Chapter Thirty-Three
Dixon
“You sure this is the house?” Hawk says, lowering the night scope from his eye. “Looks like shit. This guy could afford better. I mean, fuck, even his drapes look terrible. So shabby and the color is just fucking bland.”
We’re parked half a block from the supposed safe house. It’s late, the air’s full of gnats and mosquitoes that seem to love me nearly as much as Alexandra. I frown and give Ghost a questioning look. Just as much as I trust him, I share Hawk’s doubt. Because the house in front of us does nothing to inspire confidence. It’s unassuming, dirty, run-down. The weather-wear that happens to all houses by the sea is more severe than the others on this quiet stretch of road by a factor of five. There’s peeling paint, a rusted front gate, a car on blocks in the driveway. None of it speaks to it being the home of a special forces-trained killer.
Still, Ghost nods immediately.
“It is. Beyond a doubt. I’ve watched him take his morning shit through that window every morning for the last three days.”
“You’re positive it’s him? You’ve gotten close enough for an ID?” Hawk says, back to using the scope, scouting the house. If I know him, and I do, he’s already working out three different plans in his head about how to break in and capture our target without notice.
“I have. Waited in line behind him the other day at the coffee shop he goes to every morning. That’s the one time I got in physical proximity to the target, and it was more than enough to visually confirm he’s our guy. Knowing how important this fucking thing is, I went further, and yesterday, I fished his coffee cup out of the trash, took prints, and sent them in to one of my contacts. There’s no denying it: the man sleeping in the second-floor bedroom of that house is Erik Marquez.”
I grunt, meet eyes with Ghost and Hawk. From their faces, I can tell they’re thinking exactly the same thing that I am. Still, I voice it aloud, because, on a mission this important, there can be no mistakes.
“That leaves me with two questions. First, how much longer are we going to wait around out here before we bust in and take this guy?”
Ghost shrugs. “As long as it takes you to make sure you have your guns ready and your big boy pants on. Now, what’s the second question?”
“When you were watching this guy take his morning shit, was it just to verify that’s what he was doing, or did you watch the whole thing?”
“You know I’m thorough, Smokey.”
“Which brings me to a third question: why? If it’s a fetish thing, you need to tell me. I’m not trying to shame you, Ghost, it’s just, there’s only two staff toilets at Reid’s Repairs and I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder every time I’m trying to relieve myself.”
“I watched because you don’t survive in my line of work by not paying attention to the details. One mistake could easily get you killed.”
Hawk looks up from his guns, and his eyes drift to Ghost’s face — which is both serious, and has a strange light in his eyes — and then somewhere further down on Ghost’s person. Then he looks at me, his eyebrow raised. “Is he hard right now?”
I look down, then nod. “I believe he is.”
“I am not fucking hard right now,” Ghost sputters, eyes wide.
“It really looks like you are.”
“There’s a noticeable bulge,” Hawk says.
“Doubt me? Fine, I’ll show you.”
Hawk raises one gun and points it right at Ghost’s chest. “You keep your hard cock in your pants, buddy.”
“And my flaccid cock, what about that?” Ghost says, hand still drifting lower to his belt buckle. “Where should I keep it?”
“In your pants, too,” I say. “Your cock — hard or soft — needs to stay out of sight and out of mind.”
“Fine,” Ghost says. His hand leaves his belt buckle and drifts to his pocket, from which he draws a large switchblade, which he unlocks with the press of a button. “It wasn’t my cock that was poking out. It was this. Satisfied?”
Both Hawk and I look down, then we look at each other.
“He still looks a little hard to me,” I say.
Hawk nods. “To me, too. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least sporting a half-chub thinking about breaking into this motherfucker’s house and dragging him out by his ear. So I’m inclined to give Ghosty boy the benefit of the doubt and attribute his throbbing erection to being excited about capturing Marquez and not about the fact that he’s obviously got some bathroom fetishes.”
“Fair point.” I shrug and give up the point, because the truth is I’m hard, too, thinking about finally getting some answers for Alexandra and for myself, as well. I take my gun out, check it, and then nod at the both of them. “Shall we?”
Hawk grins a predator”s grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
We fall into step, moving in a synchronized formation that speaks of countless drills and a shared history painted in adrenaline and close calls. As we approach the house, the tension thickens the surrounding air, an almost palpable cloak wrapping itself over our shoulders. Ghost leads the way, his footsteps nearly soundless as he approaches the dilapidated front gate. He deftly eases it open just enough to slip through, his body melting into the shadows like he’s part of them. Hawk follows, his larger frame surprisingly nimble as he navigates the rusty obstacle, and then I’m right after him.
The car on blocks seems like a sentry as we pass it by, its dark windows reflecting our ghostly forms for a fraction of a second before we disappear once again. The overgrown grass whispers against our boots as we make our way toward the side of the house, where an old air conditioning unit hums its monotonous lullaby.
Ghost signals us to hold position while he scouts the perimeter. He moves with purpose, pausing at each window to check inside. The darkness inside the house is complete.
Then Ghost stops at the back corner of the house and crouches down. He waves us over with a subtle gesture.
“Bathroom window,” he whispers when we”re close enough. “He left it open a crack. There are no trip wires, no sensors. I’ve scouted it before — we can use it as an entry point.”
“There he goes with the bathroom again,” Hawk says.
“Let’s save the toilet talk for later. Time to move,” I say.
I nod at Hawk, and we position ourselves on either side of Ghost.
Ghost opens the window further and then takes out a small mirror to check for reflections that might indicate hidden lasers or other signs of electronic traps. Nothing. No glint, no shimmer. We”re good to go.
Then he gently slides the window open further and slips inside like a whisper. Hawk”s next, and then it”s my turn. I ease myself through the narrow opening, fighting off the urge to rush and make careless noise. Every sense of mine on high alert, aware of every minor detail — the smell of mildew from within the house, the sound of my breathing, the taste of anticipation on my tongue.
The bathroom is shrouded in darkness, and we take a moment to allow our eyes to adjust to the black. Then we slip out into the hallway, weapons at the ready.
I lead us towards the stairs when I feel something underfoot give way slightly — shit, a pressure plate. Instantly, I drop low, yanking Hawk down with me as a blade on a pole swings out from the wall with an angry whoosh, stopping just where our necks would have been.
”Goddamn Home Alone shit right here,” Hawk whispers.
Ghost is already disarming the trap with deft fingers.
Our breaths are shallow; every sound seems amplified in the silence that follows.
We move on, avoiding another trap that Ghost identifies as a tripwire connected to a pipe bomb packed with ball bearings. Ahead of us lurks the staircase, and upstairs, Erik Marquez and the answers I need.
“Let me lead here,” Ghost says, quietly, before heading toward the staircase.
He makes it two steps before he suddenly stops and raises his hand in a warning motion.
I cock my head, listening.
Then I hear it — a floorboard upstairs. A creak.
Erik Marquez is awake.
“Figured you boys would show up,” he says with a laugh. “Welcome to my home. You like it? Got it for a fucking steal during the real estate crash.”
“Actually, I have a real fucking problem with your drapes, man,” Hawk retorts.
“Fuck you, I like my drapes,” Marquez yells. Then there’s the sound of a shotgun being pumped. I just have time to dive for cover before the night erupts in gunfire. The flash from Marquez”s shotgun momentarily blinds us, its boom resonating through the core of the house. Splinters of wood and dust shower over us as we scramble for any cover the tight hallway offers. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the ringing aftermath of that first shot.
Ghost is already moving, a shadow flitting towards the foot of the stairs, using the railing as partial cover. Hawk is on one knee, sighting down his gun barrel, awaiting a target — any target. I find myself pressed against a peeling-floral wallpaper, force myself to breathe, to focus.
”Marquez!” I shout over the ringing in my ears. ”It doesn”t have to go down like this!”
Another laugh from upstairs, manic and goading.
”Oh, but it does, boys! It really does! This is the job.”
A job? Fuck, this was a setup.
“You hard now, Ghost?” Hawk yells. “I mean, from something other than the bathroom stuff.”
“Most definitely. You know, once the guns come out, the blood gets pumping,” Ghost says. “It’s the same way anytime the subject of your mom comes up, Hawk.”
Another shotgun blast rips apart the sofa near where Ghost is crouched. Marquez’s voice comes from upstairs. “Keep talking, boys. I love hearing about MILFs and I love knowing where to shoot.”
“You keep my mother out of your fucking mouth,” Hawk retorts, firing toward Marquez. “Ghost can talk — he’s earned that right, but you, the only right you have is to fucking die.”
“She’s got a dump truck like a Pixar mom. It’s fucking legit,” Ghost says.
Ghost signals two fingers then points up — the second-floor landing — and then to his eyes; he”s seen something. He gestures again, this time a looping motion with his hand followed by three fingers held up — three seconds.
I understand immediately: distraction and breach.
Ghost disappears, slipping out a window and outside. I begin a silent count — I have just a handful of seconds to keep Marquez’s focus on us so Ghost can make his move. I run to the kitchen, throwing open cupboards until I find what I’m looking for: lighter fluid and a few aerosol cans. Jackpot.
“Cover me,” I hiss at Hawk, and he lays down steady fire while I throw the canister of lighter fluid near the top of the stairs and puncture it with a shot from my gun. A stream of fluid sprays from the canister, cascading down the stairs. I take my lighter out, spark it, and toss into the fluid. In moments, the staircase erupts in flames.
A shotgun blast sends me back to cover.
Marquez’s voice sets my teeth on edge. “Trying to barbecue me? You”ll have to do better than that.”
I hurl one of the aerosol canisters into the flames and it explodes in a ball of fire. Beneath the roar of the explosion, I hear the faint sound of breaking glass come from upstairs. Ghost is making his move.
Another shotgun explosion rips apart the floor inches from me. A narrow miss that peppers me with shrapnel and makes me curse as dirt and debris obscure my vision.
“I’ll let them find your bodies,” Marquez taunts. “I’ll let them identify your remains. Just so your families can throw a funeral. I want to see Hawk’s mother, see if her ass is as good as you say. I’ll check it out while I follow her to her house, then I’ll test it while she still has the tears from your funerals on her face. Nothing’s as good as a crying woman… what the fuck?”
A single crack of pistol fire cuts Marquez silent for a moment, then he screams.
A heavy thud follows that scream. Ghost appears at the top of the staircase, looking like the specter of death as the flames cast shadows on his smiling face.
“You guys ready to have some fun tearing this motherfucker apart so we can get at the fun, gooey answers in the middle? Because I know I am.”