Page 212 of The One
I double-check my guns, making sure they’re loaded and I have plenty of ammunition. Satisfied, I start the engine.
As I drive through the night, I go over my plan again and again. I’m calm now, my mind sharp and locked onto what needs to be done.
Antonio’s neighborhood is quiet. I pass his vast estate and park around the corner, hidden beneath the shadow of the trees. Before stepping out, I pull on my balaclava, slip on night vision glasses, and check that my gloves cover every inch of skin. Dressed in stealth black from head to toe, I should be nearly invisible in the dark.
The night is overcast, shrouding the world in dull darkness, with no moonlight to give me away. Everything is falling perfectly into place.
I pull a small signal scrambler from my vest and switch it on. It pulses silently, jamming the security cameras just enough to feed them looping still frames. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that will alert the guards, until it’s too late.
With practiced ease, I scale the outer wall, my gloved hands finding grip on the rough stone. At the top, I crouch low and listen. The estate is quiet. Everyone is asleep except for the guards on duty.
I spot one of them as he makes his way toward the house. I wait, steadying my breath, then squeeze the trigger the moment he steps into range. The silenced shot drops him instantly, and he collapses to the ground without a sound. Approaching quickly, I drag the body into the shadows and move on.
Every so often, I encounter another patrol. Each time, I take them out with precision. One shot, one body. No alarms. No chance for them to call for backup.
Reaching the house, I quickly locate the ventilation system. From my pack, I pull a small gas canister and tripod, placing it in front of the intake vent. The knockout agent hisses as it’s released, filling the mansion with an invisible fog. Within minutes, every living soul inside will be unconscious.
I pull my gas mask over my face and step inside. The house is eerily silent, bodies slumped where they stood moments ago. No resistance. No struggle. Clean.
When I reach Antonio’s bedroom on the second floor, I find him sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. But he’s not alone.
There’s a girl beside him, barely older than Mariella. A wave of disgust rolls through me. His disloyalty to his wife is one thing. But this? Hooking up with someone the same age as his daughter?
I clench my jaw, shoving the rage deep down. There’s no time for emotions. Not yet.
I grip Antonio’s unconscious body and haul the sack of shit over my shoulder. He’s dead weight, but I’ve carried worse. Then I spot a serving trolley in the corner. Looks like the turd and his girlfriend treated themselves to dinner in bed. His last supper.
I swipe the dishes off the trolley and lay him across it. Taking the lift to the ground floor, I move quickly to get outside. But before I leave, I swap the gas canister for something lethal. I can’t assume his soldiers’ loyalty, not when they might come looking for him.
With one last look at the house, I dump Antonio in the trunk, get behind the wheel, and drive off.
Back at my hideout, I drag Antonio’s naked, limp body inside and tie him to a chair.
I change into something more comfortable. Wouldn’t want to ruin my combat gear with the traitor’s blood.
By the time I return, Antonio stirs, his head lolling forward with a groan.
“Rise and shine,” I cajole, arms crossed as I watch him regain consciousness.
The gas is wearing off, but the zip ties cutting into his wrists and ankles aren’t going anywhere. His head lifts sluggishly, eyes squinting against the dim light as he surveys his surroundings, his eyes landing on me.
Recognition dawns, then a smirk spreads across his face.
“Ah, Mateo,” he drawls, his voice hoarse but thick with arrogance. “Should’ve known you’d be behind this dramatic little setup.”
I crouch in front of him, studying the bruises already forming on his jaw from when I hauled him into the trunk.
“Dramatic?” I scoff. “Antonio, please. This is efficient. Something you always mocked me for, if I recall correctly.”
His gaze sharpens as he tugs against his restraints, testing their strength. Futile. Expected.
“The pretty playboy afraid to get his hands dirty,” he taunts.
“I get why you’d think that.” I tilt my head. “But tonight? I don’t mind getting a little blood on my hands.”
His smirk falters, but only slightly. Then he sneers. “So she told you, did she? Stupid girl.”
My fist flies before I even think about it. His head snaps back, blood trickling from his split lip.
