“Power is on, but they can’t send video without wireless.” Our designated leader motions us through the trees and I hesitate.
Because of my dad’s shenanigans, trust does not come easy. “Are you blokes certain that cutting off their wi-fi won’t be suspicious?”
The other Brit guffaws. “Are you kidding me? Their services go down daily. You can set your watch by it.”
We inch forward to the outside guards leaning against the wall, sharing a smoke. Without much effort we Taser, gag, and tie them up.
Once I drag the two toffs to the tractor shed, Caleb points out our next destination. “If our intel is correct, Egonov resides on the second floor.”
We creep forward but stop when Hackzilla chimes in our comms. “Approaching vehicle. Expect trouble.”
“Good copy.” Arm out, Slate directs us to flatten against the wall.
All of us hold our collective breaths, as six men pile out of a white SUV, emblazoned in blue letters, POLIZIA.
“Shit.” I watch our chances of catching the Russian twit evaporate.
Shortly thereafter, two of them walk out carrying suitcases. No fucking way. Hell no, he is not leaving the country. Not while I can still draw a breath.
“Tires?” I turn to Slate who nods his permission, which is righteous, because I was going to shoot them out, no matter what he said.
A quick double-tap from my weapon yields two flats. At the loud pops, the Italians hit the ground, one covering Egonov.
Taking aim, I pause. Although I did promise not to kill anyone, I did not risk my relationship to leave this place empty-handed.
“Non muoverti.” My gun barrel points at the Russian and no one moves. “Give it up, Egonov. Come peacefully and I may not kill you.”
“Stupid Pindos, you have no authority here.”
“Correct. I am pro-Democracy, which is all the more reason to put two slugs in your ugly brain.”
“Nyet, you will not because you are a man with strong moral, how you say, com-pass?”
My MI6 mate cuffs the luggage handlers and laughs. “He may be, but I’m not, comrade.”
“Neither am I. Get the fuck up,mudak.” Normally, Slate calling anyone an asshole would deserve applause. However, four of the carabinieri remain at large, and we need to move.
Despite our threats, the terrorist refuses to budge so I aim at his exposed armpit, and my twitching finger pulls the trigger. “Next one goes through your prick.”
No regrets, I watch his blood pool. The wanker threatened to murder my neighbors. His hackers ransomed hospitals, causing hundreds to suffer and die. Not only that, he traumatized my beloved Moishe.
As rounds fire from the second floor, I use Egonov as a human shield and shove him forward. “Bollocks. Move.”
While we hide behind the cop car, Slate fetches car keys from the driver.
“Jump in.” He starts up the vehicle, we pile in, and he races down the road on the tire rims until we arrive at our SUV.
Keeping my gun on the Russian’s skull, we swap cars and fly past the hazelnut trees. I think we’re in the clear until I hear the buzz of motorbikes, closing on our position.
Oliver, sitting on the other side of our prisoner, glances out the back window. “Blimey chaps, unwanted guests at six o’clock.”
“Who are they?” Eyes on the rearview mirror, Slate shifts, gears grind, and as we jerk forward, we bounce over the rough road.
Hackzilla sounds in our comms. “They’re Balabanov’s mercenaries.”
Smith shouts, “Rocket launchers. Incoming.”
The ground under us explodes, we hit the air, and wobble on two tires for two excruciating seconds, before slamming back down.
