The night air in Maracaibo was thick and warm, heavy with the smell of the lake and distant diesel smoke from the docks. David Wick and Sarah Mills moved on foot through the back alleys, two blocks from the holding house Isabella Montoya had described. Both wore dark tactical vests under loose jackets, rifles slung low across their chests, suppressors screwed on. David carried a small backpack with extra magazines, zip ties, duct tape, a flashlight, and a compact trauma kit. Sarah had her laptop in a slim sling bag, earpiece in, and a suppressed pistol in her holster.
They had parked the rental car in a shadowed side street, plates swapped with a stolen set from a nearby lot and with no trace to it.
Sarah checked her screen one last time. “Code 4729 still works on the back door. Four gu
