Page 82 of Freaks Of Nature
Other than the occasional hoot of an owl, it’s quiet.
I decide to make my move. Staying low, I sneak around back to find a point of entry away from what I assume is the living room. With my boots no more than a whisper across the grass, a man’s heavy snore reaches me over the indistinguishable mumble of a TV where the only light in the house is coming from.
I pass some basement windows and keep the option in mind in case I don’t find the access I’m looking for in the rear. I’d rather not go through the entire house, guard sleeping on his watch or not.
But as I clip the corner of the cabin, I’m in luck. My eyes travel up to a small balcony approximately 15 feet in the air, and my heart gives an excited kick behind my ribs. It’ll get me straight to the second story.
I throw another quick glance over my shoulder, then back away from the house a few feet and take a running start at the exterior wall. Pushing off the ground, my left boot meetsbrick first, immediately followed by my right as I keep going vertical.
On the last step, I kick off my right foot to push myself left toward the balcony. My fingers reach just high enough to catch the bottom ledge. With a better running start on concrete, I could’ve managed more altitude.
Swinging my legs, I pick up momentum to launch my body higher, and this time my grip finds the railing.
With my toes secure on the balcony’s ledge, I straighten and climb over while training my sight on the window. There’s a gap in the curtains, allowing me a view into a dark bedroom.
On closer observation, I determine it’s empty. The man I’m looking for must be in another.
When I move silently toward the sliding door, I notice the two lights hanging on either side. They’re turned off, but I reach up and unscrew both lightbulbs just a tad to make sure they won’t come on to put me on display.
Slipping my hand into the pack strapped to my thigh, I retrieve my tools and drop to my knees in front of the door to pick the lock.
I feel it turn over more than I hear it. I’m all about touch, which is why I work so well in the dark.
As long as my mind doesn’t disconnect, that is.
I slide the door open and squeeze in before tugging it shut again behind me, but before I can take another step, I catch movement in the hallway.
The door to the bedroom is open to the second-floor landing, where a shadow slithers along the ground.
My pulse remains flat. I’ve done this too many times. There’s no thrill to it anymore.
I creep closer to peek around the corner, my hand hovering over my pack. A man matching my mark’s approximate height and weight moves from the room next door toward the stairs, his back to me, but I can’t tell for sure he’s the guy. I need to see his face.
Completely hidden in the darkness of the room, I watch him round the banisters, and when he turns to descend the steps, I get my confirmation; he’s the target from the surveillance footage Christopher showed me—Alexander Bates, aka the snitch.
I linger in the spare bedroom until I know he’s reached the bottom.
As I take a step into the hallway, I hear him yelling at the sleeping man downstairs. Under the disguise of the argument’s volume, I slip into the bedroom my target vacated and plant myself behind the open door to wait for him to return, however long it might be.
I listen to the fridge opening and closing, chairs being dragged on the hardwood floor, dishes moving. It’s an agonizing wait.
At last I hear his steps ascending the stairs.
My fingers flex around the cylindrical shape ready in my fist as his footfalls draw closer. I briefly consider the possibility that he’s carrying a sidearm he could shoot me with. My standard knife is sheathed at my back, but I have a second, smaller one inside my boot. Other than my hands, those are my only weapons.
I watch his shadow grow in the faint ambient light of the hallway. The moment he steps in and slams the door shut, I jump him.
With my left arm over his shoulder, I pin him to my chest and stick the needle into his neck.
He never even sees me.
As I push the plunger down, I rely entirely on Christopher’s information regarding the contents of the syringe. If it’s anything other than a sedative, he might not go down at all or just drop dead in front of me.
I’m fully aware of the risks. Every time I do this, there’s a chance Mr. DeMarco plans to set me up for murder or have me killed in the process. I know too much to be taken in by the cops.
Ash and I never exchange details about our individual jobs. I don’t know whether they call him for different tasks than what they require from me, and that might be the reason I’m here instead of him.
Would he take a blind chance with the syringe and put himself at risk like that?
