Pulling her NVGs down, she went to the house and climbed the back steps. She pulled her lockpick tools and set to work. Again, she had to smile at the old door knobs. Nothing high tech here. Putting them back on her belt, she pulled her Spearpoint and held it in her left hand, her Ruger with suppressor in her right. She opened the door softly, stepping in and closing the door just as softly behind. Her eyes swept the kitchen and spotted the obligatory house phone.
She made her way into the living room. Shit, hardwood floors, she thought. She raised her weapon, because things could go from zero to fifty in a split second when the wood creaked under her foot. She carefully stepped onto the wood floor, and breathed a little when no sound came. She moved as stealthily as she could, she was close to the hallway when the floor squeaked. She gritted her teeth and raised her weapon and waited.
Her breath was slow and shallow, she waited, hearing nothing. She didn’t move though, she knew better. Minutes ticked by and then she heard it, the floor from one of the rooms creaking. Someone was up. They’d heard her and were waiting to see if they’d hear more. She knew that old trick and had nearly been killed by not listening to her gut. She knew that if someone had heard the noise, they’d wait to hear more. When they didn’t hear anything else, they’d get up and investigate.
Someone was getting up. She waited, the green glow around her picked up no movement. The doors in the hallway were closed and so she waited for a door to open. She heard another creak, and then she saw the door nearest her, three feet away, open slowly. She held her breath, waiting to see a head. She lowered her body slightly, quietly.
Slowly, a head came through the door, it was the big man. She knew he couldn’t see her; the house was dark. She took aim and put a bullet in his right eye when he turned his head her way. His eyes glowed like some kind of demon, from the optics over her eyes. His face was rough, and he looked like a vicious man. Well, vicious no more, now dead.
His body fell, as though someone had cut the strings. There was a soft thump and he slid to the floor, his arm flung out, a gun still in his hand. She waited, listening. Should mom or pop come out, she’d tag them as well. No sounds. Not the squeaking of bedsprings, nor movement. She waited ten more minutes to be sure then moved down the hallway quickly. She ignored the squeaking floor and came to another closed door. She’d passed the bathroom on her way, which had been open.
She opened the door and went to a knee in a smooth execution. Where her head had been, the wood was blown from the door frame, a man sitting up in bed, with a weapon he had just fired. She double tapped him in the forehead and he slumped back. A woman was jerking herself free of the covers and opened her mouth to scream, and Imani fired a bullet into her mouth.
She dropped like a stone. Imani quickly walked over to the woman and looked down. She was still alive, making a gurgling noise. It looked like the woman was vomiting up black goo. Another shot and the woman was dead.
She didn’t know how long she had, she was sure the neighbors heard the shot. She looked out the window, but didn’t see any lights turning on. She ran to the kitchen and looked out the back. No lights. Then to the other side of the house, no lights turned on. Good. She went and opened a door in the kitchen and it was a basement. She went down cautiously, she didn’t know if anyone was down there guarding the women. She heard a woman crying softly. She moved slowly, her weapon ahead of her.
She saw the man, crouched in a corner, he had what looked like an AR15 with a suppresser on it. She double tapped him, one bullet for each eye. She went to the gun range once a week to practice. She never wanted a miss on her card. It paid off, she didn’t think she’d ever missed a shot. She smiled and went a little farther down.
She looked but saw no other threats. The women were chained to the walls, there were seven of them, all laying on bare mattresses. She could smell their fear, as well as waste. She saw a bucket and figured that was all they were allowed. Bastards. She turned and went back upstairs. She looked out all the windows again, and assured herself of no attention to the earlier gunshot.
She pulled her phone and recorded her message. Then she picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed 911.
“911 operator, what is your emergency?”
Imani pressed the play button, “I’ve just killed four dirtbags. They are human traffickers. There are seven women in the basement, chained to the wall. You’ll want to send police and a couple of ambulances.”
She let the phone hang to the floor on the coiled line and left out of the kitchen door. She ran in a crouch across the back yard and past the house and jumped into her car. She pulled away and went around the block and then parked her car
