to know which man to aim for first.”
Grayson hands me his phone.
“Cold-looking fucker,” I murmur, committing his face to memory. “He’ll look even better with my bullets decorating his face.
“And Spader?”
“No one touches him, either.” My fingers are choking the steering wheel now. “No man has ever suffered like that marícon will for his betrayal.”
In response to my threat, the moon bows her head again, and more darkness descends.
* * *
We pull over five hundred feet before the arched entrance, just shy of the first line of security cameras. I watch as a couple of sicarios position themselves close by, ready to cut the feed on Grayson’s signal.
There are no other cars around. No voices. No people.
Città Fantasma.
Moving swiftly, we exit the SUV and walk around to the rear. I pop the lift gate and start distributing the extra guns and ammo my contact in Florence arranged for us. Behind us, our men follow our lead.
Grayson glances down at the stash. “A grenade? Am I supposed to be impressed?”
Dropping a bullet into the magazine, I shoot him a side-eyed glare as I slam my palm against the base and shove it into the handgrip. “I’ll be more impressed if you manage to throw it without blowing your own dick off.”
I’m about to close the liftgate when I see RJ shove a small bottle into his rucksack. He’s quick, but I’m quicker, and it’s in my hands before he can snatch it back.
“Vodka?”
He points to his newly stitched bicep. “Pain relief.”
Bullshit.
I go to tuck it away in my own rucksack when my head starts swimming, the lack of sleep finally getting to me. Now that we’re here, right on the cusp of rescue, I’m aching. I’m agitated...
I’m crashing.
After forty-eight hours of continual motion, this lull feels like a detox—like someone just swung an anvil at my suit of armor. Fortunately, the vibration of my phone is the shot of adrenaline I need.
“What do you see?”
“Twenty scaling the perimeter walls on the northside right now,” my lieutenant reports. “This place is locked down, and there are guards stationed all along, but there are weak spots.” There’s a weighted pause. “They definitely have the numbers.”
“Maybe, but we have something they don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“The element of surprise... Zaccaria sent a C4 calling card to anyone who knew of Villefort’s resurrection. Until we make our move, we have the advantage.”
“Give the orders, jefe.” There’s a new respect in his voice.