Too Late to Hold Me Back novel Chapter 995

A topographic map was useless until you actually smelled the dirt and walked the alleys. The reality of the slums was far more jagged than satellite imagery suggested.

Meanwhile, Mavarian diplomats were applying open political pressure, using international treaties to demand the release of the trafficked hostages through official channels.

Dominic had predicted that the cartels wouldn't surrender their entire slave labor force. To save face with the government, they would likely hand over a tiny fraction as a superficial peace offering...

After laying out the operational timeline, Dominic packed up his gear and slipped out the back. The various Mavarian strike teams were scattered across different low-end motels to avoid drawing suspicion.

Later that evening, an encrypted text from Master Ellis's intelligence network hit Mira's phone:

Mishka's base of operations is confirmed right here in this district.

Mishka wasn't even her real name. Her local birth name translated roughly to 'One Hundred Thousand Emeralds'.

Mishka was cartel royalty. Her family owned a private medical facility that served as a brutal front for their most lucrative business: a black-market organ harvesting ring.

On top of that, their empire sat on hundreds of acres of opium fields and controlled a massive underground prostitution network.

Master Ellis gave Mira and Owen one final, grim warning over comms: "If someone approaches you and you don't know who they work for, do not follow them. They will lead you into a kill box.

If anyone makes a hostile move, drop them instantly.

You remember what happened to Hank Whitlock last time. He barely made it out alive. Is he stupid? Is he soft? No. This place just devours you the second you blink."

Mira and Owen understood the stakes perfectly, but their mentor's relentless nagging came from a place of deep fear. He was terrified that their comfortable lives back in a civilized society would make them hesitate for just a split second—a split second that would get them killed.

In this wasteland, falling into a trap didn't mean getting arrested. It meant being tortured to death on camera.

"We hear you loud and clear, Master."

The next day, Mira and Owen played the part of carefree tourists, buying trinkets and snapping photos. In reality, their eyes were dissecting every alleyway and choke point, mentally cross-referencing the terrain with the live intel fed to them by their embedded spies.

When they finally returned to the motel lobby at dusk, the receptionist handed them a folded note:

Since you have crossed my threshold, it would be terribly rude of me not to play the host. Join me tomorrow at noon at the Grand Palace Restaurant.

It was signed simply: Mishka.

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