The Unwilling(92)
If cops knew about Reece, they’d have come in tactical squads.
Simple thieves?
He discarded the thought as soon as it surfaced. The house was lit up like Christmas, three cars in the driveway.
Private contractors, then.
A three-man crew.
Reece’s first thought was X, but X didn’t know about the girl. He couldn’t.
Other enemies?
Reece did know violent men, but, like him, they ghosted in the cracks, and killed in quiet places. So maybe it was X. In the end, it didn’t matter. This was Reece’s home, and his home was a killing place. So he watched them come, three men, moving like pros, one directing the others. They drew down in a patch of cover, but there was no such thing as cover, not here. Every camera was night-capable, with intersecting lines of sight. Reece watched for another moment, then thumbed a switch, unbolting the side door.
* * *
Byrd was feeling cocky. An easy climb, up and over the wall. No dogs or automatic lights. When Wilkinson and Pugh settled into the darkness beside him, Byrd gestured with an open hand. “West-side corner.”
He went first, and the others followed, crossing a final stretch of open ground, then settling into darkness beneath a pair of French windows. Pugh grinned in the gloom. “Walk in the park.”
But Byrd had checked the windows, and knew better. “Polycarbonate windows. Steel frames and armored hinges.”
“Bulletproof? Come on, man.”
“Nothing has changed.” Byrd cut off the complaint, but he saw the look that passed between the other men. Armored glass cost money, lots of it. Now they worried about other countermeasures, greater risk. “We knew he was rich when we took the job. I’m sure he has nice furniture, too. So stay cool. Do the work.” He gestured north along the wall. “Side door. Forty feet.” When they got there, he said, “Pugh.”
Pugh examined the lock. “Four-ton dead bolts. Hardened steel cylinders. Drill plates, probably. Ball bearings…”
“Alarmed?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Do it.”
Pugh unfolded a packet of picks and bypass circuits, then put pressure on the door handle, just in case. The handle turned, and Byrd shook his head, disbelieving.
Easiest half million ever …
* * *
Reece gave them five seconds to clear the door, then triggered a circuit to close and seal it.
No handle on the inside.
No access to the hinges.
Reece waited for that to sink in, then triggered the second door.
* * *
“Byrd, what the hell just happened?”
Byrd waved Pugh to silence, drawing a pistol as he did so. The floor was mortared flagstone, the walls concrete. Thirty feet down, a second door had just slammed shut, and it looked every bit as solid as the first.
“I don’t see any nice furniture.”
“Can it, Wilkinson.” Byrd pointed at the second door. “Pugh, check it out.”
The second door was solid steel, exactly like the first, nine feet tall, and faceless. “We’re not getting through this,” Pugh said.
“Talk to me.”
“Hardened steel in a recessed frame. I’d need an oxyacetylene torch and at least thirty minutes.”
“Jesus. You want a sandwich with that?”
“You see the cameras?”
Byrd did: one mounted high at each end of the hall.
Wilkinson said, “What do we do about this, boss man?”
Byrd studied the trap they’d sprung: thirty feet of concrete, stone, and steel. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I would love to believe that.”
“I’ve been in worse places,” Byrd said.
But he was wrong about that, too.
* * *
As soon as Reece got bored, he gassed them. The process wasn’t pretty. Pumped into a confined space, most incapacitating aerosols caused vomiting, seizures, or death, sometimes all three. Reece used a mix of methyl propyl ether and bovine anesthesia, a concoction perfected by a Mennonite serial rapist who liked to creep about in the dark and spray it into open windows. Reece found it acceptable, but only if the odd death was not a problem. He’d never use it on Sara, for instance.
But for these guys …
When all three were down, Reece pumped out the gas, rolled in a pallet dolly, and wheeled them outside to a concrete ramp, then down to a basement room equipped with surgical lighting, trench drains, and hydraulic tables. Metal shelving held the preferred tools of his trade, not just the scalpels, scissors, and saws, but forceps and towel clamps and organ holders, bone mallets and chisels, curettes and skin hooks and rib spreaders. Reece had trephines and Stryker saws, all kinds of retractors and hemostats. Ironically, he’d never used the room. Like the space upstairs, it was intended for special occasions and special people.
But these men had come, intending harm.
That made them special enough.
* * *
When the screaming started, Sara was curled in a corner beside the bed. She thought maybe it was a nightmare, but the sound went on and on, and sounded like a soul being torn apart. She covered her ears, but nothing helped. And when the first scream stopped, another one began.