Italy, on the outskirts of Naples, a black Mercedes drove slowly along a curved, flat road into a small town near the hills.
Horns, who was holding the steering wheel, looked at the rundown streets on the sides of the road. His eyebrows began to furrow.
"Are we in the wrong place?"
"There's no way…" The assistant sitting shotgun repeatedly looked at the document in his hand. He said in an uncertain tone, "Both the shipping information and the Italian Ministry of Commerce points to here."
Horns didn't say anything, but he was getting more and more suspicious.
Honestly, this didn't look like a place for industrial prosperity. Even if someone didn't build a factory near a railway or near the sea, they would at least build it in a relatively densely populated area. Even the most stupid business owner wouldn't open a factory in the middle of nowhere.
The road started to get shorter and shorter.
The car could barely fit on the road.
