No security cameras that I could see, at least not from this side of the wall. Once I went over, it would be another story. There was a chance there might be other types of security—something much more high-tech—besides the guards, but I wouldn’t know until I got there.
A car was trailing me down the street, so I went up another two blocks and then circled back. The area was deserted now, but farther ahead I saw the glow of oncoming headlights and steered the bike into the trees, cutting the engine and lights a moment later and then holding my breath while I waited for the car to pass.
It didn’t slow. Didn’t even touch its brakes.
I slipped off the helmet, climbed off the bike, and set the drone and its box down on the ground. Everything should be hidden for the most part, unless someone decided to come traipsing through the trees on a late-night stroll.
Another vehicle motored past, this one a silver G-Wagen that gleamed in the moonlight, and once it had rounded the corner I sprinted across the street, straight for the bushes. The bushes were tall but still I managed to squeeze through, right to the wall a few feet beyond. It was about eight feet tall, which wasn’t too bad, though the metal spikes on top were meant to dissuade what I planned to do next.
It took a good minute to work my way up, grabbing one of the spikes for leverage, and then I had to be careful not to tear my pant leg on another spike. Crouched then on top of the wall, I surveyed the other side. No bushes there to break my fall. Just that freshly manicured grass. Even out here, the lawn was flawless.
Twisting around, grabbing another spike, I lowered myself just enough to drop to the ground and then immediately spun around, bringing out the silenced FNX-45 just in case.
The whole area, deserted.
I scanned the wall and nearby trees, searching for a camera, but if one was there, I couldn’t see it. Remembering the drone’s view of the estate, I decided my best course of action was to head to the left, through the trees up past the tennis court, staying low and watching the ground so that I didn’t happen to step on any wayward branches. Fortunately, the groundskeepers kept the place pristine. The freshly mowed grass dampening the sound of my footfalls, I soon reached the mansion.
I slipped into a pool of darkness by a cluster of trees, and waited.
Two minutes later, a guard stepped into view. But he was practically fifty yards away. Much too far to try to rush him. Even if he turned his back, he’d no doubt hear me coming, no matter how quiet I tried to be. I might be able to take him out before he radioed for help, but then I’d be in the middle of the lawn with an unconscious guard at my feet. Dragging him out of there would be difficult enough, and I had to hope that nobody walking past a window happened to glance outside or that one of the other guards appeared around the corner.
The guard scanned the trees, and for a moment it almost felt like he’d spotted me. But then his head continued to swivel on his neck, and soon he turned and continued on.
I waited another thirty seconds before moving again.
Closer to the mansion now, to the rear section. The back door looked easily accessible. I could maybe slip in through there. But only after disarming and immobilizing the first guard. Then maybe another guard. Then, the others. Of course, there was no telling how many additional guards were inside.
Using the trees and bushes as cover, I continued toward the front. The valet must have been inside or was around the other side parking another vehicle. Would the valet be armed? I couldn’t rule it out. Even if all he was armed with was a phone, he was a threat.
The guard on this section of the estate stepped into view. He was larger than the first guard. This guy reminded me of Dallas. Like he was born to be private security. Standing at least six feet tall and close to two hundred fifty pounds, all muscle. He was armed with a pistol on his hip. Looked to be a SIG Sauer P320 XFull. The mag held seventeen nine-millimeter rounds. The second he heard me coming—or even sensed me coming—his hand would instinctively move to draw it.
How many VIPs were inside? How many of the women? How many of whoever ran this fucking thing?
I felt my molars grinding against each other again. The fire in my soul which had been burning for all this past year had finally begun to spread outward. My muscles raging. My blood boiling. A distant, familiar voice in the back of my head telling me it was now time to kill.
My fingers tight around the grip of the FNX-45, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
* * *
See the guard standing in the middle of the lawn, silhouetted by the light shining inside the mansion.
Watch as he begins another circuit of the area, moving closer to the trees.
Wait until the guard steps close enough—at least ten yards—before silently slipping out from the darkness.
Swap pistol to left hand, use right hand to slip switchblade from pocket.
Wait until the guard is only a few feet away, facing toward the house, before pressing down on the button to extract the knife.
As the guard turns at the sound, slice him cleanly across the throat, one end to the other.
Leave his body behind and continue on, fast, toward the rear of the house.
Don’t hesitate and just keep moving, turning the corner and drawing the switchblade back and flinging it straight at the second guard.
Hope that the blade finds purchase in either his neck or chest.
If not, use the distraction to sprint forward and press the sound suppressor against the guard’s stomach.
Squeeze the trigger twice and feel the pistol as it kicks each time, hoping that the sound suppressor plus the guard’s stomach will be enough to muffle the gunshots.
But probably not. Because these guards are highly trained, their ears attuned to any sounds that don’t fit the setting. Which means at least one guard will be heading in this direction in the next few seconds.
Let the guard drop to the grass and sprint straight to the corner of the mansion.
Take up position near a bush and wait a few seconds before the third guard slides into view.
Aim for the side of his head and squeeze the trigger. The bullet from this close proximity enough to knock the guard off his feet.
Continue on, right around the corner, ignoring the fact the fourth and final guard might be standing there with a gun aimed for center mass.
Spot the fourth guard a good fifty feet away, the guard who pauses as he realizes he’s now spotted the intruder.
The guard taking a half second to make a decision, then deciding not to barrel forward with guns blazing and instead to retreat.
Track him with the pistol’s raised Trijicon night sights, breathing calmly in and out, in and out.
Just as the guard reaches the front of the mansion, now sixty feet away, about ready to disappear around the corner, squeeze the trigger once, twice, three times.
Which round connects with the back of the guard’s head, it’s impossible to say, but a burst of red mists the air before he falls, flat on the ground.
Continue forward, scanning the parked vehicles for any movement.
Spot a head duck down behind a Maserati and veer course.
Find the valet cowering near the trunk, shaking hands covering his head.
Consider sparing his life.
Then remembering his involvement in this entire thing, even if it is peripheral, shoot him in the face.
Turn back toward the mansion and scan the brightly lit windows.
Holster the pistol, drop the backpack to the ground, zipper it open.
Reach in and pull out the MPX, its thirty-round mag fully loaded.
Shoulder the backpack again and continue forward, the submachine gun held at the ready.
Go straight for the front door.
Even as someone rushes outside—hands up, wearing a suit, clearly a VIP—don’t hesitate at all.
Fire several rounds into the man’s chest, blood blooming across his white shirt like a field of red roses.
Pause a moment to listen to the commotion coming from inside the house, voices suddenly full of fear.
Then raise the gun, finger on the trigger, and step into the light.
* * *
I opened my eyes again, silently released the breath.
An approaching engine had caught my attention. Another VIP arriving. Unlike the other guests, this one appeared to have a driver. Because as soon as the black SUV slowed at the main entrance, the valet hurried forward and opened the back door and a man stepped out. As soon as the door was closed, the driver pulled forward and steered directly toward the other parked vehicles.
Almost as if the driver had done it before.
I felt my pulse tick up as I watched the man enter the mansion.
With a fucking smile on his face.
The closest guard had his back toward me, watching the man. I hadn’t realized it because I’d been so focused on the newest VIP, but the guard was less than twenty feet away. If I moved now, I could sneak up behind him in no time. Slice his throat from one end to the other.
But my promise to Stephanie kept me in place.
I waited a minute, another minute, until the guard had drifted away, far enough that I felt comfortable moving again.
Retracing my steps, I headed back to where I had climbed over the wall. Here the trees were tall enough and thick enough that the moonlight barely sliced through the leaves and branches. I was enveloped in total darkness. Which seemed fitting, really, after what I’d decided to do. Though I realized that I didn’t have any other choice when it came down to it.
The first number I called was Captain Russell Thomas. Teddy was able to track down his personal cell phone and had sent it to me an hour ago while I was still on the road.
A call from a blocked number after midnight is often ignored. Unless you sense a call like this might be important.
Thomas answered after the third ring.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Who is this?”
“Let’s say a concerned citizen.”
“What do you want?”
“To report a crime.”
“How did you get this number?”
“The crime I wish to report is regarding police corruption, for one thing. Human trafficking, for another. Women who have been abducted to be sold as slaves.”
Silence.
“Captain Thomas, are you still there?”
“Why are you calling me about this?”
“Let’s just say right now I feel like you’re someone I can trust. You’re not corrupt. Unlike some of the other men in your department.”
Silence again. A longer silence. Then the man quietly cleared his throat.
“Where are these women?”
I told him. I told him the address of the Hacienda and how, one mile south of the house, they would find a BMW in the desert and someone in the trunk.
“I’m trusting that you’re the right person to share this information with, Captain. Don’t make me regret it.”
After I disconnected, I waited a moment to gather myself, then dialed another number. A voice I hadn’t heard in almost three years answered.
“This is Adam.”
“Adam, it’s Daniel.”
“Dan? What the hell, man? I heard you were dead.”
“Do you still work out of the LA field office?”
A beat of silence on Adam’s end as he realized this wasn’t a social call.
“Yeah, I do. What is this about?”
I named the address of the estate and asked, “Does that sound familiar to you?”
“Somewhat. It’s a pretty ritzy place, isn’t it? Private estate and everything? I think some major actor owned it way back when. Why?”
“Currently, the owners are hosting a party. You should mobilize a team to crash it immediately.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some bad shit. Can you make it here in a half hour?”
“A half hour? You’re joking.”
“Fine. Make it forty-five minutes. But if you don’t, I’m going to contact the LA Times. In fact, I’m tempted to contact them right now as it is, but I figured as we’re old friends, I’d give you the chance to break this case.”
“I don’t even understand what case you’re talking about.”
I told him about the situation. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke again.
“Holy shit.”
“Yep.”
“Holy fucking shit.”
“I know. And there’s no telling how long until the party ends, so you need to get there ASAP.”
“How . . . how do you even know about this?”
“Don’t worry about that. Oh, and Adam? No special favors.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’re an ambitious guy who wants to work his way up through the Bureau. That means you’re practically a politician.”
“Come on, Dan, that’s not—”
“There’s someone at this party that needs to be held accountable. Everybody at the party does, but especially this person.”
“Who is it?”
“Promise me, Adam. Promise me this won’t get swept under the rug.”
“I promise. Now who is it?”
I named the individual. Both his first and last name. Like I knew the man well. Which, in a way, I did. Practically the entire country did, though mostly only by his title.
Vice president of the United States.