Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

“Of course not. I promise we won’t ever return to your casino”

I asked myself if he will ever go anywhere at all and I wasn’t exactly sure.

“Alex, give him back his computer.” I didn’t hear any movement and turned to look back to see Alex and Aldo in their own high. I went over to him and slapped him hard. He got himself together. “If you can’t function on this shit, then don’t use it while you’re on duty.” I warned him. “Give him back his computer.”

Usually I would have taken the situation more lightly, but I thought showing the kid some violence would make for better performance. My thoughts were flying through my head a mile a minute, like a train with no brakes, as if I was on something. What else could I use the boy for? How much was he worth? How much could I sell him for? Did his Israeli citizenship make him more attractive? And the biggest question of them all: Should I really be selling the goods to the terrorists or should I keep them for myself?

Guy Niava,

On the flight to Chiapas, November 13, 2015 03:00 a.m.

Zorro’s voice could barely be heard above the noise of the old motor. “I think we should paint ourselves now,” she yelled, took out the color from her bag and passed the box to me.

I opened it, put the lid beside me, and took out a light green color, and leaned towards her. “What a pity to hide such a pretty sight…” With spare movements I applied the color to her face. I added darker colors to the prominent areas to block out the facial lines, and other shades of green and brown to hide the human features. I lingered purposefully over the erogenous areas, the areas that I had gotten to know mere hours earlier, areas which were especially sensitive. She laughed and stroked my hand.

When I was finished with Zorro’s face, I turned to Laura. “You have to apply the camouflage on your face,” I shouted. “Would you like me to help you?”

She grabbed the box from my hand and muttered, “I can color myself, thank you very much.”

I had just finished painting my face when the pilot said, in an indifferent tone, “You’re getting close to the area.”

His young son, the spitting image of the father, only without the wrinkles, opened the aircraft door. We stood in a line near the entrance. Zorro had been insistent that she hold the GPS device. She would navigate, we would follow, and we would all arrive safely back home. She had one stick light on her helmet. Laura had two, so I could tell them apart.

Both women were good partners for this mission. They had a lot in common, aside from their looks. From the moment the decision had been made and Laura decided to go along with it, I saw that they both had level-headedness, were decisive and responded quickly to situations. I could hear their breathing through the headphones. They were ready. Not too excited, not too indifferent. The pilot’s son touched Zorro’s shoulder and she jumped. A half a second later Laura jumped too, and I jumped last.

The contrast between the noise of the plane’s struggling motor and the stillness of the heavens was almost hypnotic. I could hear through the earpiece the sounds of my partners breathing quickening, the noise of the wind mingling with the transmissions.

“Good jump girls,” I said quietly and added, “We’ll land on the light spot down below.” For some reason that affected one of them, because her breathing seemed to calm.

From up high, it looked as if the east was hinting to us that, in a short while, it would color the skies a pale red. The forest looked black, as if the trees had swallowed up the moonlight. The ploughed field was brown, as if the good land was shining specially for the paratroopers trying to land there. We still had about five kilometers to glide down and I could only hope that no-one had heard the receding plane or had seen three parachutes decorating the skies.

We braced ourselves to land against the wind. “Remember to break properly, so no-one injures an ankle on landing,” I reminded them. Sometimes even a ploughed field could be hazardous to a paratrooper.

“I remember,” Zorro’s voice affirmed.

“In a short while the sun will be up. Collect your parachutes quickly,” I said.

Zorro was the first one to announce, “I’ve landed and I’m okay.”

I was next.

Then I heard two very bad noises, simultaneously. The sound of Laura’s cry of pain, then the gunshots. Laura called out, “I’ve been injured!” And then all was silent.

***

Without stopping to collect the parachutes, Zorro and I distanced ourselves from the open field. When the line of trees had hidden us, we stopped to assess the situation. The parachutes and the other equipment, which now became a burden, were no longer important. We had been found out sooner than anticipated. I called out, “Laura… Laura answer!” But she did not answer. We tried to ascertain where she was situated. Could they have found her, shot her and picked her up so quickly? Throughout this whole journey there had been someone always one step ahead of me, and I didn’t like that idea.

I suddenly saw Laura’s parachute billow up slightly, which meant she was stuck in the middle of the field. We had no choice but to expose ourselves again to get her out of there. My only hope was that the shooters didn’t have night-vision devices.

I was the first to smell cigarette smoke. In a forest such as this, the smell was so obvious and clear, it was like a fluorescent McDonald’s sign. I held on to Zorro’s arm and pulled her off the pathway and we quickly went into the forest thicket without breaking any twigs. Between the dense