What I enjoy about surveillance is how free people are whenthey believe no one’s watching. Most are creatures of habit, shamelessly giving away all their secrets.
There’s a group of three who wander out every twenty minutes for a cigarette. Like fucking clockwork. They smoke near the outbuildings, bullshitting about everyone inside. Then, they traipse back into the house.
That’s our in.
We’ve got about two more minutes until go time. Gage already creeped into the front before this last smoke break. He’ll enter the premises from the main entrance while I set fire to an outbuilding—making it appear as though one of the losers who smokes was careless—and then I’ll climb onto the roof.
Even if no one notices the fire before the dipshits take their next break, we won’t have long before they return and discover it.
Once they pitch their snuffed-out cigarettes and meander back inside, I stack some dry kindling against the walls of the shed, flick a match and toss it among the used butts, and dash to the side of the house. It’s a standard two-story. Secluded. Not many trees or lush greenery. Fires aren’t a stretch out here. They’ll be prepared. But that’s okay; it’s the distraction we’re after, not the destruction.
My weapon—a KRISS Vector .45 ACP submachine gun with a red-dot sight and suppressor—is slung across my back as I scale the trellis they have against the house for their trumpet creeper vines. It’s a sturdy plant, not withering under my weight. Unlike its owners, it’s difficult to kill.
As I make my way to the second story—moving to the thumping din of music and rowdy conversation emanating from inside—I can’t help but think about Rena’s acrobatic skills. She’s always been both an open book and a mystery. I’m not sure how she accomplishes that duality. It’s one of the many reasons she has been my most beloved subject to study from afar. Readable and unpredictable at once. A special kind of magic. Impossible to ignore.
When I reach the window for a second-floor room that we noted was empty earlier, I quickly pop out the screen and jam the blade of my knife between the two windowpanes, wrenching it sideways to twist the lock so I can crack the window open. I’ll be entering through there in a little while.
It’s a quick task, and then I complete my ascent and skulk across the roof. I lie down on my stomach, snug against a slope that gives me a full-range view of the vast backyard while also adequately concealing me. I’ve got a couple of minutes until the blaze makes its bold statement, so I indulge in one more fleeting glance at my girl on the app. She’s been good, which I appreciate. Maybe this will all be smoother than I anticipated.
During all the years I pined for her, I thought for sure if I ever tasted her, ever quenched myself with her particular poison, it would do me in. Destroy me. Have me so on edge and crazed that I couldn’t see past the need to protect her, to mark her, to claim her. And while that rage for these motherfuckers is absolutely surging through my veins, one look at her angelic face—which is so clearly a ruse because she’s indisputably part demon—and I’m lulled into a serenity I’ve never known.
After tonight, I don’t ever want to be apart from her. I’d like to fucking leash her to me or superglue her to my hip. Wrap her in protective armor and sling her around me like a koala. Make sure there’s nowhere she can go that people don’t know she’s fucking mine. To treat her like the precious treasure she is or pay with their life for the joy they plundered.
Okay, so that’s not the sanest line of thinking, I suppose, but there’s a peace that accompanies it. A tranquility in knowing that while taking her is undoubtedly the worst thing I’ve ever done, protecting her, valuing her, helping her realize her dreams could be both my greatest purpose and one hell of an awakening from the nightmare I’ve been trapped in. I’ll spend the rest of my days becoming the man she deserves—or at least the man she needs.
And I haven’t gone off the deep end, burning the whole worldso that only we exist. I’m pointing my wrath at a couple dozen who are clearly guilty. That’s something.
I close out the app and tuck the phone back inside my inner pocket, turning my concentration to the ambush at hand and lining up my sight. Smoke is seeping out of the crevices of the outbuilding. No doubt the dry yard clippings and shed tools are catching fire.
Another two minutes pass before I announce into my comm, “Stand by. We’ve got flames.”
Once the assholes start pouring out of the house, I’ll alert Gage, and he’ll cut the power. The Cabrinis—the Mafia family that Wells heads—control power companies, so Gage has a contact on standby to cut the electricity. At the push of a button, the house will be thrust into darkness. Since Gage is the enforcer for both the Cabrinis and the O’Reillys, our sources are as accustomed to hearing from him as Wells.
The blaze is burning bright now, flames licking up the sides, so it should draw attention at any minute.
With that thought, someone shouts, “Motherfucker. We got a fire!”
Patience is key here because timing is everything. I want as many to pile out as possible before I signal Gage and start ticking them off. But wait too long, and I’ll miss a valuable opportunity. Striking before anyone can alert those in the house that I’m here is the goal. The element of surprise surpasses how outnumbered we are.
There’s an old Bible story about this guy, Gideon, who defeated an army of 135,000 men with only 300. They struck in the middle of the night, when the enemy was sleeping, smashing jars, blowing trumpets, waving torches, and yelling. The camp erupted into a frenzied upheaval of disorder, and the enemy army began to kill their own men in the confusion.
That’s how we operate. Numbers rarely matter. Create enough turmoil, and they’ll do some of the work for you.
Smoke and fucking mirrors.
The silencer I’m using will also aid in the element of surprise. It’s so quiet; among the racket that’s about to transpire, no one will notice the shots. Not before they’ve got a bullet lodged inside them as well.
There’s a general ruckus of pandemonium filtering through the air now. Several men have run outside to check the inferno. Two are working to grab a hose. No innocents in sight.
In a low, clear voice, I issue my directive through the comm. “Eyes on eight tangos. No innocents. Hold your position until they’re down.”
They’re all facing the fire—their backs to me—consumed by the mayhem, so I start taking them out one by one. Quick, successive shots, beginning with those in the back, closest to me, and working my way toward those nearest the fire. It’s too fast for any of them to register what’s happening, and as I take aim on the last two, I report the kills.
“Six tangos down. Two tangos in my sight. Go.”
Before the wordgohas even fully left my mouth, the lights are out, and I’ve eliminated the last two men remaining in the backyard. There’s initially a myriad of shrieks and screams, and a few non-silenced shots are fired, meaning they aren’t ours. But the telltale sound of Gage’s flash-bangs—a stun grenade that detonates a deafeningbang, along with a sudden flare of blinding light within the darkness—means that he’s got them shell-shocked and neutralized.
He barks several kills through the comm while I pick off the couple of squirters leaking into the backyard.
