Lock-picking was an acquired art, and Steyn had made himself proficient at it. There was a time and a place for forcing a door. Because it was noisy, you gained the element of fear, which could be very useful depending on who the victim was, but you sacrificed the element of surprise. In this case, surprise was more important, because his target owned a firearm, which was usually kept in the safe.
Steyn did not want to give him enough time to access the safe.
After waiting until the security guard who patrolled this neighborhood had turned the corner, Steyn came out of hiding and quickly climbed the wall. Then he walked through the well-kept garden, breathing in the fresh scent of flowers and leaves still wet from the rain. He did some work on the house alarm’s electronics box before making his way to the imposing wooden front door. The target lived well in this rental accommodation—Steyn guessed that African network manager was a very senior position. Clearly Brogan also felt safe in these lodgings because the alarm had not, in fact, been turned on.
A minute’s stealthy work at the front door, and Steyn was inside, his soft shoes padding across the marble hallway. A trickle of sweat inched down his forehead, surprising him with its presence. It wasn’t such a warm night. But then, he was operating on a knife edge right now, riding out the rodeo that this job had become, leaving him far from his usual state of implacable calm.
The television blared from the living room on the right. He listened for voices—there were none to be heard. Brogan lived alone, but occasionally brought women home for the night. Steyn guessed this was not one of those nights. He hadn’t thought it would be. Even though he had every reason to want to relieve his stress, Brogan must have been too preoccupied to visit the trendy nightclub a few blocks away, which was his normal hunting ground.
That meant he’d chosen another way of relieving his inner tensions.
Brogan was a heavy drinker. If he hadn’t had time to go down to the club, then without a doubt, he would have opened a bottle from the stash of single malt whiskey in the cellar.
A snore coming from the living room told Steyn he was correct.
The living room was spacious and sumptuous, with white tiling, dark leather furniture, and tasteful modern art on the walls that Steyn was sure Brogan did not appreciate. The man himself was slumped on his back on the couch. A whiskey glass lay on its side nearby, and the room stank like a distillery.
From the television, an episode of The Jerry Springer Show blared.
“Brogan?” Steyn asked softly, holding the gun at the ready.
The African network manager didn’t respond, but let out a loud, reverberating snore.
Time to do what needed to be done. Having the man unconscious would make it easier. The layout of the house was perfect for Steyn’s needs, with those long, exposed rafters running across the length of the living room’s ceiling.
He flung a long rope over the closest one, and quickly knotted it into a crude hangman’s noose, which he eased over Brogan’s thick neck. A man about to commit suicide wouldn’t bother with a neat knot, or so Steyn decided.
He fetched a high-backed wooden chair from the dining-room area nearby and placed it under the noose. Another snore came from behind him, but it was cut off halfway through.
Steyn spun round.
Brogan’s eyes were open and he was staring blearily at the gunman.
“You!” he shouted in a thick voice, legs flailing as he attempted to rise. “What are you doing in my…”
“Cutting off loose ends, I’m afraid,” Steyn replied calmly.
Then he yanked on the rope.
The noose tightened around Brogan’s neck, lifting him to his feet. His shouts were abruptly cut off as he struggled and choked, eyes bulging.
Thickset and overweight, Brogan was heavier than Steyn, so Steyn looped the rope around the steel banister of the nearby stairway in order to anchor it. Then it was only necessary for him to pull with all his strength. Slowly but surely, the African manager’s body was drawn into the air.
After knotting the rope around the banister and pushing over the dining-room chair, Steyn watched dispassionately as Brogan’s kicks weakened. He was deciding what to write in the suicide note. Of course, the man was very drunk, as subsequent blood tests would eventually prove. That would certainly affect his coordination. A few words in a sprawling hand would be best: a rambling diatribe of how Brogan regretted what he had done, and couldn’t live with the guilt of deceiving his boss, Dave, any longer.
Moving through the now-silent house, Steyn performed a quick search of Brogan’s study, which yielded some company letterhead and a pen.
Sitting on the couch that Brogan had vacated just a few minutes earlier, Steyn bent to his task. He needed to hurry, because there was still one target to dispose of tonight…and he was going to take a deeply personal satisfaction in completing the final phase of his job.