"Did you catch him?"
"Piece of cake."
As he tossed the unresponsive human-shaped bundle into the back seat, Vodka heard Binga's almost narcissistic answer and couldn't help shooting him a sidelong glance.
Rum's subordinates—apart from Curaçao, whom he had barely interacted with—why did they all speak in such punchable ways? Was that some kind of departmental trait drilled into them through standardized training?
Rolling his eyes, Vodka put his sunglasses back on but didn't call him out.
The two of them had come directly to grab someone despite knowing there were definitely surveillance cameras on the island. They had chosen to take the risk for the sake of efficiency, and naturally, to avoid complications, he had prepared a backup plan just in case.
Incidentally, he was wearing sunglasses for the same reason. They could effectively reduce the accuracy of facial recognition—or at least, that was what Binga, the technician, had said.
Right now, Chianti was at the island's only high point, the summit of that small mountain, observing their situation through her sniper scope.
If there were any witnesses or if they encountered resistance, she would shoot them dead, then leave.
Now that they had captured the target, notifying Chianti to withdraw and relocate was standard procedure.
After securing the captive, Vodka opened the driver's-side door. Just as he was about to get in, a sound like something snapping came from the terrace.
Startled, he looked up and saw a section of zipline hanging from the terrace of one room. A child slid rapidly down it and charged straight toward them.
...A child?
Vodka frowned at the absurdity of it. Binga, who had moved around to the passenger side, suddenly straightened up.
Well, wasn't this one of the targets he had planned to grab on the way out?
He had