In the midnight darkness, Mark carefully scanned the forest clearing through the night-vision scope mounted on his M-4 assault rifle, his index finger extended above the trigger guard to prevent accidental firing. Mark noted the two-story wood-frame farmhouse with a stone basement in the scope’s green tint. A barn stood off the house’s left side, both buildings occupying a rough turf field in the Slovakian woods about three kilometers south of the Polish border.

Two black men walked back and forth on the turf in front of the house, their eyes glowing brightly in the night vision scope. Mark surmised they were Ugandan mercenaries based on their old-style Soviet camouflage uniforms with green wool berets covering their heads. The African natives wore heavy field jackets and breathed tiny clouds of white mist in the late October nighttime chill. Each man held an old-style wooden-stock Soviet AK-47 assault rifle hanging across his chest from a single strap over one shoulder.

Mark lay prone behind a log at the edge of the tree line, his uniform in the green, tan, and brown of NATO woodland camouflage. Over his field jacket, he donned a German armored vest, and padded tactical gloves protected his hands. He donned a NATO-camouflaged helmet with a radio headset covering his right ear with the mic arm suspended before his lips. A cord snaked down from the headset to the radio strapped to his belt A hundred feet of mountain climbing rope coiled around his torso, and he held his weapon of choice, an American M-4 short-barreled 5.56mm carbine fitted with a sound suppressor and night scope.

Mark checked his watch: 01:12. The night was clear and moderately cold at eight degrees Celsius, typical for Slovakia in late October. Stars twinkled in a cloudless black sky framed by the forest’s tall trees, and a nearly full moon hung halfway up the southwestern sky.

A sudden scuffling commanded Mark’s attention, and he saw his redheaded companion hunched down as she quickly and quietly approached him. Erin dropped down behind the log and lay beside Mark, holding her black-stock 5.45mm AK-74, also equipped with a sound suppresser and night scope, in front of her. Erin donned a similar tactical uniform to Mark, with her helmet concealing her luxurious red hair. Her emerald eyes peered from fair, freckled cheeks.

“The outside area is clear,” she reported. “Other than the two guards outside, I didn’t see anyone else.” Erin let out a breath. “But, we have nae way of knowin’ how many of the bleedin’ bastards are inside.”

Mark allowed himself a brief smile. Erin’s native brogue was one of the things he loved most about her.

“Scott will tell us when he gets the satellite feed,” Mark said. “What about the barn?”

“Empty now. A sniper was stashed in the loft.”

“By himself?” Mark asked in disbelief.

“Aye. The stupid idiot was asleep and didn’t even notice me sneakin’ behind him.” Erin smirked and added, “I slit his throat.”

“Good,” Mark whispered.

Erin nodded at the house. “Are you sure the girls are in there?”

“Most likely,” Mark answered. “According to the email Scott hacked into, the buyer is due at ten tomorrow morning, so it’s a safe bet they’re still there.”

“So, we have to get the wee lasses out tonight.”

He gave her a quick nod. “That would be an affirmative.”

“Any idea where the bastards are keeping them?”

“Let’s find out.” Mark reached down, pressing the button on the radio attached to his belt, as he spoke into the headset. “Pitcher to Home Plate. Do you have a feed yet?”

Static sounded in his headset. “Negative Pitcher,” Scott’s voice came through. “Satellite is not due to pass overhead for another ten minutes.”

“Roger that,” Mark replied.

Scott, the third man in their team, sat inside an olive green, four-by-four GP light tactical box van parked on the dirt road a little over a hundred meters from the house. He would monitor the US spy satellite network he hacked into, giving them tactical intelligence. His other roles were to detonate the ordinance he and Mark had previously set and provide covering fire with a .50 caliber Browning machine gun—the Ma Deuce—mounted on the van’s roof in case anything went wrong.

Mark lifted his weapon and looked again at the farmhouse twenty-five meters in front of him. Two windows on the first floor and one on the second floor were lit, and Mark made out silhouettes crossing in the lit windows. The fieldstone basement held two smaller windows with light coming from the one furthest from their position.

Mark lowered his assault rifle. “Without the satellite feed, I guess the girls are in the basement. That’s where I would keep them if we were still working for Brunner.”

“But we’re not, m’love. Thank God for it.”

“Yeah,” Mark whispered, glad those days were behind him.

Six days earlier, American millionaire Robert Hudson visited Paris with his wife Becky and their two daughters, Patty, age eight, and Suzy, age six. While waiting in line for the It’s a Small World ride at Disneyland Paris, four men snatched the two girls and disappeared into the crowd. After a few hours of a fruitless search by the Paris police, Mr. Hudson turned to a former associate on the dark web, and that associate connected Hudson with Mark. Mark offered to get his girls back for two hundred fifty thousand Euros, and Mr. Hudson happily agreed.

After a quick search on the dark web, Scott found a notice offering to sell the girls to the highest bidder. Scott tried to hack into the email server to learn who the seller was, but the account was under a false name and protected by several firewalls. However, Scott penetrated the encrypted network enough to discover that an anonymous buyer offered to purchase the Hudson sisters, and the seller arranged delivery at this farmhouse at ten the following morning. While Mark still didn’t know the seller’s identity, he had enough dealings with a few thugs in the European underworld to give him a short list of possible suspects.

“Home Plate to Pitcher,” Scott’s voice crackled in Mark’s headset. “I have the satellite feed. I spot two heat signatures beside you and Erin outside the cabin, with twelve more inside. Two heat signatures in the cabin are smaller than the others, probably the hostages. They are in the southwest corner of the building, and based on the weak signal, I’m guessing they’re in a basement.”

Mark smiled. “Roger that. That’s what we suspected, too. Just like Holly Wells in Afghanistan.”

“Except there’s more trees here.”

“That’s an affirmative. Stand by to execute.”

“Standing by,” Scott’s voice crackled.

“Ready to get the wee lasses back to their family?” Erin asked.

Mark gave a quick nod. “Let’s take out the two outside guards first.”

“Grand,” Erin smiled.

Mark and Erin both rose to one knee and aimed their assault weapons.

The two Ugandan guards stood in front of the steps. One pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his friend. The friend produced a lighter, and the two men lit up, enjoying a quick smoke.

“Aim for the head,” Mark told Erin.

“Right, body armor,” Erin replied. “I got the bastard on the right.”

“Roger,” Mark said. He aimed through the night scope at the man on the left. He flipped the selector switch to semi-automatic mode.

“On three,” Mark whispered. “One, Two, Three.”

Mark and Erin simultaneously fired their weapons, rifle blasts muffled by the suppressors.

Heads exploded in crimson mists as each guard spun and fell to the grass.

She set her AK-74 down and reached to her side, retrieving a meter-long, dark green cylinder with black steel rings on both ends: A Russian Klyukva-28 handheld, anti-tank rocket launcher.

“Let’s hope this Russian piece of junk is worth what we paid,” Erin commented.

“Yeah,” Mark sighed. “Aim for the wall above the unlit basement window. We’ll go in there.”

“Got it.”

“Pitcher to Home Plate,” Mark radioed Scott. “Ready to blow the lid?”

“Ready,” Scott’s voice cracked.

Erin rose to both knees and rested the rocket launcher on her shoulder. She looked through the sights and gave Mark a quick nod.

Mark returned the nod and then spoke into his headset. “Pitcher to Home Plate. On three. One, two, . . . THREE!”

A sudden blast sounded in the distance behind them.

Two hundred meters down the road, a C4 charge Mark and Scott had previously planted on the top of a utility pole severed the power lines leading to the compound.

The lights in the house flickered and went out.

Erin squeezed the trigger on her rocket launcher.

A small glowing red streak of the rocket-propelled grenade flashed toward the house and exploded on impact. The ground shook from the grenade’s blast, leaving a smoking, gaping hole in the house’s wall.

“We’re in business!” Mark shouted.

Mark rose to his feet, and Erin dropped the grenade launcher and picked up her AK-74.

They both sprinted toward the house.

“Home Plate to Picher!” Scott’s frantic voice crackled in his headset. “Four more coming out of the house.”

“Roger,” Mark said, flicking his M-4’s selector switch to full auto.

Four more Ugandan guards leaped out the front door, randomly spraying the area with their AK-47s.

Mark and Erin dove onto the grass as rounds whizzed over their heads. Mark rolled to a prone position and quickly sprayed a steady burst, taking out two guards. Two shots from Erin’s AK-74 cut down the other two.

Three assault rifle barrels emerged from the blasted hole in the wall, and muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness as the guards randomly sprayed rounds across the clearing.

Mark switched his M-4 to semi-auto and started firing a successive sequence of rounds into the hole, forcing their assailants to take cover.

“Go,” Mark told Erin.

He continued shooting suppressive fire into the hole as Erin rose and hunched down as she rushed to the house. She slammed her back against the exterior wall next to the jagged opening, out of the firing angle of the three guards in the room.

Slinging her AK-74 across her chest, she pulled a baseball-sized fragmentation grenade from her chest harness and lobbed it into the hole. She then turned away, covering her ears with both hands.

Seconds later, a small blast erupted from the hole, spaying smoke and debris into the yard.

Erin turned back and leaned into the gaping hole and sprayed a steady stream of gunfire, taking out any guards still alive inside the room.

Mark jumped up and rushed forward, slamming his back against the wall opposite the opening from Erin.

“This room is clear,” Erin said. She pressed her back against the house’s outside wall as she ejected the empty magazine from her assault rifle. She grabbed a fresh one from her belt, slapping it into the receiver. “How many more of the bastards do you think there are?”

“Scott counted twelve, and we took out seven, not counting the two outside guards.” He also ejected his magazine and pulled a fresh one from his belt He slid it in and slapped the bottom, setting it firmly into the receiver. He then released the bolt, sliding it forward to chamber the first round.

Mark crouched beside the basement’s stone wall and slug his assault rifle behind him. Erin stood guard while he slipped off his backpack and retrieved a steel frame prepacked with C4.

Cradling the C4 under one arm, Mark grasped the jagged edge of the wall with his free hand and lifted his foot to the hole’s bottom.

“Here we go,” he muttered.

Mark pulled himself through the hole into the house and rolled on the floor against the body of one of the guards Erin killed.

He rose to one knee and looked around, ensuring the room was clear. The moonlight pouring through the hole gave him enough light to see.

He then grabbed the dead guard by his feet and moved him away from the center of the room, laying his body next to his two dead companions.

A single gunshot sounded behind him, and he felt a round whistle by his ear and shatter against the room’s far wall.

In one fluid motion, Mark quickly turned and drew a Glock 19 handgun from his chest holster. He fired through the open doorway, putting three quick rounds into the gunman’s torso.

The guard fell backward and dropped his handgun as blood spurted from his chest.

Quickly holstering his Glock, Mark moved the C4 charge to the center of the room and activated the timer on the detonator.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” he yelled as he dove out of the jagged hole in the wall and rolled on the grass. He lay prone and clamped both hands over his head.

Erin quickly turned away from the hole, clasping both hands over her ears and hugging the wall’s exterior.

The house shook from an explosion that ejected more smoke and splinters out of the hole in the wall.

“Let’s go!” Mark yelled.

He climbed back into the hole and slipped the rope from his torso. After securing a grappling hook on the bottom edge of the jagged hole in the wall, Mark threw the rest of the rope down the hole in the floor. Grasping the rope, Mark quickly lowered himself down to the basement. He dropped to a packed dirt floor and quickly stepped to one side as he raised his weapon and glanced through his night-vision scope.

Erin slid down the rope and dropped to one knee beside him, raising her AK-74 and looking through her night-vision scope.

A loud buzzing stream of gunfire sounded from outside, and Mark heard rounds hitting the house’s front wall above them.

“Pitcher to Home Plate,” Mark said. “What’s going on?”

“Home Plate to Pitcher,” Scott’s crackling voice replied. “Some more thugs ran out of the house. I took ‘em out with the Ma Deuce.”

Mark grinned, knowing how much Scott hoped he’d get to use the machine gun.

“Roger that,” Mark replied. “Stand by.”

“Standing by.”

Looking through the green-tinted night vision scope, Mark slowly swept his weapon, scanning the area. The basement extended the width of the house, with a single wooden wall separating it into two rooms. A single closed door lay at one end of the wall next to a staircase leading to the first floor above. The moonlight streaming through the basement window barely gave enough light to see.

Mark was pleased to see no other gunmen in the basement, but he knew more could be behind that door.

He pressed the radio button.

“Pitcher to Home Plate,” Mark whispered to avoid alerting any guards beyond the door. “Status check.”

“I’m picking up your and Erin’s heat signatures. Looks like there are two more right behind the wall, two meters from your location. I’m guessing there’s a door in front of you. I see one large and one small heat signature tucked in the far corner.

“What happened to the second small signature?”

“It’s not showing up. If one of the hostiles is holding her close to him, their signatures would be merged.”

Shit! Mark thought, nervously biting his lower lip. The coward must be using one of the girls as a human shield.

Luckily, Erin brought a few flashbang grenades. A well-placed flashbang should stun the guards long enough for Mark and Erin to take them out without harming the girls.

It was a risk, Mark knew, but they had little choice.

He gave Erin a quick hand signal.

She nodded once. She slung her weapon behind her and pulled a cylindrical flashbang grenade from her shoulder harness.

Easing over to the door, he positioned himself on the hinge side.

Erin hugged the wall on the far side and pulled the grenade pin, holding the handle secure. She dropped the pin and gave him a quick nod.

Mark held up his hand and silently counted on his fingers: one—two—three.

He then stepped back and kicked the door at the handle.

The door flew open, and Erin stepped forward and threw the grenade into the room.

A loud bang, a flash of light, and smoke erupted inside the room.

Mark rushed into the door.

The two gunmen stood flat against the far wall, stunned by the flashbang. Two quick shots from Mark took them out.

A wall of sandbags separated one corner with a small opening wide enough for one person at one end. A weak beam of light poured from behind the sandbags.

Holding his weapon forward, he eased into the lit opening, followed by Erin, who moved off to the side. A single battery-powered camp lantern rested on the floor in another corner, casting shadows on the walls and ceiling.

Mark panicked at what he saw next.

A blond-haired, blue-eyed gunman with a bushy mustache and a thin scar on his left cheek stood in the far corner, holding a trembling Patty before him with a Luger pistol pressed against her head. Suzy huddled behind his legs, whimpering. Both girls still wore the same shirts and jeans from their abduction six days earlier, their clothes now filthy and tattered. Their normally light brown hair hung matted and streaked with dirt.

Mark eyed the man with bitter contempt, recognizing him at once.

“Karl Steiner,” Mark sneered, aiming his M-4 at Karl’s head, hoping Karl would flinch so he’d have an excuse to blow his brains out.

“Mark Reilly, du schwein!” Karl spat. “Does Günter Brunner know what you’re doing?”

“I don’t work for Brunner anymore,” Mark snarled.

Karl then eyed Erin. “You too?”

“Nae, I don’t work for Brunner anymore, either.”

She raised her AK-74, flipping the selector lever to semi-auto fire. She then switched on the targeting laser.

A bright red dot appeared on the side of Karl’s head.

Erin firmly gripped the AK-74, pressing the stock into her shoulder. She grasped the AK’s pistol grip and moved her finger to the trigger, ready to kill the monster before her.

“I see,” Karl muttered. “Back off, both of you, or she dies.” He pressed the Luger’s muzzle harder into Patty’s temple.

Patty clamped her eyes shut as she whined.

“That ain’t going to happen,” Mark replied, keeping his weapon leveled at him. “How about you let the girls go, and we’ll let you walk out of here.”

“So you can shoot me in the back? Not a chance.”

Mark paused a moment. “Looks like we have a Mexican standoff.”

“Looks like we do.”

“Come on,” Mark protested. “We can’t just stand here all night.”

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” Karl sneered.

I’m sure you don’t, you bastard, Mark fumed, knowing all Karl had to do was wait until the buyer arrived.

With the Luger pressed against Patty’s temple and Karl’s finger on the trigger, Mark knew Karl’s finger muscles could involuntarily contract and fire the handgun, killing Patty, if Mark shot him.

He had to bluff Karl into removing his handgun from Patty’s head.

Mark winked at Erin, hoping she’d get the hint.

Erin gave him a quick nod. She got it.

“Look, let’s come to our senses. . .,” Mark said as he lowered his weapon.

As soon as Mark’s weapon was down, Karl jerked his Luger away from Patty’s head and raised it to aim at Mark.

The next instant, Erin squeezed her trigger.

A single round hit Karl in the side of the temple.

The other side of his skull exploded into a crimson mist, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter against the far wall.

He released his hold on Patty and slid down the wall, leaving a swash of blood on the fieldstones.

Patty dropped and clasped her hands over her ears, screaming hysterically. Suzy’s sudden shrieking joined in, piercing the small space.

Erin lowered her weapon and rushed to Suzy’s side, taking her in one arm.

Mark dropped his assault rifle and scooped up Patty.

“Hey,” he reassured her. “It’s okay. It’s over. You’re safe now.”

Patty sniffled as she looked up at him, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. “Who are you?”

Mark popped the chin strap with his thumb and pulled off his helmet, revealing tussled brown hair with brown stubble on his cheeks. He smiled at Patty. “My name is Mark, and this is my friend, Erin. Your dad sent us to rescue you.”

Erin slipped off her helmet, and her red ponytail fell below her shoulders. “That’s right,” she told the girls. “Your mum and dad are worried about you.”

“Daddy?” Patty whimpered.

“Yeah.” Mark reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a gold unicorn locket. “You dropped this in Paris. Your dad told me to give it to you.”

Patty snatched the locket, then threw her arms around Mark.

Mark smiled, rubbing her dirty head as he stood.

“Where’s Mommy?” Suzy asked.

“They’re waiting for you in Paris,” Erin replied.

“Can you take us to them?” Patty asked.

“Of course,” Mark said. “We’ll take you both to Paris in the morning.”

Patty gave a quick nod. “Okay.” She sniffled as she wiped tears from her cheek.

Mark gave her another smile and pressed the button on the radio at his belt “Pitcher to Home Plate,” he spoke into the mic. “Mission accomplished. Hostages secured. We’re coming out.”

“Roger that, Pitcher,” Scott’s smile came through in his voice. “I’ll get the champagne ready.”

Erin smiled as she cradled Suzy in her arms. “Let’s take the wee lasses home.”