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Then I vanish into the trees.

And this time, I don’t look back.

55

Vance

The first one never sees me.

He’s leaning against the far corner of the house, one leg propped, scrolling something on his phone.I circle wide, take the fence slow.Bolt-cut the padlock on the utility gate, slip in low.I have time.

I wait until I’m close enough to see the sweat under his arms.

Then I move.

The garrote goes tight before he can turn.His hands come up, too slow.His mouth twitches like it’s trying to decide on a word.Sorry?Help?Doesn’t matter.Blood vessels burst in his eyes before I let go.I lower him carefully, one palm on his chest, the other steadying his head.

No noise.

The second one’s harder.

He’s further out, tracing a lazy loop by the tree line with a rifle slung over his back.I time the angle, wait for the wind.When the breeze picks up again, I go.

He hears me.

Half-turns, tries to raise the rifle, but I’m already on him.The knife punches in under the ribs.Sharp, upward.A kill, not a fight.He grunts, chokes on it, still trying to bring the stock around.I twist the blade.Feel the resistance buckle.

He drops.

His body hits the grass like an apology.

Back to the house.

I don’t go through the kitchen.Too exposed.I climb the side trellis, boots catching on the slats.The second-floor window isn’t locked.I slip in.Smells like floor polish and designer soap.Like a cover story told too many times.

There’s movement below.Voices.I wait.

Two men.Talking rotation.One’s tired.One’s new.

The tired one heads for the stairs.The new one stays behind.

I crouch low and draw.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I wait until he’s nearly level.

Then I fire.

Once to the chest.Once to the head.

His body jerks.Slumps back down the steps.

The other man shouts.Rushes forward.

Too fast.

I catch him mid-step.Elbow to the throat.Slam his head against the doorframe.Again.Again.Until he stops making noise.