CHAPTER 6: GHOSTS IN THE FREQUENCY
On the fifth evening, the static on Dante's shortwave radio cut out, replaced by a steady, synthetic tone. Dante's head snapped up.
"Marco. It's an encrypted ping on the old network. Direct frequency."
Marco stood up immediately, gesturing for Dante to patch it through the insulated speaker. He pressed the receiver to his ear.
"You always were predictable, Marco," the raspy voice of Salvatore Rossi hissed through the static. "Did you really think your little pet bird was the only one with eyes on her?"
Marco kept his voice completely deadpan. "You're getting sloppy, Sal. Sending a rookie in a fake badge was pathetic."
"Miller was a decoy, you idiot," Rossi laughed, a dry, rattling cough. "He was meant to get caught so you would panic and run to your mountain hole. Your head of security has a brother with gambling debts in Atlantic City. Did you forget Dante has family?"
Marco's eyes shifted slowly across the room. Dante was standing by the console, his back turned, but his shoulders were trembling violently. In his right hand, Dante was holding a tactical detonator wired to the SUV's fuel tank outside.
May you like
"Dante," Marco said quietly, keeping his voice steady. "Put it down."
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