“Alright, gentleman. This is a standard mission. In, bag, tag and then out. There will be no messing around, no distractions,” Carrigan looked pointedly at Huxley, “and most importantly, no showboating. That includes you, Porter.” Chaz Porter smirked.
“None at all, Major?”
“You’re god-damn right. Luther, you’ve got point. We’re coming in from the north of the town, we’re gonna be dropped about four klicks from Pointe de Cemetiere. Then we head south to Rue Cavaillon. Sidearms only, no long guns. They’re already stored landside at the Citadel should we need them.” The Major tucked his pistol into the holster beneath his arm. “Which we should not. Now, we have two days. Any questions you want to get out of the way before we begin?”
The only noise was the wind. With a silent nod, Major Carrigan got back to preparing.
The four man team didn’t speak for the rest of their time on the large vessel. Not a word, just their silent preparations. Huxley lifted the cross from beneath his shirt, placed it against his lips, then tucked it away again.
“Showtime.” He whispered as he descended into the small boat.
The four men and their small boat came slowly to shore, resting against the beach in the long shadows of the morning. Luther jumped out first, dragging it up the beach as the other’s took more time. They had specific equipment, specialist roles whereas Luther was just there to damage things that needed damaging.
Not that the other men weren’t, as the man they were here to see for the weekend was about to find out…
Mysterious hit team versus one house in St Tropez. How’s that one going to go?
The Idiot in Tin Foil