The King(21)
Mayhap Benloise was less than proud of the way he made his paper.
“We penetrate here,” Assail said softly, nodding to the plate-glass windows of a sitting porch.
Ghosting in through them, he re-formed in the interior, standing motionless as he listened for footsteps, a scream, a scramble, a closing door.
A glowing red light high up in a corner informed him that the security system was on and running—and the motion detectors hadn’t yet been triggered by their sudden appearance. The instant he moved? All hell was going to break loose.
Which was the plan.
Assail first knocked out the security cameras. Then he triggered the alarm by reaching into his pocket and pulling free a Cuban cigar—in response, that light immediately started blinking. And whilst it discoed along, he took his time lighting his smoke, fully expecting any number of thick-necked strong-arms to come racing in.
When that did not occur, he exhaled over his shoulder and strode forward, going throughout the first floor with the cousins tight on his heels. As he went along, he ashed on the Oriental rugs and the Italian marble tiles.
A little calling card in the unlikely event they didn’t meet up with anyone: Considering the retaliation the man thought appropriate for a statue’s reorientation, cigar debris was going to send the bastard right over the edge.
When he found nothing in the public rooms of the house, he headed for the servant wing and discovered an empty kitchen that was modern and utterly uninspiring. God, how boring—the gray-and-chrome color scheme was like the pallor of the elderly, and the sparse furnishings suggested decor was not a priority in spaces Benloise did not frequent himself. But more to the point, and as with the reception rooms, there was no scent from Sola’s presence nor that of gunpowder or fresh blood. There were also no dishes in any of the three deep-bellied sinks, and when he opened the refrigerator just because he could, he found six green Perrier bottles on the top shelf and nothing else—
A set of headlights washed across the windows, flaring in his face, casting sharp shadows among table legs and chair backs and stands of cooking utensils.
Assail puffed out a mushroom cloud of smoke and smiled. “Let us go out and welcome them home.”
Except the vehicle passed by the house and zeroed in on the outbuilding—suggesting that whoever it was had not come in response to the alarm being set off.
“Sola…” he whispered as he dematerialized onto the snow-covered lawn.
Emotions riding high, he nonetheless made sure to disable the monitoring cameras on the rear exterior—and then he ripped off his mask so he could breathe better.
The non-descript sedan stopped grille-first into the garage, and two white human men got out of the front, clamping the doors shut and going around to the—
“Greetings, my friends,” Assail announced as he leveled his forty at them.
Ah, look. They were such good little listeners, each going statue as they jerked in the direction of his voice.
Walking over, Assail trained his muzzle on the man on the right, knowing that the twins would judge correctly his focus and concentrate on the other one. When he’d closed the distance, he leaned in and peered through the windows of the backseat, bracing himself to see Sola in some form of compromise …
Nothing. There was no one back there, nobody bound and gagged, knocked out, or cowering in submission against the beating that would surely come.
“Open the trunk,” Assail ordered. “Only one of you—you. You do it.”
As Assail followed the man around, he kept his gun right at the back of the fucker’s head, his finger twitching at the trigger, ready to squeeze.
Pop!
The trunk latch released and the panel lifted soundlessly, inner lights coming on …
To illuminate two duffel bags. That was it. Nothing but two black nylon duffel bags.
Assail puffed his cigar. “Goddamn it—where is she?”
“Where is who?” the man asked. “Who are you—”
On a surge of pure hatred, his anger leaped ahead of his mind, taking over, taking control.
Pop! number two was the sound of a bullet leaving Assail’s gun and blasting right through the guy’s frontal lobe. And the impact sent a spackle of blood all over those nylon carry-ons, and the car, and the driveway.
“Jesus Christ!” the other guy barked. “What the—”
Rage, undiluted by any semblance of rational thinking, made Assail roar some horrible, ugly sound—as his trigger jumped the gun again. So to speak.
Pop! number three dropped the driver, the bullet entering right between his eyebrows, the body falling backward in a narcoleptic free fall.
As loose arms and legs flopped on the snow, Ehric’s dry voice drifted over. “You realize we could have questioned them.”