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Ronan takes the initiative to shoot out the two cameras located at the front entrance, then we go through the back, that's fenced and cut off between low, thick bushes. It was easy for Mal to configure the lock, and it opened like the lock was made from a toy. We managed to make it past the unnecessary statues, more bushes and greenery, and a large inground pool with lights lining the edges. And let me add... A gazebo. His glamorous outside decoration made it easy for us to hide, duck and stay stealthy within the dark shadows. Which is why, as we approach the first bodyguard, who is facing the opposite direction of the back entrance, it's not very hard to get rid of him.
“Shift almost up?” Ronan says, as we near the oblivious man.
He instantly turns, startled, and his gun raises, but Ronan grabs him by his collar then chokes him until he passes out.
Ronan grabs a key card attached to the man's waist and scans it on the back door.
Inside the house is larger than the outside. The back leads to a living room painted in ivory colors and vintage decor. Flawless rugs in the middle of three tan sofas and a love seat. Tall champagne-colored vases hold healthy looping plants and intricately crafted frames. The lights are dim, but I can see the feminine touch in the room.
“It's far too pretty in here,” Wicked murmurs.
I nod in agreement. Ronan scouts out the area, his rifle raised to his shoulder, searching for any hidden spot. Then, he motions two fingers toward the staircase. On that order, we make it to the corner of the house that leads to a curved staircase and a few feet away from it is a large kitchen, extra doors, another compact living room, and dining area. It's not the set-up that makes my heart clench, but the baby highchair sitting off to the side of the large island. The frames of him with his doting family that adorn the walls of the stairwell.
I blink away, swallowing the discomfort building in my throat. Out of the many people killed, none has ever held my sympathy, not one, so why now? Why the fuck now?
As we near the top, muffled sounds and a familiar voice echo from the end hall. It goes in two directions, three doors to the left, and a room to the right with walnut double doors. The cool white illuminates from beneath the crack, indicating that's where he is. I touch Ronan’s shoulder while Wicked stays behind me.
“Sights on the inside?” I say into the earpiece.
Bedford's voice comes through immediately. “Only him. My monitor detects he has some cameras planted in his office, so it's best to be aware.”
That may work more in our favor than he thinks.
Ronan looks over his shoulder at us, and we nod for him to continue. With that, he turns the knob slowly. The words behind the door become clearer, much louder. The light from the thin crack shines on us. The barrier widens. His sentences make sense now.
“I need out. People are starting to catch on, and some detective came to my office Monday asking questions. I can’t keep doing this; my wife almost found out, and I had to lie to get her off my scent.”
He’s quiet for a while, then his head drops and shoulders slump. “Right.”
His posture is rigid as he faces his floor to ceiling red mahogany bookshelf with his phone to his ear and hand on his waist. His sleeves are rolled up and a glass of brown liquor filled halfway on his desk. The room is as expansive as the Oval Office.
We’re so quiet as we stroll in, and it makes me frustrated that he's completely immersed in his conversation that he can’t feel another set of eyes on him. Our energy fills the room. Ronan and I take a seat on the brown sofas positioned horizontally from his desk. Mal takes the other sofa, kicking her feet up and spreading her legs onto the seat.
We’re comfortable with our guns pointed directly at him.
Ronan clears his throat loudly in annoyance. The mayor jumps with a gasp, twisting his body around to the sudden sound.
“Jesus!” Once he sets eyes on us, his phone drops to the floor, and he slams into his bookshelf. “Oh, my God. Help!” he shouts, sliding over to a square window frantically. We watch, enthused at his attempt to save himself. Banging on the window to get his bodyguard's attention. Nothing.
“They’re asleep!” Wicked snickers, shaking her head.
The terrified look on his face when he turns to us is priceless. His eyes skate at certain corners of the room, staying on them for a second too long.
Bingo.
“Did you catch that, amor?” Ronan coos.
My head tilts as I cross my legs and smile at Richard. “I did.”
Richard flies to his desk and Ronan tsk his teeth. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t”
He resorts to shouting again, hoping the guards will rise from the dead and save him. His fear is almost pathetic. Isn't it sad when they can do harm to others only to tremble in vain when it's their turn?
“Enough!” Ronan barks. The mayor shuts up and stares at us with a wavering gaze.
“Do you understand why we are here?” Ronan asks, crossing his ankle over his knee and comfortably resting his arm behind the edge of the sofa and my shoulders.
The mayor doesn't move an inch. “If I knew then, I would have been more welcoming than this. You think I’ll have three goons with masks on in my office?” He huffs. “What is it you want? Jewelry? Diamonds? Name your price.”