Chapter 4 - The Cleaners
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't reach for my duffel.
In the Marines, when you find yourself in an ambush zone with zero cover and superior numbers approaching, you don't retreat. You take the high ground or you turn the terrain into a funnel.
I slipped the bent ring and the micro-SD card into my inner combat jacket pocket, zipped it shut, and moved silently through the shadow of the hallway into the darkened living room.
From the front window, peering between the horizontal slats of the blinds, I watched the vehicle.
A black Ford Explorer with tinted windows and exempt municipal plates. Not an official patrol cruiser. An unmarked municipal unit. Henderson's unit.
Two men got out.
Neither of them was Henderson. These men were younger, broader across the shoulders, dressed in heavy windbreakers and tactical boots. The driver reached into the backseat and pulled out a long canvas tool bag—the kind plumbers use for pipe wrenches, or the kind clean-up crews use for sledgehammers and plastic sheeting.
The passenger pulled a suppressed Glock from beneath his windbreaker and racked the slide with a muted, metallic click.
They weren't here to talk. They weren't here to question me.
They were here to make sure Sophia's husband suffered an "unfortunate home invasion" by the same fictitious gang members who had supposedly attacked her in the alley.
I moved into the kitchen pantry, slipping behind the louvered door, leaving it open an inch.
In my right hand was a heavy cast-iron skillet I had grabbed from the drying rack. In my left was my tactical knife. No firearm. My personal sidearms were still locked in the base armory pending customs clearance. I had to rely on close-quarters combat principles: speed, surprise, and sheer violence of action.
The front door handle rattled.
A soft scraping sound. A lockpick.
*Clack.*
The front door swung open. The cold draft swept through the hallway, bringing with it the smell of cheap tobacco and wet nylon.
"Check the bedrooms first," a low voice whispered from the foyer. "If he's asleep, do it with the pillow. Don't make a mess. Vance wants this wrapped up before the morning shift."
*Vance.*
The name echoed in my mind. Marcus Vance. The billionaire commercial developer who practically owned the city council, the harbor redevelopment project, and Richard Carter’s real estate brokerage.
The footsteps moved down the hardwood hallway. Heavy. Deliberate.
One man moved toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
The other—the one with the tool bag—turned toward the kitchen.
He walked through the archway, his flashlight beam sweeping across the overturned dining chair, the bleached tiles, and finally stopping on the broken tile I had pried loose.
The beam locked onto the dark bloodstain.
"Shit," the man muttered under his breath, reaching for the radio pinned to his shoulder. "Hey, Tommy, the floor’s been—"
I kicked the pantry door open.
The louvered wood slammed into his face, shattering his nose with a wet crunch and knocking his head sideways. Before he could recover his balance or cry out, I stepped inside his reach.
The heavy cast-iron skillet struck the side of his temple with a dull, hollow *thud*.
His knees buckled instantly. The heavy tool bag dropped from his grip, thumping against the floor. I caught his tactical vest by the collar, dragging his dead weight behind the kitchen island so he wouldn't make a sound as he collapsed.
"Dave?" a voice called from the stairs. "Dave, what was that?"
Footsteps hurried back down the wooden staircase.
I crouched behind the island, stripped the suppressed Glock from the unconscious man's holster, checked the chamber—one round ready, fifteen in the magazine—and clicked the safety off.
The second man, Tommy, appeared in the kitchen doorway, his gun drawn in a low-ready stance, flashlight illuminating the empty room.
"Dave?"
He saw his partner’s legs sticking out from behind the marble island.
His eyes widened. He raised his weapon.
"Drop it," I said from the darkness beside the refrigerator.
He spun toward my voice, bringing his gun up to fire.
I fired twice.
Two muffled, pneumatic *puffs* from the suppressor.
The first bullet took him in the right shoulder, spinning him around. The second punched through his knee.
Tommy collapsed to the floor with a strangled scream, his weapon clattering across the tile. He clutched his shattered knee, his face contorting in agony as he stared at me through the shadows.
I stepped out into the faint moonlight filtering through the kitchen window, the suppressed pistol leveled directly between his eyes.
May you like
"The next one goes through your teeth," I whispered, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "Who is Vance, and what did you do to Samuel?"
***
