His comms specialist laughed. “Hello to you, too. What sucks this time, or should I say who?” His Aunt Jewell had been his communications specialist since he’d officially joined Guardian.
Blake’s face screwed up. “Eww … you're my aunt. Mind bleach, please. Gallons. ASAP.”
Jewell’s laughter didn’t help him forget her words.
“You old people have no filter sometimes.”
“We’re older than you, but we’re not dead.” His Uncle Zane laughed through the comms. “What’s up, B?”
“Thank God, business. The compound has changed. The walls are higher. There are perimeter lights, a kennel, and cameras. Only one entry point, and it’s manned. The walls are at least twelve feet high with concertina wire. Obviously, the blueprints we obtained are obsolete. I’ll need to get inside.”
His Uncle Zane responded. “Copy. Hold on, she’s working it.”
He knew his Aunt Jewell was magic on the computer. He didn’t know anyone who was better, though Ethan had been close before he’d left to work in the private sector. Blake continued to scan the compound. He watched as the guard at the front rotated with a guard who seemed to be walking the interior. Good to know.
“Okay, we have an asset. We’ll contact them. How’s your Hungarian?” Uncle Zane asked.
“Passable,” Blake answered. “Basic, but the accent is good.” Or so his Aunt Taty had told him. He’d worked with her extensively growing up. Taty was a linguistics savant and taught languages for the elite at Guardian.
“Let us work it. Jewell will send the information when we have it coordinated.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to observe for a while.” Blake lifted the NVGs again, slowly examining every visible aspect of the compound. He’d move to the rear and do the same before morning came.
The city was only beginning to stir when Blake walked through the narrow streets of downtown Budapest. His rented van had been parked about a mile away. A crisp October bite hung in the air, cool enough that his breath fogged as he exhaled. The Danube carried a faint mist that drifted into the avenues, softening the hard lines of stone fronts of the buildings and giving the city a hushed, sleepy feeling. Streetlamps glowed, their light reflecting off damp cobblestones where last night’s rain had lingered.
Blake moved with purpose, though his mind still circled the compound he’d scouted earlier. Guardian’s blueprints hadn’t matched reality. Shit, they weren’t even close. New walls, additional cameras, and those generators sitting at the back of the compound where none were indicated. Someone had reinforced the place, and that type of work took time. That meant Guardian’s intel was dated, or Zajac’s people hadn’t updated the construction with the proper government offices. Either way, it would be up to him to confirm the changes from the inside. An edge of impatience clawed up his backbone. Itchy. He hated variables. Variables sucked.
A tram rattled past on the far side of the boulevard, its electric hum echoing off sandstone and faded brick. He barely glanced at it. Instead, he turned his thoughts to redrawinglayouts, considering angles, entries, vulnerabilities. If Guardian could get him inside under a legitimate cover, he could map the compound. Details that he was only guessing at now could be confirmed. Evening the odds of success was essential before Zajac showed up. If he couldn’t get inside, he’d be walking blind, and blind in his line of work was a fucking death sentence.
The scent of strong coffee and fresh bread pulled him briefly from his thoughts. A bakery owner was setting baskets of steaming loaves into the morning air. He detoured and purchased two cherry rétes and a cup of strong coffee. The flaky butter pastry and sweet fruit lasted three bites each. Once he was done, he licked the powdered sugar off his finger before taking a swig of the coffee. Ah, manna from heaven. The injection of sugar and caffeine would have zero impact on his current goal. His hotel room and sleep. To the rest of the world, he was just another man getting ready for the day. But that wasn’t his life. His life was reconning compounds at night, noticing details others had missed and confirming routes of entry and egress. Only now he was waiting for his handlers to get him through the front door. He had no doubt they’d succeed. It was just a matter of when and in what capacity. But that wouldn’t be settled this morning. Proper planning took time, and he was willing to wait.
His hotel wasn’t luxury, but it wasn’t a hole in the wall either. The façade was plain, its plaster walls painted an uninspired beige. He glanced up and thought again that the wrought-iron balconies were its only dignity. A single neon sign flickered above the narrow entrance. It was exactly the kind of place that didn’t ask questions and didn’t care if a man returned in the morning rather than leave.
As Blake pushed through the glass door, the hinges squealed faintly, and inside, the muted hum of an aging radiator greeted him. The lobby smelled faintly of wax polish. It was the kind of scent that clung to old European hotels. The desk clerk offereda nod in greeting, and Blake nodded back as he headed for the stairs. He checked the tiny length of thread he’d placed at the top of the door when he’d left. It was still in place. Sometimes, the old-school tricks of the trade his father had taught him were the best. He unlocked the door and swept the room before taking off his shirt and pulling off his boots, work pants, and socks. He placed his knife beside him and his automatic under his pillow. Rolling himself into the blankets, he closed his eyes and, with the practiced ease born from many missions, dropped into sleep.
Three days later,Blake drove through the gates in a battered white van, wearing plain gray coveralls with the pest service logo stitched at his chest. The guard at the shack scowled at the paperwork and picked up a phone, calling someone inside. When a man dressed in a pressed and proper black suit arrived, he was waved through.
“You are early,” the steward reprimanded him.
“Better than late, yes?” Blake asked as he shouldered the sprayer.
“Better to be on time. I will address this with your employer.” The steward sniffed. Blake bit his tongue and followed the man, hoping the bastard didn’t fall because, with his nose so far up in the air, there was no way he could see where the fuck he was going.
Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and bleach. Not the smell he expected, but then again, Zajac was a hypochondriac, so … yeah. The echo of his boots was loud against stone floors, and he took note of it. He moved room to room under the steward’s watchful eye, spraying baseboards and corners, pausing at vents, careful never to linger too long when his gaze found the detailsthat mattered. Cameras were mounted in every junction; their lenses were glossy black in the ceiling corners. Blake moved a chair, and as he did, he pressed a small device to the back of it, moving it back into place after he’d finished spraying the area. He set the tank down, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and palmed another device. As he moved from windows fitted with fresh magnetic contacts to a study where the paneling hid a steel-faced safe, its edges too sharp to be anything else, he continued to plant the small devices. Dime-sized, unnoticeable, and obscured from view. He continued his work through the bedrooms where motion sensors were mounted high, their red diodes blinking as he made his way through the room.
The steward hurried him along, blocking one door in the basement with a terse, “Not necessary.” But Blake had already caught the faint draft of chilled air and the hum of cooling fans behind it. The server room. He said nothing, dipped the nozzle, and sprayed along the threshold. He pointed to the next door, and when the steward looked, he placed a device on the edge of the door’s frame.
When the interior was finished, Blake gestured to the walls. “Outside, too. Ants,” he said in Hungarian. The steward looked irritated and made him wait. An armed guard came down from the stairway in the kitchen. Obviously, the second floor was where the guards bedded down. With his guard, who didn’t look thrilled to be called to work, Blake walked the perimeter slowly, nozzle hissing a fine mist at the foundation stones. Every step was a chance to take stock, and he stopped, turning over rocks and looking at bugs, until the guard with him rolled his eyes and sighed, looking away. Blake dropped a larger transmitter and covered it with smaller rocks. He continued his “bug man” act as they moved around the exterior of the mansion. Perimeter cameras were tucked under eaves, angled to cover the yard. Thin conduits running from the house to a pair of squatoutbuildings, their louvered panels and fuel ports betraying them as generator housings, which he figured out when he’d scoped out the compound three days ago. They were quiet now, but ready to power the estate if the grid failed. Infrared motion sensors dotted the garden paths, their emitters blinking faintly in the gathering dusk. Blake stopped and turned over the stones of the pathway planting larger devices when the guard looked elsewhere. The dogs snarled from their kennels, chains rattling as they lunged at his passing. He whistled softly, a melody-less tune that seemed to calm the animals.
He finished the circuit, coiled the hose of his sprayer, and wiped his gloves on his coverall. The guard’s expression never changed. “Finished?”
Blake gave a single nod. “No more bugs.”
The gates closed behind him with a heavy clang as the van rolled back onto the gravel road. Once the lights of the estate faded in his mirrors, he tapped his comms. “Cameras cover every corridor, magnetic contacts on windows, a safe in the study, a server room in the basement, and guards’ quarters upstairs. The exterior perimeter has sensors, kennels, and generator sheds. The blueprints are trash. I’ll send a clean map tonight.”
“And?” his aunt asked.
“And I’ve planted enough signal disrupters to make those guards go insane.” Blake laughed. “The steward and the guard were put out to escort me.” He chuckled, “I think it was my fascination with roly-polies.”
