Chapter 26
Mace
S ince we’re on call for Mr. DeMarco at all hours, I always have a mask and a lock-pick kit in my backpack ready to go, not to mention my knife, but this job couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Why couldn’t it have been Ash to get the job?
Following the GPS into the woods in the middle of nowhere, I close in on the coordinates ahead of me—a single two-story house surrounded by trees. I can tell from the distance it’s neither extravagant nor dilapidated, and my first thought is that it’s a temporary safe house of sorts.
I creep closer. I don’t see any visible security cameras, and only one vehicle is parked out front. A black Jeep Wrangler.
I dismount and transfer what I need to the smaller pack strapped to my thigh before scoping the place out.
According to Christopher’s intel, there’s supposed to be one guy on the second floor guarded by a security detail, but I never know what I’ll find once I get inside. I need to be prepared for anything.
With my black Hayabusa hidden out of sight and mask in place, I ghost through the trees. My directions are to drop the man upstairs and pin a note to his chest, then get out without being seen.
Easy enough.
My eyes scan over the drawn curtains. The top floor appears dark, but there’s a light on downstairs.
Dropping to a crouch, I watch the windows for signs of movement, my ears perked.
Other than the occasional hoot of an owl, it’s quiet.
I decide to make my move. Staying low, I sneak around back to find a point of entry away from what I assume is the living room.
With my boots no more than a whisper across the grass, a man’s heavy snore reaches me over the indistinguishable mumble of a TV where the only light in the house is coming from.
I pass some basement windows and keep the option in mind in case I don’t find the access I’m looking for in the rear. I’d rather not go through the entire house, guard sleeping on his watch or not.
But as I clip the corner of the cabin, I’m in luck. My eyes travel up to a small balcony approximately 15 feet in the air, and my heart gives an excited kick behind my ribs. It’ll get me straight to the second story.
I throw another quick glance over my shoulder, then back away from the house a few feet and take a running start at the exterior wall. Pushing off the ground, my left boot meets brick first, immediately followed by my right as I keep going vertical.
On the last step, I kick off my right foot to push myself left toward the balcony. My fingers reach just high enough to catch the bottom ledge. With a better running start on concrete, I could’ve managed more altitude.
Swinging my legs, I pick up momentum to launch my body higher, and this time my grip finds the railing.
With my toes secure on the balcony’s ledge, I straighten and climb over while training my sight on the window. There’s a gap in the curtains, allowing me a view into a dark bedroom.
On closer observation, I determine it’s empty. The man I’m looking for must be in another.
When I move silently toward the sliding door, I notice the two lights hanging on either side. They’re turned off, but I reach up and unscrew both lightbulbs just a tad to make sure they won’t come on to put me on display.
Slipping my hand into the pack strapped to my thigh, I retrieve my tools and drop to my knees in front of the door to pick the lock.
I feel it turn over more than I hear it. I’m all about touch, which is why I work so well in the dark.
As long as my mind doesn’t disconnect, that is.
I slide the door open and squeeze in before tugging it shut again behind me, but before I can take another step, I catch movement in the hallway.
The door to the bedroom is open to the second-floor landing, where a shadow slithers along the ground .
My pulse remains flat. I’ve done this too many times. There’s no thrill to it anymore.
I creep closer to peek around the corner, my hand hovering over my pack. A man matching my mark’s approximate height and weight moves from the room next door toward the stairs, his back to me, but I can’t tell for sure he’s the guy. I need to see his face.
Completely hidden in the darkness of the room, I watch him round the banisters, and when he turns to descend the steps, I get my confirmation; he’s the target from the surveillance footage Christopher showed me—Alexander Bates, aka the snitch.
I linger in the spare bedroom until I know he’s reached the bottom.
As I take a step into the hallway, I hear him yelling at the sleeping man downstairs. Under the disguise of the argument’s volume, I slip into the bedroom my target vacated and plant myself behind the open door to wait for him to return, however long it might be.
I listen to the fridge opening and closing, chairs being dragged on the hardwood floor, dishes moving. It’s an agonizing wait.
At last I hear his steps ascending the stairs.
My fingers flex around the cylindrical shape ready in my fist as his footfalls draw closer.
I briefly consider the possibility that he’s carrying a sidearm he could shoot me with.
My standard knife is sheathed at my back, but I have a second, smaller one inside my boot.
Other than my hands, those are my only weapons .
I watch his shadow grow in the faint ambient light of the hallway. The moment he steps in and slams the door shut, I jump him.
With my left arm over his shoulder, I pin him to my chest and stick the needle into his neck.
He never even sees me.
As I push the plunger down, I rely entirely on Christopher’s information regarding the contents of the syringe. If it’s anything other than a sedative, he might not go down at all or just drop dead in front of me.
I’m fully aware of the risks. Every time I do this, there’s a chance Mr. DeMarco plans to set me up for murder or have me killed in the process. I know too much to be taken in by the cops.
Ash and I never exchange details about our individual jobs. I don’t know whether they call him for different tasks than what they require from me, and that might be the reason I’m here instead of him.
Would he take a blind chance with the syringe and put himself at risk like that?
Bracing the unconscious man’s weight, I lower him to the ground quietly, to not alert his guard downstairs with the sound of a body dropping.
I give him a shove to roll him onto his back and retrieve the note with the message:
Still think I can’t get to you?
The pin I’m using to attach the paper to the man’s shirt is one from Mr. DeMarco’s personal collection. The sender of the message is obvious .
I push off and retreat the same way I entered. Slipping out through the balcony door, I screw the light bulbs back in before sliding down the brick wall.
As I take off toward my bike, I glance back at the lit first-floor window. There’s no sign of motion. No sign I was ever here other than the note on my target.
After gulping down the bottle of water I keep in my backpack, I put my helmet on and push my nearly 600-pound machine a little bit further until I’m sure I’m out of earshot.
Before starting the engine, I pull out my phone to text Christopher that it’s done. I set it to silent with even the vibration turned off so it wouldn’t distract me or give me away. I’m surprised to see that it’s lit up with texts from Ash.
I open the app.
Heart pounding out of my chest, I stare at the words, ‘Thought you wanted to be included’, along with several pictures.
And one 42-second video.