Chapter 24
669 Words
24
Back in the night-vision goggles, I lead Rob and Jacka through the spectacular home. I’ve seen the living room furniture before, on TV shows like How the Rich Bastards Live. The paintings are probably someone’s Second World War loot. The place smells of furniture polish, soft immaculate leather, and old books.
And blood. I still have the thug’s stripped, severed arm pinned beneath my bicep. I’ll probably need his thumb to open another door. The only sounds are our own quiet footsteps and the slow gory drip of Thug Smoothie.
At least the carpet is really, really expensive.
But I’m the one stuck clutching the thug’s cooling thumb in my left fist. To keep it at body temperature, so it can trip fingerprint readers.
Watch for traps, I keep telling myself. Infra-red trip wires. Motion sensors. Don’t think about what’s in your hand. Look for people hiding behind doors. Look for anything. This is a private home, but some rich people have very lethal alarm systems. I need to focus on everything except the lump of meat clenched in my armpit.
Deke’s penetration expert career counseling had not included “You get to carry the grisly bits.” From now on, I’m bringing a plastic trash bag.
The interior walls hadn’t changed since the house was built. There’s several halls leading to other wings of the manor, but I lead the way to the enclosed staircase at the back of the living room.
The coarsely carpeted stairs go up a couple stories, with a switchback halfway up. One wall is the glass exterior, the other old hardwood planks salvaged from some centuries-old building. My goggles show infrared, while Jacka’s got his set to ultraviolet. If there’s any sort of sensors or tripwires, we’ll see them. And realistically, nobody mines the path to their bedroom. It’s too easy for something to go horribly wrong.
The bedroom door at the next landing doesn’t have a fingerprint reader. It’s even swung most of the way open. And the half-dozen stairs beyond have no sign of booby traps. Light spills down from the room above us.
Noah might be in the bedroom with a machine gun leveled at the stairwell.
I drop the thug’s severed arm with a relieved sigh. “Masks,” I mutter into my mic. Jacka and Rob had better already have their masks on after the pool room, but it’s procedure. I pull a grenade the size of a soup can from my belt.
“Go,” Rob says.
I pull the pin, count to three, and toss the grenade over the edge.
Even with my hands clamped over my ears, the explosion is deafening. My goggles flare, flashing through my squeezed-shut eyelids, and the special stink of a flashbang fills my nose. Without the mask I’d be coughing and gagging the way I hope Noah is right now.
But there’s no gunfire from above.
I grit my teeth, bend low, and charge up the stairs.
Noah’s lair is, if possible, even more decadent than the rest of the house. The goggles strip away the worst of the flash-bang haze, but the smoke still obscures some of the detail. Every wall is floor-to-ceiling one-way glass overlooking the estate, except for the tiny water closet in one corner. The God-King bed in the middle of the room has no headboard or footboard, but looks soft enough to swallow half a dozen people. Most glass-walled showers have etched walls to offer a shred of privacy, but the big one against the wall has crystal clear glass and is placed perfectly to offer anyone lounging in bed an eyeful. And it’s easily roomy enough for three people.
No closet. No dresser. Noah probably has a maid bring up a freshly-pressed suit when she delivers his morning blowjob. There’s a baroque little nightstand by the bed, and a hat rack with two lightweight silk bathrobes hanging by the shower.
Plus the obligatory mirrored ceiling.
Jacka’s right behind me, with Rob covering the stairs behind us.
I tromp across carpet softer than some mattresses to check behind the bed, while Jacka takes the water closet, but I already know the truth. Keying the throat mike, I say “Bradley. Anyone leaving the building?”
“Not yet.”
We’d blasted our way in to take Noah. But he’s not home.
- Writer
