132

132
The van rolled to a stop just beyond the tree line, headlights killed, engine low. Artemus checked his watch—02:14. Timing was everything now.

Pedro leaned forward from the back seat, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of the old rental house across the field as it stood quietly still. No guard rotations, no lit windows, no movement. Which meant either Antonio was being cautious… or this was another decoy.

“Thermal?” Artemus murmured.

One of his men lifted the scope. “Two heat signatures, lower floor. Could be lookouts. No sign of the boy.”

Pedro’s jaw tightened. If he’s here, we can’t spook Antonio. Not with the child inside.

Artemus caught the flicker of doubt in his expression. “We go clean. No heavy entry unless we confirm the kid. I don’t want another bloodbath on Vincenzo’s head.”

Pedro nodded, though every muscle in him screamed to storm the place. “Antonio’s slippery. If we miss this chance—”

“We won’t.” Artemus’ tone was flat steel. He tapped his earpiece. “Team One circle east. Team Two, west. Quiet.”

“Why are you doing this, Artemus?” Pedro asked; the question had been sitting on his lips since the day Artemus returned and pledged support to team Vincenzo. 

“I want to fight for my place here again. I am tired of living on scraps… and I do not support child abuse.”

The night swallowed their whispers as shadows moved into position. Pedro and Artemus advanced low, crouched in the tall grass. The closer they drew, the more the house seemed to breathe menace—shutters nailed shut, weeds crawling up the walls, a faint glow leaking through a boarded crack.

Then voices muffled inside.

Pedro froze, straining his ears, and then he heard a child’s cry. It was soft and choked. His heart dropped. “It’s him,” he whispered.

Artemus lifted a hand, signaling the men to halt. “Alive. Good.” His eyes narrowed, tactical mind racing. “Antonio knows we’ll come. He wants us to walk into the trap.”

Pedro’s grip tightened on his weapon. “Then we turn it on him.”

Artemus smirked faintly, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Exactly.”

He keyed his comm: “Teams, adjust. New plan—flush him out. I want Antonio breathing, but if he tries to use the boy as a shield…” His gaze met Pedro’s, grim and unflinching. “We don’t miss.”

The door of the old house creaked open before Artemus could signal the breach.

Antonio stepped out into the night, one arm clamped around the boy’s small body, the other pressing a pistol hard against his temple. The child’s whimpers echoed across the clearing, cutting through the tension like glass.

Pedro froze, heart hammering. He’s right there. So close. The little boy looked pale, almost as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Antonio’s eyes gleamed with mania. “No one comes closer!” he barked, dragging the boy forward like a shield. “You think you can take me? You think Vincenzo can outlast me? No, tonight, I win. You give me the documents, and maybe the boy breathes.”

Artemus’s jaw tightened. “You’re bluffing. You kill that kid, you’ve got nothing left.”

Antonio’s laugh was sharp, edged with hysteria. “Then you don’t know me at all.”

Pedro raised his hands slightly, trying to keep Antonio’s gaze. “Listen. We don’t have your papers here. You know he keeps those close. But we can talk. Just let the boy—”

The words were drowned out by the sudden roar of automatic fire.

From the treeline behind them, muzzle flashes erupted like fireworks. Zao Min’s men, disciplined and relentless, poured bullets into the clearing. Artemus’s men dove for cover; some were cut down instantly. Shouts filled the air, comms exploding with panic.

“Ambush! We’re surrounded!”

Artemus spun, firing into the haze, his voice a razor. “Contact rear! Hold your lines!”

Chaos consumed the night. Bullets ripped through dirt and wood, men screamed, and smoke from flash-bangs clouded the field.

And in the storm of violence, Antonio’s grip on the boy loosened for just a moment. The child was yanked back by one of Antonio’s men and pulled into the shadows of the house. Neither Artemus nor Pedro saw who took him, only that in the next heartbeat—

He was gone.

Pedro’s blood turned to ice. He fired wildly toward Antonio, who had already retreated behind the doorway, cackling like a madman.

“You see?” Antonio’s voice rang through the gunfire. “Even your loyalty can’t save him! The boy is mine. And soon, so is Vincenzo!”

Artemus grabbed Pedro, shoving him behind cover as bullets tore through the earth.

“Focus!” he barked. “We lose our heads, we lose everyone. Zao Min wants us dead, and Antonio wants us bleeding. We can’t let them both win!”

Pedro’s eyes burned with fury, but he knew Artemus was right. The boy was lost in the confusion, and now they had to fight just to survive.

The clearing was no longer a battlefield—it was a slaughterhouse.

Smoke and fire lit the night as Artemus shouted for a retreat. “Fall back! To the vehicles, now!”

Pedro fired a final burst toward the treeline, covering their men as they scrambled. His chest ached not from a wound but from the sick, gnawing knowledge that the boy had vanished into the chaos.

They dove into the armored SUV, bullets pinging off the metal as Artemus slammed the door shut. The tires shrieked against the dirt, spitting gravel as the car tore down the narrow road, headlights cutting through the dark.

Inside, silence reigned for a long, heavy moment. Pedro’s fists clenched white on his rifle. Artemus’s jaw was locked, eyes forward, the weight of failure thick between them.

Then Pedro’s phone buzzed. He didn’t need to look at the caller ID—only one man would dare call at this moment. He put it on speaker.

“Report,” Vincenzo’s voice demanded, sharp and expectant. “Tell me you have the boy. Tell me Antonio is in chains.”

Neither Artemus nor Pedro spoke immediately. The silence stretched, filled only by the roar of the engine and the echo of gunfire still ringing in their ears.

Finally, Artemus answered, his voice grim and flat.
“We lost him.”