Northern Italy, Classified Safehouse – 01:55 PM
The van rumbled through a winding mountain road for over twenty minutes, then veered into a narrow dirt path carved between overgrown brush.
From the outside, the structure looked like an abandoned warehouse. But inside—it was a different world.
Fortified with precision and silence, this was one of George Langley's private operational outposts—a Black Number hideaway, buried across major cities of the world.
The steel shutters groaned shut behind them, and the vehicle rolled to a halt in a secured dock.
George stepped out first, still armed, without a moment's pause.
Within, the walls were lined with heat-shielding and acoustic suppression panels.
The underground chamber resembled a war room—compact, cold, efficient.
Two screens displayed live satellite feeds of the Belloni estate.
Blueprints, infiltration maps, radio comms, night vision goggles—all laid out with surgical precision on the central table.
"Insertion is scheduled for 20:00 hours. Right after sunset—during the shift rotation. Run drills until then. Double-check your gear."
George spoke without raising his voice.
Yet every syllable carried the weight of command.
"Black Number Two—revise the drone path. Drop the east flank completely. Too exposed. Front entrance becomes Plan B. We approach from the northern ridge. Quiet, under rock cover."
"Understood, sir."
He unlatched his weapon case and methodically laid out a Glock and an MPX-K.
Piece by piece, he disassembled them—checking trigger pressure, magazine fit, suppressor alignment.
Black Number Three stepped forward.
"We can source additional weapons on-site. We've secured .45-caliber SMGs and a long-range sniper rifle."
George paused. Looked into the case. Then slowly shook his head.
"No. This one'll do."
He pulled out an old M4 carbine—hands brushing over the steel with something like reverence.
"Didn't think I'd ever pull this out again."
His voice was low, almost intimate.
He locked the magazine in place, pulled the slide.
The metallic click reverberated through the silence.
"The objective is singular. We go in clean. We bring her home."
He grabbed a set of signal trackers from the table—held one in his palm.
"If she's in this room"—he pointed at the blueprint—"that wall thickness kills the signal. Bring out the ultra-low-frequency tracker from Tier-2 inventory."
"In the vault downstairs. I'll prepare it."
George gave a single nod. Then loosened his tie, undid two buttons at the collar.
He looked toward the back wall—where a faded tactical map hung like a silent witness. And murmured, as if to himself:
"We'll burn their world to the ground if we have to. That black cat bastard just crossed the wrong line."
Northern Italy, Private Airstrip – 7:02 PM
The sun had dipped behind the ridge.
The sky burned red. The air was cooling fast.
On a remote strip of tarmac, far from any known map, two black SUVs sat quietly at the edge of a fading horizon.
George stepped out of the lead vehicle—a grey coat brushing against the wind, leather gloves on his left hand.
His face betrayed nothing. But his eyes…cut straight through the dark.
Behind him, the Black Number operatives formed a triangle—precise, silent.
Weapons holstered, but their bodies primed—every joint, every tendon—ready.
In the distance, a silver jet glided in, ghost-like, beneath the painted sky.
It landed clean. Smooth. And the stairs unfolded before the wheels even stilled.
Three men emerged.
Jinwoo, in a black tactical jacket.
Noah, lean and quiet in a sharp, open-collared blazer.
Daniel, crisp in a dark trench and dress shirt—his every movement precise.
They'd flown over ten hours.
But none looked tired.
They looked like soldiers.
George watched them approach.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
"Save the gratitude for later—after we bring her back. We don't have time. Get in."
The SUV doors opened without a word.
He turned. They followed.
The doors shut. The engines growled. And the convoy disappeared into the night.
Toward the place where Celeste waited.
Northern Italy, Mountain Entry Route – 7:45 PM
The three black SUVs climbed higher along a ragged mountain road.
The sun had vanished. The olive trees along the cliffside stood still—like ghosts holding their breath.
"From here, we walk."
George's voice cut through the cold.
He opened the rear trunk of the SUV.
The sharp friction of metal on leather rang through the quiet.
Inside: rifles, vests, smoke grenades, communications kits, gloves—everything immaculate.
He pulled out the M4. Held it without ceremony.
Then turned—and handed a key to Daniel.
"If I don't make it back…take her. Drive north-west, twenty-five kilometers. Langley's airfield is waiting."
Daniel didn't speak.
He just took the key.
His silence said enough.
"Wait."
Jinwoo's voice, soft but clear.
"We crossed the world for her, and now you're telling us to stay back?"
George said nothing. He moved to shut the trunk.
But Jinwoo stopped him. Reached in. Pulled out a sidearm—slid it cleanly, precisely.
Click.
That sound—cut through the night like a spoken vow.
Noah and Daniel turned to him.
"What?"
Jinwoo tilted his head.
"I'm Korean." he said, almost casually.
"Comes with mandatory military service."
He pulled on gloves. Flexed his fingers.
Noah chuckled—low, dry. Then reached for a rifle.
"Fuck it. I didn't enlist, but I've been trained. If he's going—so am I."
Daniel said nothing.
He reached for the last pistol.
Checked the magazine.
Disengaged the safety.
Every motion—flawless.
"Let's go."
His voice was steady.
"If we don't move now…we might never see her again."
And so they climbed—four shadows against a mountain's spine.
This was not a rescue.
This was a vow.
This was war with a name.