All He Has Left(28)

After getting the lay of the land, Gervais returned near the house and parked on the curb two blocks away. He’d changed into a gray jogging outfit, running shoes, and a black knit cap. He looked like an early-morning runner. Before getting out of the car, he tugged on a pair of thin black gloves. It was cold out, and the gloves were appropriate for the occasion—but they, of course, had the secondary benefit of leaving no prints.

He reached down to a small black metal box sitting in the passenger seat and opened it. Inside, he grabbed his gun and the silencer barrel and quickly attached the two together. Then he stuffed it into a hidden waist holster under his jogging pants for safekeeping. One more quick glance up and down the street. It was apparently trash day in the neighborhood, which was irritating—it meant more activity on the street. He spotted several neighbors hauling green trash containers from their garages down to the curb. Most folks were still in their sleepwear.

Getting out of the Ford Taurus, Gervais stretched his back for a moment, then started a slow jog up the street. He covered the two blocks and then slowed as he approached the one-story white brick house with the oversize pickup truck parked out front. He hadn’t spotted any activity in or around the house this morning during his drive back and forth earlier. He circled the truck, took one last peek behind him to make sure no neighbors were watching, and then went straight for the front door. He felt no need to sneak in the back. Reaching down to the door handle, he found it appropriately locked. Which was not a problem. He quickly pulled a small tool out of his right pocket, knelt, inserted the tool into the key slot, and a second later, he had the dead bolt shifted to open. He’d done this hundreds of times with much more complex locking systems.

Pulling his gun out of his waist holster and holding it in his right hand, Gervais reached down with his left and cracked open the front door. He was prepared to move quickly if the house had an alarm system and started beeping with its warning. He’d have no trouble disarming a simple alarm. But based on the condition of the house, he doubted that would be the case. He was right. There were no sounds as he pushed open the front door. He wondered if there would be a barking dog. He had a bullet ready to silence any mutts that threatened his job. He took no pleasure in shooting dogs—he was a dog lover himself and had two beautiful pit bulls back in New York—but he had to do what he had to do to complete the assignment.

He slipped inside, swiftly shut the door behind him. Standing there, he listened for sounds of movement in the house. Nothing. Nobody was up and moving around. No dogs rushing toward the front door. That should make this much easier. He’d rather deal with only one specific person while he was here this morning. He moved past a study on his left and down a short hallway toward a living room and kitchen. Gervais made note of all the empty and crushed beer cans sitting around a beat-up recliner in the living room. There was an opened pizza box on a coffee table. A glance in the kitchen. Disgusting. A stack of dirty dishes piled high in the sink. Several fast-food bags sitting on the counters. More beer cans. Gervais was getting a quick education on what he might be dealing with in a few minutes. The guy was a sloppy drunk and would likely be hungover. That could be good or bad, depending on how coherent he was this morning. Gervais checked his watch. He needed to get moving.

Another short hallway led to the bedrooms. The first door was closed. Gervais cracked it open, peeked inside. He spotted a girl in maybe her early teens sleeping soundly in the bed. He closed the door, kept moving. The next bedroom had a messy bed, but no one was lying in it. The walls were covered with sports posters and girls in bikinis. Probably belonged to a teenage boy who wasn’t home. As he approached the end of the hallway and the final bedroom, Gervais could hear heavy snoring. Sounded like a man. But was anyone with him? Wife? Girlfriend? He’d rather not have to deal with an extra set of eyes and ears this morning, but again, he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to get the information he needed.

The door to the master bedroom was open. Gervais crept inside, surveyed the king-size bed, and smiled. Only one person was in the bed. A skinny fortysomething guy with a goatee. The covers were kicked way down on the bed. The guy was bare-chested and still wearing blue jeans. He’d probably passed out that way. Gervais moved to the side of the bed, reached down with his gun, and placed the silencer barrel on the man’s forehead. Then he tapped hard three times. The guy kind of grunted, cursed, his eyes fluttering open. When he realized there was a man standing over him with a gun pointed at his face, his eyes shot wide open with sudden panic.

“Good morning,” Gervais said, flashing a sinister grin.

“What the . . . ?”

“Stay calm,” Gervais instructed. “We don’t want to wake up the girl down the hallway, do we?”

The man stiffened, fear spreading down the length of his body. Gervais was used to seeing this very reaction. He’d woken many targets in this same manner.

“You are Mr. McGee?” Gervais asked.

“Who are you?”

Gervais moved the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The muffled bullet took off the man’s left earlobe, making him jerk back and grab his now-bloody ear with a yelp.

“I ask the questions, not you,” Gervais said. “One more time. You are Mr. McGee?”

The man quickly nodded, clutching his left ear with his left hand. Blood was covering his fingers.

“Do you know someone named Jake Slater?”