He takes out a black automatic pistol.
“I don’t use guns,” I say. “You know that.”
“Things don’t always go according to plan. You might need it as backup.”
“I thought you were my backup,” I say with a smirk.
I open the car door.
I say, “Keep the gun, and I’ll see you in half an hour.”
I ease out of the car and silently close the door behind me.
I start toward the holding house, keeping myself in the shadow of the forest.
It’s my first time alone after spending half the day with Mike. I play back the unlikely events of the last few hours. Mike told me that my father is dead. Can I believe him?
I look at the house, thinking about what I’ve been asked to do.
I imagine Howard inside, alone and afraid, not knowing what’s happening to him. It’s my fault that he’s in this situation.
I stop this train of thought.
Feelings of guilt don’t belong on a mission. They are a distraction, and distracted people make mistakes.
That’s what happened in New York after I opened myself to the mayor and got betrayed by Samara.
It happened again when I was exposed to Francisco’s madness in New Hampshire.
Feelings have created nothing but chaos for me, so I set them aside and instead do what I’ve been trained to do. I clear my head and bring myself into the here and now, my senses aligned with the world around me.
I focus back on the house. It is deceptively normal, a quiet home on a large and private lot on an isolated street.
I start toward it, probing for security devices that might protect the location from intrusion. I’m within a hundred yards when I spot the first one, a small metal box at the base of a tree, likely a seismographic device designed to pick up vibrations in the woods. I scan the area and spot a second device.
My plan requires adjustment.
I take out my phone, set up a voice filter, then dial 911 to report a house fire at this location with people trapped inside. That should get the authorities moving.
It takes eight minutes before I hear sirens in the distance coming closer. Soon after, I see flashing lights as two fire vehicles approach the house. The small truck pulls halfway down the driveway while the larger engine parks across the street. Firemen pour out, several of them split off and head toward the front door.
Two athletic men come jogging out of the house fast, serious expressions on their faces as they meet the firemen. A conversation begins out of earshot.
If there are two men outside, there will be at least two inside. Maybe more.
It’s time for me to go in.
With alarms being triggered inside the house, one more is unlikely to attract notice, so I walk right past the seismographic devices and into the backyard until I arrive at the side door.
It’s locked. But only for a moment.