(EXTRA CHAPTER)
There was no anger in Lorenzo's voice. Instead, there was a cautious curiosity—almost admiration.
"And they didn't leave any obvious trace at all? Is that really possible?"
He tapped his fingers lightly against the desk.
He remembered that his men had already spotted that group while they were searching for supplies.
But after seeing that the group looked capable and realizing the risk of confronting them alone was high, they had requested reinforcements from him and Wagner. Some elite men were sent over to back them up.
André had been among them.
Thinking of that, Lorenzo waved gracefully toward the door.
"André, come in for a moment."
The door opened quietly, and André stepped inside.
"Mr. Lorenzo."
He gave a precise, disciplined bow.
"André, a few days ago there was a report about an engagement in the northeast, wasn't there?" Lorenzo recalled.
"If I remember correctly… our men spotted a group scavenging for supplies near the industrial district, and a firefight broke out when they passed by? You were there as well, correct?"
"Yes, sir," André answered immediately.
"About three days ago. The enemy had a modified heavy truck. Their firepower was strong and their coordination was excellent. We lost four men. They were well-equipped and didn't look like an ordinary survivor group."
"Bring me that report," Lorenzo ordered. "And the shell casings recovered from the scene."
"Yes, sir."
André left swiftly and silently.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.
Soon André returned with a folder and a small cloth pouch, placing both on Lorenzo's desk.
Lorenzo opened the folder first.
Inside was a handwritten report. The handwriting was messy—it had been dictated by the fighters and written down by someone at the outpost who used to be a clerk.
The report described the ambush in detail.
Their men had taken the high ground. The first volley blew out the enemy vehicle's tires and killed a machine gunner. The exchange of fire was short, and their suppressive fire had been overwhelming.
But the enemy quickly found cover and counterattacked. They even had a demolition specialist covering their withdrawal.
Another man had emphasized in the report that the enemy's movements were "extremely professional," like "people with formal military training."
"Formal military training…"
Lorenzo repeated the phrase softly, his eyes sharpening.
He set the report aside and opened the cloth pouch.
Inside were several gleaming brass shell casings.
Lorenzo picked one up and studied it carefully.
A standard 5.56mm NATO casing.
On its own, that meant little. Most automatic weapons used that caliber after the apocalypse.
But André added from the side,
"We examined the casings. They're well maintained and relatively new. The markings on the base show they're from the same production batch. Military-grade ammunition, definitely manufactured before the apocalypse."
That ruled out an ordinary survivor group.
Most survivor camps had mismatched weapons and scavenged ammunition from various sources. Military-grade rounds were rare, and proper maintenance was even rarer.
Which left only two real possibilities.
Either remnants of the local National Guard.
Or a local buyer who had purchased weapons from Lorenzo or Wagner before the apocalypse.
At that thought, both Lorenzo and Wagner felt a faint headache coming on.
The Calabria family's business network was vast, spread across the globe. Otherwise Lorenzo would never have flown from Italy to the United States for negotiations.
Wagner, though only a local arms dealer in Knoxville, was a former soldier with plenty of connections and many buyers throughout Tennessee.
There were simply too many possible suspects.
And after several months of the apocalypse, no one could be sure what had happened to any of them.
Wagner remained silent.
He picked up the report and skimmed through it quickly, his brow slightly furrowed.
Then he took one of the shell casings, held it toward the light, and ran his fingers along the rim and the primer edge.
Lorenzo leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the desk.
"Wagner. Who do you think this could be?"
"Remnants of the local National Guard… or some militarized group wandering in from another state?"
Wagner thought for a moment before shaking his head.
"The National Guard remnants are unlikely. Their command structure collapsed a long time ago. Maintaining this level of organization and equipment would be difficult."
He paused before continuing.
"An outside group is more likely. And from a tactical standpoint, it's entirely possible."
"If they truly have that level of capability, it means their leader has considerable resources and determination."
"Jason's disappearance was clean and precise. That's not the work of random survivors or walkers."
"The National Guard probably doesn't have that kind of individual capability anymore either."
Lorenzo fell silent.
His fingers stopped tapping the desk.
"A well-trained unit…"
"And a leader who, after suffering heavy losses, didn't collapse—but instead organized such a precise retaliation."
He murmured softly to himself.
A glint of interest flickered in his brown eyes, like a hunter spotting rare prey.
"If it really is them… this could be interesting."
There was no anger in his voice.
Instead, he showed the focus of someone who had finally encountered a worthy opponent.
The Calabria family hated chaos and accidents.
But they respected strength and intelligence—even when that strength was directed against them.
"Wagner," Lorenzo ordered.
"Focus your investigation in this direction. Find out who that unit is, where their base is located, and most importantly—everything about their leader."
"I want to know who has the courage and ability to touch what belongs to me."
"Understood."
Wagner nodded and left the room.
Lorenzo picked up his wine glass again and slowly swirled the deep red liquid inside.
"Revenge…"
he murmured softly.
The faint smile on his lips deepened slightly.
"Perhaps this boring apocalypse has finally produced something that can hold my interest."
...
Back at the base, Wagner quickly prepared his team.
He assembled ten elite men.
Seven were his own pre-apocalypse subordinates—well-trained retired soldiers he had recruited long ago.
The other three were bodyguards Lorenzo had brought from Italy.
These men were well-equipped, cold-eyed, and disciplined. Their upright posture set them apart from the sloppy local gang members downstairs.
"We need to identify any survivor bases nearby," Wagner said.
"Size, defenses, manpower. If necessary, conduct fire reconnaissance. But avoid prolonged engagements."
"Mr. Lorenzo wants information—not pointless fighting."
He pulled a distinctive Zippo lighter from his pocket, engraved with the image of an African vulture, and casually lit a cigarette.
Wagner exhaled a slow ring of smoke.
His voice remained flat and emotionless.
"Understood?"
"Understood, boss."
His men answered quietly while performing final checks on their weapons and vehicles.
They would depart in two modified off-road vehicles—fast and quiet.
...
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