Chapter Nineteen #2
Reaper and Mechanic ripped the front passenger-side door open.
It had suffered the least damage. They flung several bundles of explosives inside and slammed the door closed, diving for cover.
The massive blast blew the SUV apart. Blackened shredded metal, body parts and seats burst into the air in every direction, slowly settling to the ground.
Reaper, Mechanic and Storm rushed forward to ensure every one of the Ghosts was dead.
While they did, Transporter ran the large truck over the bank, jumping out as it tipped over, the heavy V-shaped wedge on the front weighing too much to counterbalance.
It landed upside down, partially in the stream and partially in the soft mud.
The truck had been in the barn of an abandoned property.
Transporter and Mechanic had fixed the engine enough to run and welded the V-shaped wedge on the front for just such an occasion.
The club believed in being prepared. Had someone found it before they used it, it would have appeared old and rusted.
They never left behind any evidence that could be traced back to them.
They jogged a half mile farther up the road to their waiting vehicle, and Transporter started for Caspar and the event taking place.
It had taken only minutes to dispose of the five-man team, far less time than the drive, although Transporter made it back to Caspar in record time.
They joined the revelry, ensuring Jonas Harrington and Jackson Deveau saw them.
They added to the protection of team two, the four who were nothing other than illusions.
They had to ensure no one came near the deception they had created.
Target on roof, Maestro reported telepathically. Second target on front balcony.
Keys cursed under his breath. Rooftop target would be fairly easy. The balcony, he’d have to drop down from above and hope no one was inside looking out when he killed the guard.
Copy that.
Moving onto the roof, Maestro reported. The house was two stories.
It seemed as though the architect had built two separate homes on the second story and connected them with a long balcony.
The first target was on the west side of the roof.
Keys would take out the second target. That guard was on the balcony on the opposite side, toward the east.
Maestro made his way around the house using the native brush as cover.
The landscaping was overgrown—good for him, not so good for his enemy.
The Pygmy Forest was intruding on the back side of the property, the water dark and edging right up to the swimming pool.
When it rained, Maestro could see that the pool would be invaded by the dark, blackened water from the forest.
He went up the side of the house, blending into the gray and gloomy ever-moving shadows as the wind played over the weeping trees and foliage.
He pulled himself onto the roof, right behind the guard who was looking out toward the entrance, not behind him, where the strange Pygmy Forest guarded that side of the property.
Czar would have told all the club members they deserved death had their warning systems not kicked in the moment Maestro gained access to the roof.
The guard didn’t even appear uneasy. That really would have set Czar off.
The Ghost assassins were far too used to getting their way easily.
They believed themselves to be at the top of the food chain, and no one would be able to defeat them.
Maestro came up behind the guard with great stealth.
No sound. His blood running ice-cold. The guard didn’t move.
Didn’t turn around, didn’t heed the warning of the wind foretelling death.
Maestro slammed his knife deep into the back of his skull.
He lowered the body behind the peak of the roof so if the guard across from them on the balcony happened to look up, he wouldn’t be warned by the sight of a dead body.
One down, he reported.
Using fingers and toes, Keys moved up the side of the house facing east. Directly behind him was a massive garden, overgrown with ferns, weeds, wildflowers and small bushes.
Out-of-control ivy wound its way up the walls in thick, reedy vines and a jungle of bright green leaves.
The wind tugged at his shirt and whispered in his ear.
He needed to listen for the sound of the guard’s measured footsteps on the balcony as he paced back and forth.
When he heard retreating footsteps, he silently accessed the balcony, sliding like a lizard over the railing to lie flat on the floor. The guard seemed distracted by something he saw below him, out in the yard.
It was broad daylight. A few clouds drifted across the sky, but not enough to soften the bright light spilling down onto the balcony.
Keys had to cover the distance between the guard and himself with a slow stalk, much like a leopard, low to the ground and freeze-frame.
Whatever was holding the guard’s attention was a lucky break for him, but it wouldn’t last forever.
He had to make it across the distance as quickly as possible without drawing attention. Movement always drew attention.
Knife between his teeth, he edged closer.
The guard shifted slightly, enough to warn Keys he was turning.
He surged to his feet and, in one motion, threw the knife.
The blade buried itself to the hilt in the guard’s throat.
As the knife flew through the air, Keys followed it with blurring speed, taking the body to the floor of the balcony.
Two down.
He examined the bank of windows. Three didn’t open; they were large and permanently fixed.
The two on either side of them opened by simply raising them.
It wasn’t as if the house was built for security.
This had been someone’s home originally, and when it was sold, the new owner used it as an Airbnb.
It hadn’t occurred to them to put in bulletproof glass or an alarm.
What was wrong with the Ghosts guarding Declan?
Why hadn’t they placed alarms on every window?
The windows are clean. Makes me uneasy, he reported to the others.
Same thing on this side, Maestro said.
I’m checking the first-floor bedroom window, and it isn’t secure, Master said. Looking for traps, but I’m unable to find any.
Same here, Maestro concluded.
Keys had to agree with them. The Ghosts hadn’t secured the windows.
Lana weighed in. As usual, she had their backs. She studied the house through her scope, looking carefully through every available window.
Enemy upstairs, moving through each room, making a loop. He’s dark-haired and wearing a suit, even his jacket. Could be wearing armor.
She switched to the downstairs windows, looking for the last two targets. Primary is in living room, sitting in recliner. One guard, also in suit, in same room, standing to left of fireplace.
That left one Ghost unseen.
Going in, Keys said. Am on second story. Will take out the roving upstairs guard and make my way to first floor and main target.
Entering second story, will clear rooms and make my way down to first floor to search for missing guard, Maestro said.
Breaching back kitchen door, Master said. Doesn’t appear to have alarm and lock is shit. No problem with it. Will clear rooms with Maestro and meet you in main room.
Keys slipped through the upstairs window and found himself in a large bedroom.
The craftsmanship of the walls and high ceiling was a work of art.
The original architect and contractor were excellent and had used the finest wood for the home.
He needed to touch the wall with his skin, but that was a risk.
If he connected with the wood, it would tell him everything he needed to know about the whereabouts of each person in the house.
Torpedo Ink didn’t wear their own fingerprints, faces or hair when they were carrying out a mission.
When he left this house, there would be six dead men left behind.
He couldn’t leave anything of himself there.
Everyone at the street party for the opening of Lyrical Waves would swear he was there.
That every Torpedo Ink member was there.
Jonas Harrington and Jackson Deveau would be among those giving him an alibi.
He couldn’t fuck it up by putting his bare hand on the wall.
Resisting the way the old wood called to him, he turned his mind to the hunt.
He used every sense—sight, smell, hearing; touch was important but lost to him.
He moved from the bedroom into the long and very wide mezzanine overlooking the first story.
Maestro would take care of searching all the upstairs rooms for the missing guard.
Keys was responsible for taking out the Ghost pacing up and down that long gallery and going through the rooms.
Keys took three steps onto the mezzanine and smelled the guard.
The idiot was wearing cologne. These men had been trained in Sorbacov’s schools.
How had they survived? There were things you didn’t ever do if you wanted to stay alive.
Smoking, wearing cologne, staring into a fire—the list was endless, and it was second nature to follow those rules in everyday life.
Even drinking was done only when Torpedo Ink knew it was safe and had their brethren around them.
Once again, he was thankful that he had been chosen by Czar down in that hellhole.