Chapter 3

I turned and headed for the basement storage room. Kicking aside a dust-covered toolbox in the corner, I hauled away a few bags of cement to reveal a loose floorboard.

It was a weapon stash I had prepared a long time ago. As a cleaner, I never allowed myself to be caught unarmed under my own roof.

I pried up the board and punched the code into the metal lockbox beneath it.

Inside lay a meticulously maintained Glock, resting beside three loaded extended magazines. Next to them were a black suppressor, a handful of heavy-duty zip ties, and a serrated tactical hunting knife.

I picked up the pistol, popped the mag to check the chamber, and slapped it firmly back into the grip. I racked the slide. The metallic clack of a round chambering was exceptionally crisp in the confined space. Then, I threaded the suppressor onto the barrel, turn by turn.

I slid the spare mags into my tactical pockets and strapped the hunting knife to my outer thigh.

Geared up, I headed back up to the first-floor living room. The front door was still wide open—the literal open door Barnes had left for the hitmen. I rigged a quick snare with a piece of paracord on the door to let me swing it shut from a distance.

Finally, I walked over to the breaker box and smashed the main switch to pieces with the butt of my gun.

The last sliver of light was instantly snuffed out. I retreated into the blind spot just to the side of the entrance, pressing my back against the freezing wall, gun in hand.

If these morons planned to show up with gasoline and burn my house down, then until I found out exactly where my wife and son were, nobody was leaving this place alive.

In the pitch-black living room, even the ticking of the wall clock echoed with razor-sharp clarity.

Twenty-four minutes had passed since Barnes and Hicks, the two local dirty cops, had driven off.

For someone who spent years executing infiltrations and assassinations overseas, silent ambush was Day One material.

Waiting in the dark for half an hour didn't spawn any impatience in me. On the contrary, it allowed the tempest of rage over my abducted family to distill into a cold, lethal focus.

I knew exactly who was coming tonight.

Julian Vance had referred to them on the phone as the "Wild Dogs."

It meant this syndicate of executives, draped in their veneer of corporate legitimacy, kept a kennel of street thugs specifically for the dirty work. Against unarmed civilians, or for off-the-books intimidation and wet work, these guys were the perfect disposable tools.

Two more minutes ticked by.

The quiet street outside was suddenly shattered by the roar of an engine. The exhaust was sputtering and loud—clearly a poorly maintained junker.

Standing in the blind spot behind the door, I regulated my breathing and listened intently.

Car doors were yanked open with violent squeals of ungreased metal, followed immediately by the heavy thuds of three sets of boots hitting the pavement.

"Dammit, it's the weekend. I already had a booth booked at that strip club," a whiny, high-pitched voice complained. "Marcus, couldn't the boss wait until tomorrow morning to handle this crap?"

"Shut your mouth. Mr. Julian called this in personally. You wanna make him wait?" a deeper, gravelly voice snapped back. This was the leader, Marcus. "Ten minutes in and out. Once we get paid, you can stuff bills in whichever club you want and nobody will care."

"This is literally the most braindead gig I've ever pulled," a third voice chimed in. Accompanying his footsteps was the heavy clunk of plastic jugs bumping together and the sloshing of liquid inside. Without a doubt, that was the gasoline Julian had promised. "Three of us to handle some oil rigger husband who's never home? Jesus. The cops said the idiot was practically sitting in the dark bawling his eyes out."

"Just make it quick. The neighbors on both sides aren't too close, but making a scene is still a headache we don't need." Marcus's heavy boots were already stomping onto my porch.

Three men. Exactly the number the dirty cops had reported on the phone.

No lookouts posted on the perimeter, no getaway driver left in the car. All of them marched up the steps.

In their minds, this wasn't an operation; it was a tedious errand. I'd bet my life that none of them had even flicked their safeties off. Hell, their guns were probably still tucked into their waistbands.

"Door's unlocked. Those two pigs actually did something right." Marcus pushed the cracked-open front door.

The door swung inward.

Because I had smashed the breaker box, the house was entirely devoid of light. As the door opened, the wood panel perfectly concealed my body, creating a flawless blind spot.

Marcus led the way inside. He didn't even bother pulling out a flashlight. He just fished a cheap lighter from his pocket and flicked his thumb. The feeble flame sparked to life, barely illuminating three feet in front of him.

"Why aren't the lights working? Power out?" The lackey followed right behind and kicked the door shut. He didn’t bother deadbolting it, assuming there was no need to stop their prey from running. "Marcus, it's pitch-black in here."

"Turn on your phone flashlight, idiot. You think we're running a SWAT raid?" Marcus sneered.

The lackey pulled out his phone and toggled the flashlight.

A blinding white beam swept erratically across the living room before settling on the center of the rug. It was entirely empty. There was no weeping oil rigger sitting on the floor like they'd imagined.

"Where is he?" The third thug, lugging the two massive jugs of gasoline, stood in the foyer, peering around in confusion. "Didn't they say he was waiting inside?"

"Who cares?" Marcus casually crunched over the shattered glass. "Maybe he went upstairs to stare at old pictures of his wife, or maybe he's shivering in a bathroom stall. Doesn't matter where he is, our job is to torch this dump. Once the fire gets going, he'll come out screaming on his own. You just block the door when he does, or catch him with a bullet."

"Got it," the lackey chuckled darkly.

"Dump the gas all over the living room furniture. Splash extra on the wooden cabinets in the kitchen," Marcus ordered, standing dead center in the living space with his back to the front door.

The hulking thug set the plastic gas jugs down on the hardwood floor.

"This is too easy. Wish every job was like this." The brute bent over, wrapping both hands around the cap of one of the jugs.

Now.

I grabbed the length of black paracord I had prepositioned in the corner. The other end was tied directly to the mechanical deadbolt catch at the top of the door. I yanked it down hard.

Clack.

The deadbolt slammed home, locking the door tight.

The brute about to pour the gasoline completely froze.

The lackey with the phone jumped as if he'd been electrocuted, his flashlight beam jerking violently across the wall.

Marcus, who had just lowered his head to light a cigarette, furrowed his brow and instinctively turned around to look at the sealed door.

In the exact fraction of a second he turned his head...

I took a half-step out of the shadows, raising my gun with dead-steady precision.

Marcus's eyes widened inch by inch. The "oil rigger" he had so utterly dismissed had been hiding right by the front door the entire time. Not only had I heard every single word, but in my hands was a lethal, professional-grade killing tool, capped with a silencer.