His Trophy His War
Men scattered, shouting orders, shadows moving in the infernal light.
Alessandro drew his pistol. “Stay low.”
Livia ducked behind a forklift, coughing as smoke thickened. Her pulse pounded. The heat, the noise, the stench of burning oil — it felt like the past clawing its way back.
Sergio’s voice crackled through Alessandro’s earpiece. “They’re spreading the fire east. You’ve got three minutes before the fuel tanks go.”
“Copy,” Alessandro snapped. He turned to Livia. “We’re pulling out.”