Chapter 168
Amboni hurried toward the private elevator while pulling out his phone, quickly dialing a few numbers and issuing brief instructions.
Soon, several unmarked black SUVs quietly drove out from the underground parking lot of the Tyson Group building, blending into the evening traffic of Arcturus. Their destination was clear: the luxurious Harrison family estate in the northern suburbs.
At the same time, hundreds of miles away from Arcturus, near a desolate coastline with steep, jagged cliffs and no signs of human presence, a small private plane bumped and landed on a roughly leveled, barely usable temporary runway, kicking up clouds of dust.
The roar of the engine gradually faded amidst the sea breeze and the echoes of the cliffs.
The cabin door opened, and Barton stepped out first. He was still dressed in his plain work clothes, his graying hair messy in the sea breeze.
He squinted, adjusting to the much harsher wind compared to the lake district dock, and surveyed the rugged surroundings with a hint of satisfaction on his face.
Right after, Eva emerged, pulling a rope.
At the other end of the rope, Isabella's hands were tied behind her back.
Isabella was roughly dragged off the plane.
The long flight, harsh treatment, and inner fear had left her already frail body even weaker.
The sudden exposure to the cold, damp air and the uneven ground beneath her feet made her stumble, nearly falling. Eva yanked the rope hard to steady her.
Isabella struggled to lift her head, immediately noticing a temperature drastically different from the lake district warehouse.
It was colder, windier, and the air carried the heavy, salty tang of the sea mixed with a sense of desolation.
Then, she took in her surroundings.
They stood at the edge of a towering black cliff.
Just a few steps away was a dizzying abyss, where white waves could be faintly seen crashing wildly against jagged rocks below, producing a deafening roar.
The howling wind rushed up from the sea, almost strong enough to knock over Isabella's thin frame.
Looking around, apart from the barren, rocky slope behind them and the crude runway, there was nothing but the endless, turbulent ocean.
Desolate, raw, and filled with the despair of being abandoned by the world.
Isabella let out a terrified scream, instinctively staggering backward, desperate to get away from the deadly cliff edge.
But with her hands bound and movement restricted, she could only twist helplessly. Her face drained of color, her eyes filled with utter fear.
This place was far more terrifying than the abandoned dock, far more hopeless.
Barton watched her panic, a near-cruel glint of amusement on his face.
He walked over, positioning himself between Isabella and the cliff, blocking her retreat but also separating her from the abyss.
"No need to be scared, Ms. Lorraine," Barton's voice sounded somewhat distorted in the sea breeze, yet it reached her ears clearly, "As long as you behave, you won't fall."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over her fear-filled blue eyes, then added, "I didn't gag you because even if you scream your lungs out here, no one will hear. Just the seagulls and the rocks."
His tone even carried a hint of anticipation, "I hope Vitale finds this place soon. This game, all the hiding and sneaking around, has gone on long enough. It's time for the hunter and the prey to face each other. That's when it gets fun, don't you think?"
"You bastards! Lunatics!" Isabella couldn't hold back anymore, shouting hoarsely at Barton, tears streaming down her face from anger and fear.
Then, she abruptly turned her head, her gaze shooting past Barton to lock onto Eva, who stood nearby, still expressionless, holding the rope.
Her eyes were filled with the pain of betrayal, confusion, and deep disappointment.
"Eva," Isabella's voice choked with emotion, carrying a faint, desperate hope that refused to die, "I thought you were different. I thought, at the very least, we could be friends."
During these days of captivity, Eva's seemingly casual acts of protection, her silent but firm interventions, and the occasional glimpses of pain from her past that seemed to crack her tough exterior...
All of it had given Isabella a false hope in her despair, creating a ridiculous, one-sided sense of connection.
She had thought that beneath Eva's cold shell, there might still be a flicker of humanity, and that maybe, just maybe, they could share a fragile understanding born from their shared hardship.
But reality dealt her the harshest blow.
Eva, expressionless, tugged the rope binding her, dragging her to this hopeless place.
Those deep green eyes, looking at her now, seemed no different from Barton's or Aldo's.
Cold, distant, filled with the indifference of someone on a mission.
Hearing Isabella's words, Barton let out a low chuckle, as if he'd heard something utterly absurd.
That laugh sounded especially jarring in the sea breeze.
"Friends?" Barton shook his head, glancing at Eva with a tone of unshakable certainty, "Eva would never be friends with a mafia woman. Never."
"Her family was killed by the mafia. Her heart was burned to ashes by hatred long ago. She's my most loyal soldier, my daughter. She'll never betray me, and she'll never feel even a shred of extra emotion for people like you."
After saying this, Barton ignored Isabella's despairing expression and waved at the other men stepping off the plane.
"Follow me," Barton ordered curtly, leading the way toward a low concrete structure built into the cliffside, almost blending with the black rocks.
The building looked like an abandoned Cold War observation post or small shelter, hidden and sturdy.
Eva tugged the rope, signaling Isabella to follow.
Her movements weren't rough, but they carried an undeniable force.
Isabella took one last look at the chilling cliff and the roaring sea, then at Eva's cold, resolute profile. The last spark of hope in her heart was completely snuffed out.
She lowered her head, letting silent tears fall and mix with the icy sea breeze.
Then, with numb, heavy steps, she followed Eva, walking step by step toward the concrete building that loomed like the open maw of a giant beast, leading to an even darker, unknown fate.
Vitale, where are you?
Bob led Barton and the group through the narrow entrance of the concrete building into its interior.
Unlike the rough, desolate exterior that almost merged with the rocks, the inside had been minimally renovated and arranged. Though still basic, it was much more comfortable and secure than the abandoned dock warehouse.
The rough cement walls were coated with simple whitewash, and dim but functional emergency lights were installed.
The air was thick with dust, the salty smell of the sea, and a stale odor, like a mix of engine oil and canvas from an old military storage depot.
Several rooms lined the corridor, their doors made of heavy iron plates, looking incredibly solid.
"This is a property my family bought a long time ago," Bob explained as they walked, a subtle pride in his tone about his family's legacy, despite his efforts to distance himself from it, "It used to be an abandoned Cold War coastal observation station. My father thought its hidden location by the sea might come in handy for certain inconvenient situations, so he bought it and did some basic reinforcements and modifications."
He pushed open an iron door, revealing a relatively spacious room with a few camp beds.
There were canned food, bottled water, and even an old diesel generator humming lowly in the corner.
"Everything here is ready," Bob said to Barton, trying to sound dependable, "Food, water, fuel—enough for a dozen people to last at least a month. Most importantly..."
He walked to a corner of the room and pulled open a heavy square iron cover on the floor with a metal ring.
Below was a dark, downward staircase, with a faint draft of air rising from it.