Chapter 60
Chapter 60
Lina's POV
I retraced my steps back to the departure level, maintaining a steady pace—neither fast nor slow, indistinguishable from any other person leaving the airport after seeing someone off.
As I passed through the glass corridor outside the duty-free shops, I paused for two seconds at a storefront window, using the reflection to scan behind me. No one was following.
My phone vibrated. I pulled it out to check—a message from Luca: Car in B3.
I made my way through the parking garage's concrete walkway and found the black Audi parked in B3's position closest to a support pillar. This angle provided a clear view of incoming vehicles from three directions. Luca's parking habits were like his hiring habits—visibility always came first.
As I approached, I noticed the window was cracked open. Luca sat in the driver's seat, flipping a lighter between his fingers. When he spotted me appearing by the pillar, his fingers paused, and the lighter's cap snapped shut with a click.
I opened the passenger door and got in. The door closed with a solid thud, sealing out the parking garage's ambient hum.
Luca's gaze fell on the barely visible bloodstain on my jacket, then shifted to my left ear. His expression immediately hardened.
Without a word, Luca reached into the center console's compartment and pulled out a pack of disinfectant wipes, placing them within my reach.
"Injured?"
"No."
I extracted a wipe, and the alcohol scent spread through the confined space. Using the rearview mirror, I cleaned the trace where the blade had grazed my left ear. The wipe's contact with my skin brought a burning sting.
I crumpled the soiled wipe and stuffed it in my pocket, then pulled the micro-communicator I'd confiscated from the restroom out of my jacket's inner pocket and tossed it onto the console.
"All clean," I said. "But he was just a scout—perimeter sentry at best. The Raven wouldn't send only one person."
Luca glanced at me without pressing for details. He picked up the communicator from the console, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rotated it in the light, examining a crack in the casing. He pressed the side switch, and when nothing happened, casually dropped it back on the console.
"Maggie's flight takes off in forty minutes. Personnel on both ends have confirmed they're in position."
I nodded and settled back into my seat, the muscles in my neck still tense.
The man in the janitor's uniform was low-level—slow combat reflexes, improper knife grip. This indicated he hadn't received systematic close-combat training, more like someone from a crash course.
But his presence here proved the Raven's intelligence network was still operational. Dmitri had been down for less than twenty-four hours. For most organizations, losing their leader meant paralysis, uncertainty, and chaos. Yet new orders were still being issued, penetrating precisely and lethally into every gap in our operations.
"Their response was too fast," Luca frowned, starting the engine.
"The Raven began operating independently before Dmitri's arrest. I suspect he's now planning to simultaneously cut ties and take control."
Cutting ties meant abandoning old resource channels and protection; taking control meant establishing new deterrence and loyalty. In my view, the Raven trying to accomplish both simultaneously was nearly impossible.
The moment I finished speaking, the communicator on the console suddenly began vibrating. Its green indicator light flashed frantically, accompanied by sharp electronic static.
Luca and I both looked at the thumb-sized black device. I reached over and pressed the side switch. An electronically synthesized voice emerged from the communicator—processed through a voice modulator, making gender and age indistinguishable. A string of coordinates was then recited, one digit at a time.
In the background of those coordinates, we could hear dull impacts of heavy objects striking something, over and over, as if someone was repeatedly hitting something with a blunt instrument.
Before we could listen for another second, the transmission cut out. The indicator light died, the vibrating stopped, and that piece of plastic returned to being a silent corpse, as if nothing had just happened.
Those coordinates pointed to the sheet metal warehouse beside the abandoned docks in Brooklyn's Red Hook district—the safe house where Dmitri was being held.
I turned to look at Luca. He said nothing, his face darkening as he floored the accelerator.
"How many people are at the safe house?"
"Six, plus two perimeter sentries. Eight total."
By all logic, eight people guarding an old man whose hand tendons had been severed should be more than sufficient. Dmitri was already disabled—his fingers couldn't grip anything. Forget about resisting; he needed help just to eat.
Eight trained people on rotating shifts, distributed across two floors and the perimeter, equipped with communication devices and an electronic ankle monitor alarm system—this configuration should theoretically be more than enough to handle a half-crippled old man. But judging from the sounds that had just come through the communicator, it wasn't that simple.
"When did they last report in?"
Luca released his right hand from the steering wheel, pulled out his phone, and tossed it to me. The screen showed an encrypted messaging app interface. The last message, from eleven minutes ago, read: All normal.
"Contact them," Luca said.
I dialed the number. The app automatically encrypted as the speaker emitted waiting tones.
One ring, two rings, three rings, then a busy signal.
I hung up and redialed, tapping the screen again. Still busy.
Communication had been directly severed—someone had precisely destroyed the safe house's communication base station from inside.
"Phone's not going through. This doesn't look good."
"Right. We need to get there as fast as possible." Luca shifted gears to pass a truck. The speedometer needle crossed 120 and kept climbing. Outside, the streetscape began blurring as streetlights and trees compressed into elongated streaks of color.
Just then, Luca's phone vibrated again. He glanced at the caller ID and answered on speaker.
An urgent male voice came through: "Sir, all surveillance in Red Hook has gone dark. Our backup team is still fifteen minutes out—"
"Understood. Lock down a three-block radius. Stop all vehicles entering or leaving. Wait for my arrival."
"Yes, sir." The response was brief and sharp, and the call immediately ended.
The car fell silent again. I reached behind me, drawing the pistol Luca had given me from the small of my back. I pulled the slide to check the magazine, and after confirming it was full, I holstered the weapon back at my waist. From a hidden compartment under the seat, I pulled out a backup folding knife and secured it in my boot.
"I'm wondering... what's the Raven's purpose in doing this?" Luca suddenly spoke.
"Dmitri's head contains Raven's entire European network layout. If that information falls into someone else's hands, even if the Raven takes over, he'll just be controlling an empty shell."
I turned sideways, my right hand unconsciously resting on the holster at my waist. "Plus, the Raven made some mistakes before and lost Dmitri's trust. Now he's planning to redeem himself through meritorious service, or use this opportunity to let Dmitri die for some legitimate reason—"
"Like 'our forces encountered fierce resistance during the rescue operation, and our former leader unfortunately perished.' If he brings Dmitri back alive, the credit is his. If he returns with a corpse, Raven becomes his."
I clenched my jaw. If the Raven took Dmitri away, all the effort we'd invested in setting this trap would be wasted, and everyone on the kill list—including Maggie, Cecilia, and me—would remain sitting ducks.
As long as the list existed, the hunting wouldn't stop. The Raven needed a ritual cleansing to consolidate his position, and the kill list conveniently provided ready-made sacrificial offerings.
"How much farther?"
"Seven minutes." Luca checked the navigation, his peripheral vision sweeping over the shrinking blue route on the screen.