Foster father

13

They arrived at the agreed-upon transaction location and waited for two days. As expected, no one showed up. The mercenary group then began to head back toward the border between Vietnam and Myanmar, eager to squeeze a large sum of money out of their employer.

As the weather cleared in the following days and road conditions improved significantly, they took turns driving for two days and finally reached the village where their employer was staying.

This area seemed to be a country propped up by the cultivation and trafficking of drugs. There were no laws, no government, and no universal values or moral standards as understood by normal people. What remained were the rules set by the big drug lords. To survive here, one had to work according to their arrangements.

During their last mission, they had been providing cover for the employer's deal with the Americans, but the location was not in this village, so, apart from Ale, the rest of the group was visiting the employer's stronghold for the first time.

As the vehicles entered the village, Ale immediately sensed something was wrong. It wasn't just him—everyone noticed the anomaly. Where had all the villagers gone?

There were various makeshift household items scattered all over the village, as if the people had fled in a hurry, leaving behind what they couldn't carry. It seemed that the once-bustling village had suddenly turned empty. This was too strange.

Ale radioed the team to slow down, fearing there might be a trap.

The convoy stopped altogether. The once lively village was now deserted. In such a situation, no one dared to rush in.

Ale ordered everyone to retreat, setting up camp a few miles away, waiting for nightfall before making any further moves.

They set up camp in a valley several miles away. At around 3 a.m., Ale found Carter Vaughan and instructed him to sneak into the village to investigate. If he encountered danger, he was to retreat immediately. If he couldn't escape, he was to signal for help, and the team would come to his rescue.

Carter Vaughan was bold, and his curiosity had already been piqued by the strange scene from earlier in the day. He quickly gathered his gear and set off on foot toward the village.

When he reached the edge of the village, he began moving cautiously along the walls, carefully advancing. But as he walked for a while, he increasingly felt like a fool. There was truly no one in this village.

He entered one of the houses and found that the stove was still warm, with chopped cabbage waiting to be cooked. The house had been ransacked—valuables had been taken, but in the chaos, everything else was left in disarray. It looked like people had fled in a hurry, taking what they could carry but leaving the rest behind.

Carter's suspicion grew. Had their employer arrived first and been attacked, causing the villagers to flee?

With no other discoveries, Carter pushed the door open to leave, but as soon as he stepped outside, he collided with someone. He kicked the person out of the way, pinning them to the ground with a gun aimed at their head.

The person whimpered and begged, trying to keep their voice low. From their expression, it was clear they were pleading for mercy.

Carter took a closer look. The person was a local villager, probably one of the ones who had fled during the day, now trying to return to grab any remaining valuables.

Carter tried to question him in English, but the man seemed not to understand. He just kept begging for his life, almost crying.

Since he couldn't get any answers, Carter let him go. The man scrambled to his feet and ran off as fast as he could, while Carter continued to move deeper into the village. Following the route Ale had outlined for him, he walked for quite a while but still couldn't find what he was looking for. It wasn't until he caught a faint smell of blood that he knew he was on the right track.

Sure enough, within ten minutes, he found the place.

What had once been a well-guarded opium plantation was now a bloody battlefield.

The entire village was littered with bodies, the stench of blood thick and nauseating. The place was deathly silent, and under the eerie moonlight, it looked like something out of a nightmare.

Carter kept his senses sharp, gripping his gun as he moved toward the largest building on the right.

There were no living people to be found. The scene had been thoroughly cleaned up. Aside from the dead locals, there were no signs of the attackers—no bodies, no trace of their presence.

Carter kicked over one body after another, hoping to find some clue. He noticed that the scattered weapons were mostly AK-series rifles, typical of the locals.

After searching for a while, something caught his eye—a spent shell partially buried in the dirt. Carter picked it up and wiped off the dirt. It was a spent shell from a Type 95 assault rifle, 5.8mm caliber—unique to Vietnam. He kept searching and soon found remnants of Vietnamese plastic explosives, confirming his suspicions. The attackers had used the standard gear of Vietnamese special forces. Given the location near the Vietnamese-Myanmar border, he could preliminarily deduce that the attackers were from Vietnam.

Were these people from the government? Why would they raid a Myanmar drug lord's hideout? If it involved border crime, the situation was complicated, and cooperation with the Myanmar government would be essential. Why would they go so far as to kill everyone in the village?

Carter's mind was filled with questions, but there were no answers in sight.

He decided to return to thoroughly examine the scene later, but for now, he would enter the drug lord's house to see if he was still alive.

When he entered the villa, the sight that greeted him was more death. In the living room, he found a wealthy-looking man sprawled on the floor, wearing expensive clothes. The man was bound with thick ropes, and his silk pajamas were soaked in blood. Carter recognized him immediately, even though his face was unrecognizable. It was their employer, the drug lord. His face had been mutilated, and judging by the bloodstains, he had been tortured—brutally and professionally.

Carter checked the fatal wound—a precise stab to the heart. He also noticed a thin cut running from the corner of the man's mouth to his ear, a smooth, clean incision that hadn’t hit any bone. He pressed on it gently, and the cut didn’t deepen, suggesting it was made with an extremely thin blade, most likely a surgical scalpel.

Carter frowned. Who would carry such a thin blade on a battlefield? It was hardly useful for self-defense, so what was it for?

Was this drug lord tortured and executed just to extract information? Why use such an odd method of interrogation?

It was clear that this was not a straightforward operation. Even if it involved the Vietnamese government, it was a secretive one. Given the violent nature of the killings, Carter suspected these men had something to hide.

He left the body and began to search the rest of the house. When he turned into the kitchen, he suddenly heard a faint sound of breathing.

Carter's ears perked up. He tightened his grip on his gun and moved toward the sound. He found the drug lord’s personal bodyguard on the kitchen balcony. Carter had dealt with this man before—he spoke better English than the drug lord and often served as a translator.

The bodyguard was gravely wounded, barely conscious but still alive. Carter knelt down beside him and shook him lightly. The man opened his eyes and gazed at him, barely recognizing him.

"Do you recognize me?"

The bodyguard nodded weakly, his eyes blurry.

Carter immediately asked, "What happened here? Were those special forces from Vietnam? What were they after?"

The man gasped for breath, speaking in broken sentences. "A child..."

"What?" Carter leaned in closer. "A child? What do you mean?"

"A... Vietnamese... boy... they want... a boy..."

"A boy?" Carter racked his brain, trying to make sense of it. After a moment, he realized that the only Vietnamese child he knew in the area was the one he had brought back—Oliver.

"They... they want... a... Vietnamese boy... they are... looking for... him..."

Carter's mind raced. His heart began to pound.

If those men were after Oliver...

He didn't know much about Oliver’s background, but whoever could afford a helicopter, let alone fly one, must be powerful. Finding information on a recent crash wouldn't be hard—it could be traced easily.

But if these special forces were willing to destroy one of the largest drug cartels in Myanmar just to find a child who had almost no chance of surviving a crash, that seemed extreme.

Why would they take such drastic measures just to find one child?

Carter thought about it for a long time, his mind still spinning with questions. But eventually, he snapped back to reality. He needed to signal Ale and the others to sweep the scene and cover their tracks.

But before he did, he needed to make sure there were no survivors.

Carter wasn’t concerned with Oliver’s identity—he was just a child to him. But for now, he couldn’t let Ale or the others know. He would investigate in secret and plan his next steps.