Work methodically.
Eliminate surprises.
By now she had made it nearly all the way through the forested area. She stopped just short of the lawn and focused her attention on the mansion’s exterior. Her hope was that she might be able to determine which of the upstairs windows opened into Gonzalez’s bedroom. It didn’t seem likely she would be able to—the rooms behind the windows were dark and still—but without having any clue as to the home’s layout, Tracie was desperate for any information she could gain that would help her avoid entering completely blind.
The home was massive, and the bulk of it was now mostly between Tracie and ocean, dampening the roar of the crashing waves.
That was a good thing.
Because the sound of a twig snapping underneath a combat boot brought her attention immediately back into focus.
She had company.
Tracie stopped, freezing in her tracks, grateful she had thus far elected to remain hidden. The footfalls were measured and steady, the sound of a man on routine patrol unaware that he was not alone. They were not the furtive steps of a man stalking his prey.
Which meant that Tracie could become the stalker.
Orienting herself to the sentry’s location would not be easy. The ceaseless rumble of Atlantic Ocean breakers, combined with her lack of familiarity with the estate, made tracking him solely by sound nearly impossible.
She crept forward a few feet. The movement added to the risk of being seen but provided her with a clearer view, something she desperately needed.
Her gaze swept right to left and then she saw him. A security guard, dressed entirely in military-style camouflage clothing and combat boots, was indeed making his rounds. His back was to her and he moved slowly, bored and tired.
They had to have passed within a few feet of each other. It was a miracle the guard hadn’t seen or heard her, and she cursed herself for allowing him to get so close before realizing he was there. Had things gone a little differently, she would already be captured or dead.
The man continued his patrol and Tracie eased closer to the well-maintained lawn. The guard’s patrol route would likely take him to the electric gate near the end of Gonzalez’s driveway.
Where Tracie had parked her rental car.
If he were permitted to get close enough to the road to see that car, her plan would be blown sky high. She would still probably be able to escape, but catching Gonzalez with his guard down would become impossible.
There was no time for stealth. No time to consider alternatives to direct action. If Gonzalez looked out his window into the brightly lit front yard, or if a second guard was somewhere in the area, she would be caught, maybe even killed.
But she had no choice. She needed to act now.
She dropped her backpack and broke cover, sprinting parallel to the driveway, angling toward the sentry in an all-or-nothing attempt to cut him off before he rounded the bend in the driveway. She drew her weapon as she ran. Concentrated on moving as quietly as possible for as long as possible. It was critical she get closer to him before he realized he was being ambushed.
Twenty-five feet behind him.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
Then he heard her. He dropped into a defensive crouch as her one hundred five pounds raced along the damp grass.
She was still too far away. She wasn’t going to make it.
The guard spun to face the threat and reached for the holster at his right hip. He fumbled for the snap.
Missed.
Fumbled again and this time released his weapon and began to draw down on Tracie.
But she had never stopped running, hadn’t even slowed, and now she lowered her shoulder and plowed into the much bigger, stockier man like a runaway freight train.
Her shoulder connected with his gut and she heard the muffled “Uhhh” as the air whooshed out of his lungs. Then they crashed onto the grass, tumbling and sliding, Tracie already scrabbling to regain her feet, her Beretta still held firmly in her right hand.
The guard hadn’t had time to brace himself, and his gun was jarred out of his grip. It tumbled through the air end over end and plunked to the ground a good ten feet from the struggling adversaries.
Tracie staggered but smashed the butt of her weapon against the side of the man’s face. He was struggling to catch his breath, unable to scream for help, and his head snapped to the side.
He offered up a weak roundhouse right in return, the blow glancing harmlessly off Tracie’s shoulder.
Then she hit him again and he dropped straight down. He crumpled to the ground and lay still, and Tracie stood over him panting from exertion and shaking from the effects of adrenaline.
She slowed her breathing and held her gun in both hands, scanning three hundred sixty degrees for another guard, or for a dog, or for any sign of further trouble.
Nothing. The property was silent. No alarms sounded, no surprised shouts were raised, no gunshots rang out.
The security guard had been patrolling alone.
Tracie bent over the man carefully, alert for any sign that he might be playing possum. But he was down and out, bleeding from a pair of gashes on the left side of his face.
His pulse was strong, though. He would be fine.
She shifted her attention back toward the front of Gonzalez’s house. She was far too exposed here; it was essential she move the unconscious guard immediately.
But he was big. And he was stocky. And he was out like a light. Moving him would be like moving a two hundred-forty pound sack of bricks.
Tracie sighed deeply and grabbed the guard by his combat boots. Then she began dragging him across the grass toward the scrub brush at the edge of the property.
28
The moment they were out of sight of the mansion, Tracie frisked the guard. In addition to his pistol, the man had been armed with a backup revolver in a shoulder holster. She removed it from its holster and placed both weapons on the ground a dozen feet away.
On his left hip was a walkie-talkie, which she removed and placed next to the weapons. Hanging off one of his belt loops on the same hip was a small metal ring with a set of keys. These she took and pocketed.
She unhooked the man’s belt and pulled it off the waist of his camouflage trousers. Then she lifted him by the armpits and dragged his body up against the base of a solid-looking palm tree whose trunk was perhaps a foot in diameter. The man was still unconscious, but his eyelids were fluttering and he was beginning to moan softly as she wrapped his arms around the trunk.
There you go, she thought. Now you’re a tree hugger. Literally. She brought his wrists together and wrapped the belt around them several times, binding them together behind the tree. Then she buckled the belt and gave it a tug, trying to pull it loose.
It was secure. The guard wouldn’t be going anywhere when he awoke, which, from the looks of things, would be soon. His eyes were open now, but they remained glazed and unfocused.
Tracie knew he would awaken with a massive headache, but she knew also that a headache would be unlikely to prevent him from screaming for help.
Moving quickly, she unlaced his combat boots. She pulled them off and threw them deeper into the brush. She slipped his socks off his feet—they were soaked with sweat and she grimaced as she worked—and then stuffed them into the unfortunate guard’s mouth.
He gagged and coughed and began complaining, and while the exact wording of his complaint was indecipherable, his meaning was crystal clear. Tracie ignored him and pulled her own belt off her jeans. She duplicated the makeshift bindings she had constructed for his wrists, wrapping the belt around his mouth, then wrapping it a second time and buckling it behind his head.
She was forced to pull it tighter than she would have liked in order to buckle the belt on the first hole, and the man’s face reddened in panic as the gag was jammed deep into his mouth. He could still breathe, though, and that was all she cared about. She had a few questions to ask her prisoner, and
it would be a shame if he suffocated before she could get around to it.
With the guard neutralized, Tracie worked her way through the underbrush to where she had dropped her backpack. It lay on the edge of the lawn, plain as day in the glare of the floodlights, and potentially deadly to Tracie should anyone look out a front window in the Gonzalez mansion. She had to move it immediately.
Once she had grabbed the bag and disappeared back into the woods, she began to breathe a little easier. She hurried to where her immobilized prisoner lay, and as she approached, the man glared at her, his arms wrapped awkwardly around the trunk of the palm tree.
There was no time to waste. Without any idea of the guard’s patrol schedule or whether he was working with a partner, it was impossible to know if he might have been expected to check in with someone by now. The worst-case scenario would be that the young man had nearly finished his patrol when Tracie ambushed him, and another guard or guards were even now being dispatched to find out what had happened to him.
Tracie dropped her backpack next to the man. She knelt and placed the barrel of her weapon against the uninjured side of his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensing as he feared he was about to die.
She leaned in close, the act oddly intimate, as if she was about to kiss him. Then she placed her lips against his ear and whispered, “I’m going to remove your gag. If you scream, it will be the last thing you ever do. You’ll be dead in less than a second. Nod if you understand.”
The man—now that she had had a chance to study him, Tracie thought “boy” might be a better description, because despite his considerable size and bulk, his face had the fuzzy-cheeked look of a teenager—nodded instantly and enthusiastically.
She jammed the gun into his cheek hard and said, “Don’t forget what I said,” her voice knife-edge sharp.
She double-checked the belt that secured the guard’s wrists to the tree, giving it a sharp yank with her left hand while keeping the gun trained on her prisoner with her right.
Still tight.
Satisfied, she reached behind the guard’s head, unbuckling and then unwinding the belt. She plucked the socks out of his mouth and dropped them onto the ground.
Then she lifted her weapon and replaced it against the man’s cheek. “What’s your name?”
“Andres.”
“How many other guards are here tonight, Andres?” she whispered.
“None,” he said. His English was heavily accented but understandable.
“Bullshit,” she hissed, jamming the barrel of the gun against his face, scraping his cheek and pushing hard enough to leave a bruise.
“I swear!” he said, squeezing his eyes closed again. The already nervous man began breathing heavily, sharp gasps causing his entire body to shudder. “We have two-man crews during the day, but at night just one.”
“How often do you do foot patrols?”
“Every two hours, give or take.”
“Who are you expected to check in with, and when is that supposed to happen?”
The guard swallowed heavily. It was clear he wanted to give Tracie answers that would satisfy her, and just as clear he didn’t know what would accomplish that goal here. “Ch-check in? What do you mean?”
“Isn’t there someone you report to when you’ve finished your patrol? What if you encounter a problem? Who do you notify?”
“Señor Gonzalez says that if we run into a problem, we are to handle it ourselves. If we are not able to do so, we are to notify him by walkie-talkie. But that is to be done only as a last resort.” The words came tumbling out quickly.
“So no one else is here with you tonight?”
“No. There is no one.” The frightened young man shook his head for emphasis, causing the barrel of Tracie’s gun to scrape up his cheek even more. “I’m alone until my relief comes at seven.”
There was no real reason to believe him, but Tracie did just the same. He was a kid, untrained and terrified. It was obvious Gonzalez maintained security at his home not because he was truly concerned about threats but rather to feed his ego.
Any man seriously worried that he might be a target—especially a man in Gonzalez’s position and in possession of his obvious wealth—would never abide this type of shoddy security arrangement. He would pay the going rate for professionals, not hire kids who looked as though they should be asking their date to the movies on a Friday night.
Tracie glanced back toward the mansion. She couldn’t see it through the brush, but the glare of the spotlights was visible over the tops of the trees. She turned back toward the security guard. “Does the house have an alarm system?”
He blinked in confusion. “Alarm system? Why would Señor Gonzalez need an alarm system when he has armed security?”
You see how well that worked out for him. Tracie bit back the reply and moved on to her next question. “Who else is inside that house besides Gonzalez?”
“I do not know.”
“How can you not know? Were you sleeping on duty, Andres?”
A look of wounded indignation flitted across the guard’s face. Under different circumstances it would have been funny. “Of course not. I would never…”
“Then answer the question. Is anyone else in that house with Gonzalez?”
“Probably,” he said, “but I cannot say for sure.”
Tracie felt a flash of annoyance. This was taking too long. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Señor Gonzalez has a girlfriend who usually stays with him. She is probably there now, but I do not know for certain. I have not seen her come or go since the start of my shift. There is another woman who lives here as well, but I have not seen her in days.”
“Isn’t that the sort of thing you should know? Weren’t you briefed on the status of the occupants by the guard you were relieving?”
Andres shook his head miserably. “I forgot to ask,” he admitted. Tears began to fill his eyes. “I was not expecting any trouble.”
Tracie felt badly for the kid. He had obviously been hired and then given only the most rudimentary training. Had been handed a gun and told to protect the very important Señor Juan Gonzalez and his family. Had been put in a position of risk by a man who didn’t give a damn about the fact that not only was he utterly unprepared to face that risk, he wasn’t even aware of the risk.
She shook her head in disgust at the thought.
Andres misinterpreted her action and his eyes widened. “I swear to you, everything I said is the truth. Please, I do not want to die.”
“You’re not going to die tonight, Andres,” she said, reaching down and picking his socks up off the ground. “You’re going to have an uncomfortable, unhappy night, but you’re not going to die unless you do something extremely stupid.”
“I am not going to do anything stupid,” he said. “I promise you.”
“Good. But I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t just take your word for it, either.”
He began shaking his head. “I will not scream, I swear, you do not need to…”
Tracie timed it perfectly, shoving the socks back into the terrified guard’s mouth while the words were tumbling out. She pushed them in tightly and although he continued to protest, his voice once again became muffled and unintelligible.
“I’m sorry,” she said, surprised by the fact that she actually meant it. “But I can’t take the chance that you’re lying to me, Andres. For what it’s worth, though,” she added, “I do believe you.”
She grabbed the belt and began winding it around his head once more. He struggled, fiercely at first, and then seemed to realize the futility of the effort and sagged against the tree. All the fight seemed to go out of him at once.
Tracie secured the belt tightly and then gave the guard a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder.
Then she got her things together and began making her way toward the house.
29
Dealing with the overmatched security guard had taken time Tracie
was reluctant to sacrifice and had involved exposing herself to greater risk than she was generally comfortable with while working alone, but overall she was pleased with the result. Rather than going into the house totally blind, she now had at least a small amount of intel with which to work.
Assuming, of course, her new friend Andres was telling the truth.
Given the fact that he was trussed up less than one hundred feet away, unarmed and helpless, and with the understanding she could return at any time and put two bullets in his head, she was confident he had been as straightforward with her as she had any right to expect.
Getting into the home would be a simple matter now that she possessed a key, but she wasn’t about to take anything for granted. There was no way to totally eliminate the possibility of walking into a trap, but she could do everything possible to lessen that risk.
Which meant that first she needed to verify the guard’s claim that he was working alone. She eased past the northwestern corner of Gonzalez’s home, taking her time, keeping the screen of scrub brush between herself and the brightly lit yard. When she reached the southwest corner she stopped and scanned the area behind the home.
Like Polanco’s mansion, the beachfront property had been set back from the Atlantic Ocean a sufficient distance to minimize the risk of flooding during hurricane season, but not so far that the occupants didn’t receive the benefit of a breathtaking view. Waves crashed onto a small, private beach no more than one hundred feet from the back door at high tide.
The house had been constructed in an enviable location. Despite the heavily populated surrounding area, it had the feel of a secluded estate, with the ocean knocking at the door to the south and a thick growth of trees and brush on the other three sides.
None of this mattered to Tracie Tanner at the moment. She was focused on a small structure at the edge of the property, halfway between the main house and the beach.
It looked like an oversized shed, and probably was. Undoubtedly, this building was where the estate’s lawn mowing and landscaping equipment was stored. But it bothered Tracie that she couldn’t see a guardhouse. There should be somewhere Andres and his security guard buddies could park their butts while waiting to patrol the property.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 65