Master of Lust-Chapter 319 - -

Chapter - 319

The Gulfstream G650 touched down on the private tarmac of Milano Linate Prime airport with a screech of tires that felt like a sigh of relief. They were in Italy. The land of wine, fashion, and, if Rick’s intel was correct, the staging ground for the Alpine Delights catering logistics.

Rick stood at the top of the airstairs, inhaling the cool, smoggy air of Milan. He adjusted the cuffs of his midnight-blue suit. He felt... electric. The Berserker’s Brew hangover had faded, replaced by the humming clarity of a man with a plan and a pocket dimension full of C4.

"Okay, team," Rick said as Sharon and Nadia joined him. Sharon was wearing a leather jacket over a tactical vest, trying to look like a tourist who just happened to be ready for World War III. Nadia was in a sharp blazer, clutching the black laptop case that contained their digital arsenal.

"Here’s the itinerary," Rick announced, descending the stairs. "Step one: Acquire transport. Step two: Locate Henri Vancroft, the head chef of the company we just bought. Step three: Steal his face."

Sharon stopped halfway down the stairs. "I’m sorry, steal his what?"

"His face," Rick said breezily, tapping the silver briefcase Sharon was carrying. "That two-million-dollar bio-mask isn’t going to program itself. We need Vancroft’s DNA, his voice print, and his retina scan. If we want to walk into the Warner Chateau without triggering the alarms, I need to be the Head Chef. You two are my staff. I’m the talent."

"You can’t cook," Nadia pointed out dryly. "You made pancakes once. That doesn’t qualify you to serve Foie Gras to the Illuminati."

"I have the System," Rick grinned. "I can buy a skill book. ’Cooking for Tyrants: A Guide to Not Getting Executed.’ It’ll be fine."

’What the hell is wrong with his brain?’

They reached the tarmac where a rental car was waiting—a sleek, black Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. Fast, Italian, and angry-looking.

"I’m driving," Rick said, snatching the keys from the bewildered valet.

As they piled in—Rick in the driver’s seat, Sharon shotgun, Nadia in the back with the tech—Rick pulled up his System Interface.

[Location: Milan, Italy]

[Threat Level: Elevated]

[Objective: Acquire DNA Sample from Henri Vancroft.]

[Time Remaining: 13 Days, 20 Hours.]

He gunned the engine. The Alfa roared.

"Where is Vancroft?" Rick asked, peeling out of the airport.

Nadia tapped on her tablet. "He’s at a warehouse in the industrial district, supervising the load-out for the Conclave. Address is Via Orobia 15. It’s about twenty minutes out."

"Let’s go say hello to our employee," Rick said, merging onto the Autostrada.

---

Ten minutes later, the adrenaline kicked in.

It started with a prickle on the back of Rick’s neck. His Terrifying Presence skill had a passive side effect—it made him hyper-aware of other predators.

"We’ve got company," Rick said, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

Two black SUVs were weaving through traffic behind them, ignoring lane markers, closing the distance fast. They weren’t police. They were matte black, unmarked, and armored.

"Huntsman?" Sharon asked, whipping out her SIG Sauer and checking the chamber.

"No," Rick said, analyzing their driving pattern. It was aggressive but sloppy. "These guys are blunt instruments. Local muscle. Probably Italian Syndicate hired by Silas to intercept us before we hit the mountains. The Huntsman is a sniper; these are hammers."

One of the SUVs surged forward, pulling alongside the Alfa. The window rolled down. A man in a ski mask leaned out with a micro-UZI.

"Get down!" Rick yelled.

BRRRRRRT!

The side of the Alfa erupted in sparks. Glass shattered. Sharon ducked, returning fire through her own window. BANG-BANG-BANG!

"Rick! Do something!" Nadia screamed from the back seat, curled over her laptop.

"I’m driving!" Rick yelled, swerving hard to the right, slamming the Alfa into the side of the SUV. Metal screamed against metal. The SUV wobbled but held its line. It was heavier.

"I need an edge!" Rick snarled.

He opened the System Shop. He couldn’t shoot and drive. He needed a vehicle upgrade.

[Shop > Vehicles > Modifications]

[Item: ’The Slick Willy’ (Rear-Mounted Oil Slick Dispenser)]

[Cost: $15,000]

[Install Time: Instant.]

"Bought!"

A heavy CLUNK sounded from the trunk of the Alfa.

"Hold on!" Rick shouted.

He punched the button that had materialized on his dashboard (a bright red button labeled OOPS).

From the rear bumper of the Alfa, a high-pressure nozzle sprayed five gallons of synthetic, hyper-viscous lubricant onto the asphalt directly in front of the trailing SUV.

The result was instantaneous and spectacular.

The second SUV hit the slick. Its front wheels lost all traction. At ninety miles per hour, physics took a holiday. The SUV spun wildly, doing a 360-degree pirouette across three lanes of traffic before slamming sideways into the concrete median. It flipped, rolling end-over-end in a shower of sparks and debris.

[System Notification: Enemy Vehicle Destroyed. +2,000 XP]

"One down!" Rick cheered. "God, I love this car!"

But the first SUV—the one beside them—was still there. And the gunman was reloading.

"He’s lining up a shot on the tires!" Sharon yelled.

"Take the wheel!" Rick ordered.

"What?!"

"TAKE THE WHEEL!"

Rick unbuckled his seatbelt. He engaged Predator’s Focus.

Time slowed. The bullets hanging in the air. The look of panic on Sharon’s face as she grabbed the steering wheel from the passenger seat.

Rick climbed out of the driver’s side window.

At ninety miles an hour.

The wind tore at his suit. He stood on the door frame, holding onto the roof rack with one hand. With his other hand, he reached into the empty air.

[Inventory: Equip MP7 Submachine Gun]

The suppressed MP7 materialized in his grip.

Rick leaned out, staring directly into the eyes of the UZI-wielding goon in the SUV. The goon’s eyes went wide behind his mask.

Rick smiled.

PFFT-PFFT-PFFT.

He put three rounds through the SUV’s driver-side window. The driver slumped. The SUV veered sharply to the left, crossing the median and crashing into oncoming traffic.

Rick slipped back into the driver’s seat just as Predator’s Focus wore off.

Time snapped back. The sound of the crash behind them was deafening.

Sharon was staring at him, her hands white-knuckled on the dashboard. "You... you just climbed out of a moving car... and shot the driver... in a suit."

Rick smoothed his tie. "Italian engineering. Very stable ride. Nadia, how’s the laptop?"

"I think I wet myself," Nadia said from the floor. "But the laptop is fine."

"Good. We’re almost there."

They ditched the bullet-riddled Alfa in an alley three blocks from the warehouse. They moved on foot, weapons concealed, adrenaline pumping through their veins like liquid fire.

The warehouse for ’Alpine Delights’ was a nondescript brick building. Rick, Sharon, and Nadia stacked up by the rear loading dock door.

"Plan?" Sharon whispered, her breathing heavy.

"We go in loud," Rick said. "We don’t have time for stealth. Vancroft is inside. We grab him, we secure the building, we get the sample."

Rick kicked the door. It flew open.

They burst in.

It was a commercial kitchen and storage facility. Stainless steel tables, massive walk-in freezers, crates of wine. And about ten staff members—chefs, porters, and one very angry-looking man in a tall white hat shouting instructions. Henri Vancroft.

Also, four armed guards. Local muscle, hired for security.

"Health Inspector!" Rick roared, activating Voice of Command. "DROP IT!"

The command hit the guards like a hammer. They stumbled, their hands spasming. It wasn’t enough to knock them out, but it bought two seconds.

Sharon dropped two of them with precise double-taps to the legs. Rick sprayed the ceiling with his MP7, shattering lights and raining glass.

"EVERYBODY DOWN! THIS IS A HOSTILE TAKEOVER!"

The kitchen staff screamed and dove under the tables. The remaining two guards raised their weapons.

Rick didn’t shoot. He grabbed a heavy, cast-iron skillet from a drying rack and flung it like a frisbee. It cracked the first guard in the forehead with a resonant DONG. The guard folded.

Sharon pistol-whipped the last one.

Silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by the whimpering of the chefs and the bubbling of a massive pot of stock on the stove.

Henri Vancroft stood by the pass, holding a ladle like a weapon. He was a portly man with a red face and a mustache that twitched with indignation.

"Who are you?!" he sputtered in French-accented English. "You are ruining my reduction!"

Rick walked up to him, MP7 in one hand, badge (fake) in the other.

"Mr. Vancroft. I’m your new owner. And I’m afraid your reduction is the least of your problems."