Well, he would have a nice long sleep tonight.
Mecho moved on, drawing closer to the house.
There was a vintage Bentley convertible parked in the courtyard. A noise from another building drew his attention.
The guesthouse again.
He looked at his watch.
Could it be?
He crept closer. A small light illuminated the front of the building.
Mecho could see another guard posted by the front door of the guesthouse. His.44 was hol- stered, and the MP5 hung loosely by its strap across his chest. He looked bored. He was smoking a cigarette.
By this Mecho knew he was not a true professional. People who knew what they were doing never smoked on duty. Smelling your opponent before he could attack was sometimes the difference between life and death. As was the split second it would take you to drop the cigarette and close your hand around your weapon.
By then you were dead.
Killed by someone more professional than you.
Three seconds later the man lay prostrate on the brick walk in front of the guesthouse. Mecho stripped out the ammo clips from both weapons and pocketed them. Then he slid the man behind a bush and crept to the door.
The sounds coming from inside were the same ones he’d heard that morning.
He opened the door and slipped in. This was not part of the plan tonight, but he took shortcuts when they presented themselves.
The house was dark and he felt his way along. The bedroom was at the end of the hall on the right. He reached it about five seconds later. The door was partially open. With the guard outside they no doubt did not expect to be interrupted.
He peered in. With the moonlight pouring in through the window, the room was illuminated well enough for him to see what was happening.
Peter J. Lampert was on bottom this time.
But it was not Chrissy Murdoch with him.
It was Beatriz, the young maid whom Mecho had spoken with that morning.
She no longer wore her crisp uniform.
She no longer wore anything.
If Mecho had been curious as to whether her body was as beautiful as the rest of her, he had his answer. She was exquisitely lovely.
She straddled her employer. His hands were around her waist and he was smashing her down on him with what Mecho could see was far too much force. Peter J. Lampert seemed to get a kick out of being overly physical with women.
Beatriz was not moaning as Chrissy Murdoch had been. At least not moaning in pleasure. She was moaning in pain. Her small breasts bounced up and down and Mecho could see her butt cheeks wrinkling with each hard collision against Lampert’s thighs.
Mecho tensed, every instinct he had telling him to attack.
But instead he pulled back, moved swiftly down the hall, and reached the living room. He looked around and decided this was as good a place as any.
He did what he had come to do and then left.
Outside he gave the guard behind the bush a kick in the head, pretending he was Peter J. Lampert.
It felt good.
He did one more thing before he left. The package was placed twenty meters away from the house and next to the Bentley convertible that had a license plate reading “The Man.”
As he crawled over the fence he counted the seconds off in his head.
He reached the beach and kept counting.
Fifty seconds later, when he was back on firm ground, the explosion occurred, lifting the pristine old Bentley five feet up in the air. When it came back down it hardly looked vintage anymore.
The blast lit up the night over Paradise.
Mecho didn’t look up to watch it as he started his scooter.
But he did smile.
The Man.
CHAPTER 49
Puller drove to the Gull Coast and checked in. The front-desk person was young and sleepy, or maybe just bored.
He put his gear away in his room and debated what to do next. He called Landry and told her he was on his way. He hopped into the Tahoe and twenty minutes later pulled into the garage in Destin.
It was a humid night with little breeze.
Landry met him at the garage elevator. She had changed into shorts and a tank top with sandals. She held up two bottles of beer and then eyed Sadie.
“You have a dog?”
“By default.” He explained about Sadie being Cookie’s pet.
“I can’t take her, if that’s what you’re thinking. My building is no pets.”
“No problem. I just didn’t want to leave her alone tonight.”
“Let’s do the beach walk. It’s cooler down by the water and you can fill me in on the latest.” She glanced at Sadie. “And you can walk your new dog.”
They trudged across the sand, the breakers rolling over with a growing intensity.
“Surf always this rough at night?” he asked. “Don’t you watch the news?”
“Not lately, no.”
“Tropical storm Danielle formed in the Atlantic and entered the Gulf. Don’t think it’ll strengthen much, but it’s roiling up the waters. It’ll make landfall around here at some point. They’re not exactly sure when.”
The beach was mostly empty except for several young men stumbling along, beer cans in hand.
Puller spent a few minutes filling Landry in on the details of Cookie’s death as Sadie walked dutifully next to him, occasionally looking up. The animal must have been confused as hell, thought Puller, because it had a far longer way to look up than it had with Cookie.
“What the hell do you think is going on, Puller?” asked Landry after he’d finished.
He shrugged. “If people knew something they’re being silenced quite efficiently.”
“If they knew
He shrugged again. “If I knew that I’d know it all.”
He glanced at her as they walked along sipping their beers.
Sadie tugged and jerked on the leash, but she was so small that Puller barely noticed. It was like walking a cricket.
The cold beer made Puller feel warm, warmer than the air around him. The waves crashing with tidal regularity made him more relaxed than he normally would have been, particularly after what had happened to Cookie.
He caught her gazing at him. “You want to go back up to my apartment?” she asked.
“Why?”
She looked down. “I… We…”
Interpreting her unease Puller said, “I’d really like to, but I can’t.”
“Okay, I understand. I know I’m not a girly girl, and I carry a gun at work, but I am a woman. I do like guys.”
