Refocusing the monocular, Kendra measured the sight lines. She calculated the angles of approach, and she decided that there were two ways to reach the mansion.
The first option would be to descend the slope, turn left and exit the park. That would allow her to converge on the mansion from the front. Obvious enough. But that approach presented a problem – because the property sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, the street leading into it shared a single point of entry and a single point of exit.
Practically speaking, that was less than ideal, because if she did choose to go down that route, she would only be funnelling herself into a choke point. And if she ended up bumping into trouble – God forbid, an ambush – she’d have precious little room to manoeuvre.
Kendra shook her head.
Tight. Too damn tight.
Which meant that the second option was better. She would descend the slope, turn right and remain within the confines of the park. Just ahead was a pond, and snaking all around it was a walking track rimmed by tall grass and shrubbery, and directly beyond was the rear of the mansion.
Sure, the route was meandering, indirect, but the terrain was advantageous. It offered multiple directions for her to fall back on in the event of an emergency. And, of course, all the vegetation didn’t hurt – they would serve as cover.
And that settles it.
Puffing her cheeks, Kendra shouldered her backpack and moved down the slope.
She angled right.
She hit the walking track.
She observed ducks and geese squawking on the pond, joggers and cyclists making their rounds, and of course, the ubiquitous mothers pushing along their prams.
Kendra was conscious of every person she walked past – their smell, their aura.
Flexing her fingers, she kept her arms close to her sides, ready to go tactical if anyone so much as gave her the wrong signal.
Her muscles tensed up.
Her skin prickled.
And, head swivelling, she closed in on the walls of the mansion.
Fifty metres.
Thirty metres.
Ten metres.
Breathing evenly, keeping her heart rate in check, Kendra peeled away from the walking track. She diverted to the mansion’s eastern side and found herself exactly where she needed to be – at the back gate, which led directly to the outhouse.
Huddling against a tree, she reached behind her and unzipped the top of the backpack. She pulled the ballistic vest over her head and secured it around her front. Then she drew her pistol and attached the suppressor.
She took aim at the CCTV camera perched on the wall above the gate and double-tapped it. Sparks flew, and the camera shattered with a dull thump.
Kendra approached the keypad beside the gate. She crinkled her lips. She searched her memory, then nodding, she punched in the security code.
1979.
The year of the Iranian Revolution.
The keypad chimed, and the gate unlocked.