Chapter 26
Laser Tag
It’s just after one in the morning, and I’m crouched in the bushes outside of Rhys Steichen’s McMansion, waiting for him to get home.
It’s in the fifties, and it’s been drizzling all day.
I’m cold and I don’t like it, but at least it means there should be fewer people out and about.
Not that there’s much foot traffic in this neighborhood.
Only the occasional dog walker, and there aren’t many of those this late. But still. I’ll take what I can get.
Right now, I’m trying not to freeze to death before Rhys gets home.
I’ve been hiding here for three hours. I wanted to make sure that I arrived prior to the hired security detail that pulled up half an hour ago.
My position in the bushes near the front hedge gives me just enough visibility to make out two figures in the car between the branches.
Because of our positions relative to the hedge, I can see them, but they can’t see me.
It’s like looking through a keyhole. They’ve been sitting there since they parked at the curb in front of his house.
I don’t know if they’re supposed to get out and walk around to surveil the perimeter, or whatever, but so far they haven’t.
If I were them, I wouldn’t want to get wet either.
Hopefully the rain keeps up, and hopefully that’s enough to keep them confined to the vehicle.
I’m wearing a long, new-to-me black raincoat I bought with cash from a thrift shop a few days ago.
I have a couple of layers underneath it for warmth and a ski mask pulled over my face.
Although the ski mask does have the added benefit of keeping me slightly warmer, both it and the latex gloves on my hands are solely to obscure my identity.
Unlike the others I’ve killed, I’m actually going to talk to Rhys Steichen.
Kind of. The duffel bag on the ground next to me is stuffed with equipment, because—also unlike the others—this death is going to be a production. Assuming I can pull it off, anyway.
There’s a plastic bag stacked with containers full of food that has long since gone cold on the ground beside me as well.
I could wait for the delivery driver to show up and ring Rhys’s doorbell, but what if the driver is the sort who sits in the driveway for five minutes after delivering the food?
Or what if one of the security guys out front decides to bring it to the door? I’d be screwed.
I’d rather wait fifteen minutes after he gets home, set the bag on his doorstep, ring the doorbell and run back to the shadows where I can shoot him with the tranq dart.
If I’m lucky, when the dart hits him, he’ll have no idea what happened or where it came from.
Hopefully he’ll be too surprised to raise the alarm.
And hopefully the drugs will take him out before he can spot me.
It’s a lot of ‘hopefully’s. The only other option is to wait until the team gets sick of footing the bill for the rent-a-cops and cancels their contract.
Even if I wait two or three months until they’re gone, though, Rhys’s got eight inches on me, and his entire job relies on sprinting.
It’s a safe bet he’s faster than I am. So this is still probably my best chance.
As long as he doesn’t realize where the dart came from, and as long as he doesn’t start shouting for help, once he passes out, I just have to get him into the house prior to the real delivery driver showing up.
I’m trying to tell myself that it’s not really any different from laser tag, but it might be the biggest lie I’ve told myself yet.
I sigh and shift my weight from side to side, checking my watch for the thousandth time. Their flight had better not be late, I complain to myself as I fold my arms across my chest and think warm thoughts.
Thirty more minutes go by before a large, dark pickup truck pulls up beside the security detail’s car.
They exchange words for a few minutes, and then the truck turns into the driveway.
I crouch into the shadows a little more, averting my eyes so that I’m not blinded by its headlights.
The garage door clatters open. A minute later, a door slams and the garage closes.
It’s one-fifty. I give him two minutes to get inside and set his things down before starting a fifteen-minute timer on my watch.
Throughout that time, my eyes keep moving between the car on the street and Rhys’s house, but the security detail seems content to stay warm and dry.
When the timer goes off, I turn on the tranquilizer gun’s laser sight and hold the gun along my right side.
Then I grab the cold, sodden takeout bag and head for Rhys’s front door.
It doesn’t matter if he has security cameras, because my face has been covered since before I got here—first by a scarf and now by the ski mask.
Plus, I arrived on foot after walking a few circuitous miles and cutting through multiple parks to make it difficult for anyone to track my route.
And thanks to Vaughn, I have a set of fake license plates on my car right now.
I take a deep breath and glance behind me to make sure no one has gotten out of the car.
Then I set the bag on the doorstep, press the doorbell, and sprint back to the bushes.
My heart is pounding by the time I turn to face the door with my finger on the trigger.
Another ten or fifteen seconds pass, and then the door cracks open and light streams out.
I set the takeout bag at the very edge of his doorstep to force him to take a few steps out of his house to grab it. He opens the door wider and steps through, backlit by the interior light.
Adrenaline floods my system, and I consider leaving.
He’ll still be here in three months, and I’m not sure this is worth the risk.
But if I wait… In three months, there could be a new address book with a new woman’s name in it.
And I can’t spend the next three months looking over my shoulder, waiting for Garret and Rhys to kill me.
I wish the rain were heavier.
I take a breath and raise the tranq gun as he stoops to pick up the bag.
The green dot from the laser races across the grass toward the house.
Rhys must see it, because his eyebrows draw together in confusion as he stands, and then the dot is on his torso.
I squeeze the trigger. There’s a soft whoosh of air as the dart flies free, followed by a yelp, and the dart is embedded in Rhys’s torso, to the left of his navel, just below his rib cage.
He looks down and pulls it free. Then he holds it in front of his face, staring at it for a second before dropping it and the takeout bag to the ground.
I look at the car behind me. There’s no movement. They’re still focused on the street. They haven’t noticed anything’s amiss so far, and I return my focus to Rhys.
There’s a funny thing about men. Once they reach a certain size, they have a tendency to think they’re indestructible.
If Rhys were smart, he’d run inside, lock the door, and call for help.
But he’s too big for that. He’s probably never lost a physical fight in his life, and it doesn’t seem to cross his mind that he might lose this one.
So he doesn’t do the smart thing. Instead, he steps into the yard, his head turning left and right as he tries to determine where the shot came from.
I whistle softly. I don’t want him to decide that whoever shot him ran away.
I want him to continue looking for me because if he goes inside before the drugs kick in, I’ll have to break a window, and that would probably trigger an alarm.
He looks in my direction, taking another step into the yard. I whistle again.
“Are you fucking hiding?” he shouts, and I flinch, looking at the car behind me.
His words already sound a bit slurred, and no one gets out of the car.
Either he wasn’t as loud as the adrenaline coursing through my veins made him sound, or the drizzle on the roof of the car is too loud for them to have heard him. Maybe both.
He takes another step into the yard. I whistle once more, and he stumbles in my direction.
The Telazol is kicking in faster than I expected.
It’s been maybe a minute and a half since the dart hit him.
He takes one more step and trips over his own feet.
His knees hit the ground, and he topples forward, catching himself on his outstretched palms. He’s about ten feet away from me.
He tries and fails to stand, muttering, “What…?” Then he crumples, landing face down on the wet grass with his arms awkwardly folded beneath his torso.
I check on the rent-a-cops again. They’re both still in the car. They’re not even looking toward the house. So far, so good.
I count to thirty before shoving the tranq gun into the duffel bag, exchanging it for the large tarp I brought with me.
I approach him cautiously, waiting to make sure he’s not about to spring up and grab me.
When he stays motionless, I spread the tarp on the ground next to him and roll his body onto it.
He’s all floppy limbs, and he’s huge. He’s only a couple of inches taller than Mark, but he seems bigger than that.
By the time I’ve got him centered on it, I feel like I’m about to break a sweat.
I grab the corners of the tarp, take a deep breath, and then start dragging him toward the front door.
It’s like pulling a sled through sand, and about halfway there, my right elbow starts protesting, reminding me it’s still not fully healed.
At this rate, I’ll be lucky if it’s back to normal by spring. Oh well.