Chapter - 321
The convoy of white, refrigerated trucks wound its way through the Simplon Pass, a snake of steel navigating the frozen spine of the Alps. The scenery was postcard-perfect: jagged peaks dusted with eternal snow, pine forests that looked like they held secrets, and a sky so blue it hurt the eyes.
Rick sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, looking at his reflection in the side mirror. Or rather, he was looking at the reflection of Henri Vancroft.
The bio-synthetic mask was a marvel of terrifyingly expensive engineering. It felt cool and gelatinous against his skin, responding to his facial muscles with perfect elasticity. He touched his mustache—a thick, grey walrus affair. He felt the phantom sensation of his own lip beneath it.
