Page 5

Franky’s email was brief. A name and address, no more. My instructions from the mob boss were always the same. Make the person disappear for good and without a trace.

Franky sat at the top of a food chain filled with every variety of criminal imaginable. It took a lot of work keeping those scumbags in line, so his warnings were short and retribution swift. And if someone had pissed him off enough, payback might be delivered by me.

I pulled a new burner phone from the kitchen drawer and sent a message to tell him I was on it.

I turned to Ranger. “Stakeout? You in, buddy?”

He raised his head and wagged his tail.

Time to take out more of Philly’s trash.

It was late afternoon when I parked my car in the near-vacant school parking lot half a block from the address in Franky’s email. You could bet that sometime within the next six hours the target would either arrive or leave their house.

I took in the quiet working-class suburban street. Kids rode by on bicycles, and the odd car passed with people coming home from work. A mature oak tree grew in most yards, some with a rope and tire hanging from a limb. The red brick bungalow I monitored wasn’t the worst in the area, but the garden could use some maintenance and the house a coat of paint.

My usual ride drew too much attention, but the mid-size white sedan I’d rented remained unnoticed. Ranger sat next to me and provided the perfect cover. If I needed to get a closer look, we could take a walk without raising suspicion. Plus, he was good company. Stakeouts could be long and boring.

In the early evening, the peaceful neighborhood shook with the roar of a V8 engine. A shiny black ’69 Camaro SS in pristine condition pulled into the target’s driveway. The Chevy growled like an angry beast before the driver turned the car off and the street became silent once more.

I grabbed my binoculars for a closer look. The SS door swung open, and a woman stepped out.

Fuck me.

She was a sight for these miserable eyes. Mid to late-twenties, windswept dark blond hair that touched the middle of her back. Brown leather cowboy boots that reached halfway up her tanned calves, and cut-off denim shorts that showed off long, toned legs. A black Henley shirt had the top few buttons undone low enough for me to get a good idea of what was beneath. And there, on the side of her slender neck, was a smear of grease.

Interesting.

She made her way inside, closing the front door behind her. My mark’s woman, I figured. Lucky man. Pity his fortunes were about to take a serious fucking nosedive.

Ranger whined and stared out his window. That meant one thing.

“Seriously, you need to piss already?”

He let out a high-pitched yawn and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Fine. A quick walk. Think I need a closer look, too.”

Ranger’s floppy ears dangled as he tilted his head.

“Don’t stare at me like that. It’s got nothing to do with the woman. I want to get a feel for the house layout and security, that’s all.” I put on my Yankees cap and black hooded jacket before getting out of the car.

A neighbor mowed his lawn, and the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air. I followed the sidewalk past the target’s house. No cameras out front, no mesh or bars on the windows, and no lock on the side gate.

Continuing around the block, I found an alleyway running along the back of the property. It was wide enough to drive a car down. I peered over the fence into the yard. Overgrown lawn, faded outdoor setting, no dog, no lock on the gate, no cameras or other security devices on this side of the house, either.

Odd. My target was unconcerned about a break-in. It made me wonder if Franky had given me the right address. This job looked almost too easy.

We circled the rest of the block and returned to the car. No one else arrived or left. The only notable activity was when the woman came out in running tights and a Phillies T-shirt, her thick wavy hair tied up in a messy ponytail, and took off for a jog. Forty minutes later she returned, flushed and sweaty. It looked good on her.

That was it. Lights out around twenty-two hundred. No movement at the residence again until she drove off the next morning. I tried to ignore how she looked every bit as tempting as the first time I’d laid eyes on her.

Tired and frustrated, I pulled out the burner phone. There was a guy working at the DMV who I used to access records. He was paid well for his service and his silence.

“Davis,” he answered.

“I’m after some details.” I didn’t need to explain who was calling or why.

“Fire away.”