Masses of oleander bushes screened the alley from the backyards of the homes on either side. That was good. Even in daylight, it would be easy to climb the hurricane fence without being seen.
He parked the van and killed the engine.
“We’re here,” he announced loudly enough to rouse Bran in the back.
Funny thing about Bran. He could sleep through any fucking thing. Fall asleep on the way to his own execution, probably. Of course, in this case he was on his way to somebody else’s.
Tupelo was a different story. He was always wide awake, annoyingly so. Throughout the drive from Santa Ana he’d been twitching and itching in the passenger seat, knocking his shoes together like a restless kid, talking too much and twiddling the radio knob, changing stations, until Dylan told him to cut it the hell out.
Pain in the ass, was Tupelo. Good with a gun, though. All that nervous energy made him quick on the trigger, and his hyperactive wariness meant he never missed a thing.
Dylan was familiar with his crew’s quirks and strengths. The three of them, in their mid-twenties now, had been together since they were teenagers. They’d learned their trade well. They had the experience and the moves, and each of them had proved himself a stone cold killer more than once.
“All right,” he said briskly, “looks like she’s home. Her car’s in the carport.” This was added for Bran’s benefit. He’d been snoring like a lawnmower when the van made its pass in front of the house.
“She alone in there?” Bran asked, stifling a yawn.
“Probably. No other cars out front. Curtains are all closed.”
“She got cats?” Tupelo asked.
“What?”
“Cats. Lotta these little old ladies that live by themselves, they got a whole mess of cats.”
Dylan shrugged. “Boss didn’t say nothing about cats.”
“Hope she don’t got any.” Tupelo shifted in his seat. “I hate cats.”
“How old is this bitch, anyhow?” Bran asked.
Dylan glanced back at him. “I dunno. Like, fifty, I guess.”
“Well preserved?”
“Fuck should I know? Who gives a shit?”
Bran had that dreamy look he got sometimes. “Some of these women, they’re still plenty fuckable at fifty. You know, if they got like plastic surgery and shit.”
Dylan was getting pissed. “You wanna fuck some Valley grandma with a nip-and-tuck job, you do it on your own time. Our job’s to go in, get it done, and be gone.”
“Still say it would be smarter to wait.” That was Tupelo, his voice jumpy and high. “Nighttime is when shit like this goes down. Whack her in her sleep, she never knows what hit her.”
Dylan was inclined to agree, but his orders were clear. “Boss says it’s urgent. Time-sensitive, is how he said it.”
“This bitch has lived fifty years. She can’t live another couple hours?”
“I don’t ask questions when it’s the boss on the phone. Neither should you. Case you forgot, we took a goddamned oath.”
All three of them had sworn loyalty to their brothers. Included in their pledge was the duty to follow orders without hesitation or doubt.
“It’s the mission,” Dylan added. “Okay?”
“Fuck, yeah.” Bran sounded sleepier than before. “Let’s blip this hag and get it over with. I got things to do.”
“Equipment check,” Dylan said.
They ran through a checklist of their gear. Holstered to their belts were matte-black Heckler amp; Koch MK- 23 combat pistols, the six-inch inch barrels extended with SOS-45 silencer modules that reduced the guns’ noise output by forty decibels. Each pistol was loaded with a military-style twelve-round clip holding a dozen. 45 +P jacketed hollowpoints, with a thirteenth round chambered. The hollowpoints expanded on impact for maximum stopping power. Ammo pouches held spare clips.
Sheathed to each pistol belt was an Mk III combat knife, the same knife issued to Navy SEALs. It had a six- inch stainless steel blade with a nonreflective black finish. Dylan had wetted his blade with blood only once, when he’d had to take out a security guard without making any noise. He still remembered the way the guy flopped like a landed mackerel in a pool of blood from his slit throat. It was a hoot, seeing him kick and thrash.
All three of them wore dark blue sweatshirts and navy blue denim jeans, the pant legs tucked into their sneakers to minimize the risk of DNA transfer. Indigo provided better camouflage in the dark than jet black. Their sneakers were the same color, and the white highlights had been colored with purple felt markers so they wouldn’t show up in the shadows. Their gloves-flexible Isotoners-were black, as were the ski masks they pulled over their heads.
For long distance communication they carried walkie-talkies, but when within sight of each other, they would communicate with hand signals like SWAT commandos. Hell, they might as well have been SWAT guys. They had the gear, the suits, the attitude. Only thing they didn’t have was a badge, and they didn’t need one.
Dylan carried a few extras-a penlight, a lucky penny, and a small mirror on a collapsible stalk, useful for peeking around corners. He didn’t plan on using the mirror today. This was no stealth op; it was strictly wham, bam, goodbye, ma’am.
“We good to go?” Dylan asked when the checklist was complete.
“Yeah, we’re good.” Bran sounded bored.
“Fuck, yes.” Tupelo was rubbing his gloved hands like a maniac.
Dylan nodded. “Let’s get paid.”
They got out of the van. Dylan felt his heart working hard. He wasn’t scared. This woman posed no threat. She was nobody, just some civilian to be zippered. Another day at the office, another thousand bucks in his pocket. But any hit got his juices flowing. It was a high, like doing lines of coke-not that he did that shit anymore. He’d been clean for two years come October. High on life-that’s what he was. Or on death, maybe. High on death, yeah.
His mouth was dry under the ski mask. He licked his lips. It was a warm August afternoon fragrant with oleander and honeysuckle, and a good time for a woman to die.
16
“You killed your children,” Abby said slowly.
Andrea faced her. “I did.”
“Why?”
“If I could answer that…” She broke eye contact, turning away. “I’ve spent twenty years trying to understand why. The psychiatrists worked on me. I think they enjoyed it. I was a challenge. But they never figured me out. The media people all had their theories, too. There was a book-I didn’t read it. A book about me that was supposed to explain it all. But how could a book explain it when even I didn’t know?”
Abby watched her, trying to imagine Andrea Lowry as a younger woman, a mother of small children. “You said you were famous.”
Andrea released an incongruous little laugh. “I suppose infamous would be the right word. They called me Medea. That was the nickname they came up with, the newspaper people. You know, the woman in Greek mythology. Her husband betrayed her with another woman, so Medea killed their children. Killed them just for spite. Then she escaped in a chariot drawn by flying dragons.” She gazed moodily toward the curtained window. “Medea was luckier than I’ve been. I’ve never escaped.”
“What happened to you after-after you…?”
“I shot myself.” She said it simply, without emotion. “Put a bullet in my head. Or tried to, anyway. I actually grazed my skull just behind the ear-this ear.” She pulled back a tuft of hair to expose a scar. “I would have bled to death, except the neighbors heard the gunshots and called nine-one-one. The police got me into surgery. The surgeon saved my life.” She replaced the spill of hair with an unsteady hand. “I wish he hadn’t. I should have died then.”
