4. Danika
DANIKA
Ipark two streets over and walk. Well, I jog a little. I've learned it's the perfect cover for me. No one suspects a lone woman jogger to be running through a neighborhood looking for a target to kill.
The only downside to this is it's around midnight, and most women aren't running at this time. Either way, before I can give it too much thought, I'm here.
Just as suspected, I immediately see security cameras mounted above Bogdan's windows. A few tiny red indicator lights glow like cigarette embers in the dark.
I crouch and come up beneath one of them, studying the housing. It's a cheap plastic casing with a single-lens motion setup. It's the kind of system installed by a contractor who bills by the unit, not by quality.
I trace the wire running from the camera housing down the siding to a small electrical junction box near the foundation. The metal is slightly rusted, with one hinge holding a flap door closed.
I pull my little handy multi-tool from my pocket and flip out the wire cutters. I pry open the junction box cover with my gloved hands, and inside reveals a tangle of colored wires connected to a small circuit board.
I identify the camera's main power line, thin black wires running parallel to a red one. I position the cutters and squeeze, and the wire cuts with a soft snip.
The red indicator light on the camera dies instantly.
I glance up at the other camera positioned near the front corner of the house. A few more snips and those lights go dark as well.
That was easy.
I pocket the multi-tool and move along the side of the house toward the back. A metal drainpipe runs from the gutter down to the ground, bolted into the siding at regular intervals. I grip it with both hands and give it a firm shake. It should hold.
I grip the metal firmly, plant my shoe against the wall, and pull myself up. My arms burn as I climb, hand over hand, the pipe shaking softly under my weight.
I learned to scale buildings in Tbilisi when I was nineteen. Four stories up an apartment complex with nothing but a gutter pipe and pure determination, so this is easy.
I reach the second-floor terrace in under thirty seconds. My breath comes steady as I swing my leg over the railing and land in a crouch on the wooden deck. The boards creak slightly, but the sound is absorbed by the wind rustling through the trees in the backyard.
A sliding glass door leads into what looks like a bedroom. I test the handle. It's locked.
I move to the adjacent window. The frame is old wood, painted white but peeling in places. I push gently against the glass, and it shifts. It's unlocked.
I slide the window open just enough to slip through, and I ease myself inside, my boots landing silently on the carpeted floor.
The room smells like stale cologne and cigarettes. A queen-sized bed sits unmade against the far wall, blankets tangled and half-falling onto the floor. This must be his bedroom.
I leave the window cracked open behind me, just wide enough to fit my shoulders through on the way out. Cold night air seeps in, moving the thin curtains.
I move toward the partially open door leading to the hallway, my hand brushing the pistol holstered at my hip.
As I stand in the hallway deciding where to move next, I hear the unmistakable sound of a key jamming into a lock downstairs. It's the front door.
The door swings open with a heavy thud, followed by the scrape of shoes on tile. Bogdan mutters something in Romanian, and the door slams shut.
Heavy footsteps move through the downstairs, and then the footsteps start up the stairs.
I can't go back into the bedroom because that's probably where he's heading.
So I cross the hallway in three silent steps and push through the door on my right, slipping inside and shutting the door just as Bogdan reaches the top step.
I move and press my back against the wall behind the door, my hand already drawing my pistol. If he comes in, I'll see him before he sees me.
I then hear another door open, and then the shower turns on and the pipes rattle in the walls as water rushes through them. I then hear him shut the bathroom door.
I exhale slowly through my nose and lower my weapon. I stand there for a few seconds, allowing my adrenaline to calm down.
I could walk in there right now. Rip the shower curtain aside and put two rounds in his skull while he's naked and defenseless.
But I'm already in the office, and Ivan wants the hard drive, and since I'm always compelled to help the man who saved my life, I'm urged to grab it first.
I glance around the room. A desk sits beneath a window overlooking the backyard, its surface buried under stacks of papers, folders, and two empty coffee mugs.
There's a filing cabinet in the corner, one drawer hanging open. Bookshelves line the opposite wall, crammed with binders that look like they haven't been touched in years.
I holster my pistol and pull a small penlight from my pocket. The beam cuts through the darkness as I move toward the desk.
The shower continues its steady hiss in the next room.
I start with the drawers. The top one sticks when I pull the handle, so I yank harder and it slides open with a scrape.
Inside are pens, loose change, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and receipts crumpled into tight balls.
Nothing useful.
I close it and move to the second drawer. This one opens smoothly. Inside are folders, thin, cheaply made, the kind you buy in bulk at an office supply store. I flip through them quickly, scanning the labels.
Utility bills, tax documents, and bank statements. I shut it and reach for the third drawer, and it's locked. Okay, maybe I'll get lucky here.
It's a simple desk lock, so I take my multi-tool and on my second try, it unlocks and I slide the drawer open.
Inside is a half-empty bottle of alcohol and a few thick folders bound with rubber bands. I pull one out and flip through it.
It's photographs of women. Some smiling. Some crying. Some with vacant, drugged-out stares.
What the fuck?
My stomach tightens. I take a step back. The floorboard beneath me lets out a loud creak, and I stop, my eyes darting to the door. I wait a moment, and the shower keeps going.
He didn't hear me.
I toss the pictures back into the drawer and shut it. This might be good intel, but it's not the hard drive.
I start moving the papers all around his desk, rummaging through the piles of crap.
My fingers brush against something hard, and I stop. I move the folders away and shine my light. Sitting right there is a dark blue external hard drive.
Found it.
Just as my fingers close around it, the shower shuts off and I hear the shower curtain scrape across the rod, then footsteps on tile.
My hand hovers over the hard drive.
It's too risky to pocket it now. He's coming. I move back toward the wall behind the door as I hear footsteps in the hallway getting closer.
My pulse stays steady. My breathing is silent. I've done this a hundred times.
The door handle turns and I shift my weight slightly, ready to move.
The door swings open. A tall shadow steps into the room.
I don't hesitate.
I drop my center of gravity and lunge forward, driving both hands squarely into the man's chest to knock him off balance.
The instant my palms make contact, my brain misfires.
The chest beneath my hands is rock-hard and broad.
The man doesn't stumble like he should. Instead, his reflexes are instant. His arm comes up defensively, his body already pivoting to counterattack.
This isn't Bogdan.