At the edge of the house, I pause once again.
Atticus says, “What’s wrong?”
“Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Do you want to abort?”
“No.”
“Then get to it.”
I do one more sweep of the front yard before hurrying around to the porch steps. The door is already open, which sets off another alarm bell in my head.
I step into the foyer.
It’s what one might call a grand foyer. The ceiling two stories tall. The staircase split, moving up the side of each wall. A small chandelier hanging above my head. The house isn’t a mansion like you’d find back in the States, but it’s impressive enough for an area full of poverty and slums.
I shout, “Knock, knock! Is anybody home?”
Silence.
At least for the first couple seconds, and then I hear footsteps behind me as four men appear from side rooms, then two men appear at the top of the stairs.
The men don’t say anything, just glare, so I decide to break the ice, pointing at the sunglasses on my head.
“I’m a tourist on vacation. I’m looking for the beach. Can anyone point me in the right direction?”
Still silent, the men aim their guns at me.
I whisper, “Atticus, now.”
Somewhere in the States, Atticus presses a key on his keyboard, and outside, the surprise I attached to the electrical box—the quarter pound of plastic explosive—detonates. There’s a magnificent bang, and then the house goes dark.
Party time.
Three
The sunglasses on my head are not actually sunglasses. They’re a kind of night vision goggles, designed to look like sunglasses, and once the lights go out, I drop to the floor and flick the glasses down on my face just as some of the guards open fire.
They’re not entirely stupid, though; they know better than to shoot wildly in the dark. Fact is, it’s not totally dark because outside the sky is clear and the moon is bright, but it’ll take several seconds before their eyes start to adjust.
I hit a button on the side of the glasses, and the world turns green. Now I can see just as clear as day.
Only a few of the guards opened fire but quickly stopped, not wanting to shoot any of their friends. One of them shouts for someone to turn on a flashlight. I look back and forth, but it doesn’t appear any of them has a flashlight. Someone pulls out his cell phone, no doubt planning to use a flashlight app.
I kill him first.
Because of the silencer, there’s only a slight muzzle flash, barely even there, which doesn’t give the guards much to aim for. A few shoot randomly, but their shots are high.
Okay, no more screwing around.
I move toward the closest wall, right beside one of the guards, and shoot him in the head. Then I turn and take out three more guards—pop pop pop—before sprinting toward the other end of the foyer because the two guards up at the top of the stairs now open fire in my direction.
They move down the stairs, slowly, taking their time as they wait for their eyes to adjust.
I don’t give them the time—I take out the closest guard, two in the head, then hurry up the stairs as I fire across at the other guard.
My bullet hits him in the shoulder, causing him to twist back and fall down the stairs. He’s still alive, though; he climbs to his feet, disoriented, looking around the foyer and shooting randomly.
Now positioned at the top of the stairs, I place a bead on his head and pull the trigger.
His head snaps back, and he falls dead to the ground.
Satisfied all the guards are dead, I turn and walk straight into a wall of flesh.
Stumbling back, I have a moment to take in the three-hundred-pound man standing in front of me. I remember seeing him the other day, trailing Ernesto, clearly the old man’s personal bodyguard. A massive guy, all muscle. His eyes haven’t adjusted quite yet to the dark, but still he manages to hit me when he swings his enormous fist.
I fly into the wall. The SIG falls from my hand on impact. I pick myself back up, reach for the gun, but the giant lashes out with both hands, gripping different parts of my body, until one of his hands finds my neck. He throws me up against the wall. I kick and punch at him, but it does little good. With the night vision, I can see the frenzied look on his face, the pure menace in his eyes, as he starts to squeeze my throat. When I try to kick him in the balls, he swats at me with his other hand, slapping me across the face, causing the glasses to go flying.
I can’t see in the dark now, but that’s okay. I still have one of the guns holstered to my belt. I try to reach for it but the giant seems to sense my intention. He grabs the gun himself, yanks it from the holster.
Fuck this.
Again I kick the giant in the balls, as hard as I can, and with my right fist I punch him in the throat. It doesn’t drop him, but it does stun him long enough for him to release his grip. I don’t have time to catch my breath as I struggle back to my feet and start kicking randomly in front of me, hoping that the tip of my boot connects with his face.
The giant lets off several rounds of the silenced pistol, the shots going straight up toward the ceiling. I’m close enough to see the muzzle flashes—only feet away from my head—and I dive forward, grabbing the gun and wrestling it from the giant’s hand.
He smacks me with his other hand, but I elbow him in the throat, again and again, until he stumbles back, coughing, and lets go of the gun.
Taking possession of the SIG once more, I turn and press
