Dario slowed the Audi, turning onto a narrow, tree-lined lane. It was more of a track than a road, flanked by high hedges and crumbling stone walls.
Up ahead, partially obscured by cypress trees, he saw the old blue Ducato van parked haphazardly outside a modest, slightly dilapidated two-story farmhouse. The dot on their screen pulsed directly over it.
"Showtime," Dario murmured, killing the engine and coasting the last hundred meters to park the Audi behind a thick screen of oleander bushes. They were about fifty yards from the farmhouse. "Looks quiet."
"Looks like a trap," Frederica countered, already checking her weapons with swift movements. She pulled out a compact Sig Sauer, checked the chamber, and tucked it away again. A slender stiletto blade appeared in her hand, was inspected, then vanished into a boot sheath. "He's making this too easy."
"Or he's just meeting his handler and thinks he's clever not being in the city," Dario said, pulling out his guns and performing the same ritual. He checked to make sure one gun had tranqs, not bullets, remembering his orders to observe, report, and make minimal contact until they were extracting. He had a feeling 'minimal contact' was about to get severely tested.
"All right, Spartan. What's the play? You want to sneak in the back while I knock on the front door and ask if Luigi's home?"
Frederica gave him a look that could freeze molten lead. "Spartan? I'll have you know I'm from Rhodes, not the Peloponnese."
"You look and act like a Spartan warrior. Very… Kassandra fromAssassin's Creed," Dario replied with a teasing smirk. "So Spartan you are. Unless you prefer Spartana?"
Frederica rolled her eyes. "You need to work on your game when complimenting ladies,megálos arkoúdos."
"Nothing wrong with my game. When I start complimenting you, trust me, you'll know," he replied, widening his grin just because it would irritate her. He didn't know what she had just called him in Greek, but he was sure he wouldn't like it.
"Getting back to the reason we are here. You see that balcony off the upper floor? I'll go up there, get eyes inside. You…" she sighed, as if the very idea pained her, "can provide a distraction at the front. See if you can lure them out or get a look inside without getting shot.Thenwe tranquilize and extract for questioning."
"Distraction? That's my specialty."
"Just don't try running into a firefight naked," she advised.
"Why? Would you be the one distracted then?" Dario asked, the old mercenary swagger momentarily resurfacing.
"It's a cold morning, and I don't need your shriveled pride flapping in the breeze."
Dario snorted. "Just try not to put a bullet into anyone until we know who's paying them."
"I remember," Frederica said flatly. She got out of the car and melted into the shadows of the hedgerow with the silent grace of a hunting cat, heading around the rear of the property.
Dario watched her go, a grudging respect warring with the sudden knowledge she had a great ass. The woman was terrifyingly good at her job, and he had to trust she would do her part.
Dario gave her a minute's head start, then took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strolled casually up the dirt track toward the farmhouse's front door, whistling a tuneless melody. He looked exactly like what he was pretending to be: a big, slightly lost, maybe hungover guy who had taken a wrong turn. Perfect distraction material.
He reached the weathered wooden door and knocked three loud raps.
"Pronto! Scusate il disturbo!" he called out, disguising his voice into cheerful confusion. "Mi sono perso! Sto cercando l'agriturismo La Quercia? Qualcuno mi può aiutare?"
Silence from inside. Dario strained his ears. He could hear faint movement, a muffled voice, and then the distinct, ominous sound of a shotgun being racked.
Oh, fantastic. Just what I need.
The door didn't open. A voice, rough and edged with suspicion, came from behind it. "Who is it? What do you want?"
Dario plastered a wide, slightly dopey grin on his face. "Ah! Finally! Sorry, friend, I'm completely lost. I'm renting an Airbnb around here, and I've gotten turned about. My wife is going to kill me if she wakes up, and I still haven't come home."
He heard a low, muttered conversation inside. Two voices, one definitely Luca. Then he heard the sound of the shotgun being set down, followed by the rattle of a chain being unhooked. The door creaked open a few inches, held by a security chain.
A stranger's face appeared in the gap. "You're on private property. Go away."
Dario didn't hesitate. He slammed his full weight, all 250 pounds of solid muscle, against the door. The flimsy security chain snapped, and the door flew open, crashing against the interior wall. The man on the other side stumbled backward onto the tile, reaching instinctively for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Dario kicked the man's hand as he squeezed the trigger, causing him to shoot himself in the leg. He was still screaming when Dario punched him hard, knocking him out.
Dario pulled out his gun as Luca charged out of the kitchen to see what the noise was about.
