Page 123 of Lash
The safe house is a carbon copy of every other house on the street—a pale yellow ranch with faded shingles and a buckling walkway to the front door, green shutters on either side of the picture window, and wobbly wrought-iron railings on either side of the microscopic concrete steps.
No car in the driveway, and the detached garage is open and empty. I park in the driveway, and leave the car running with the fob in my pocket. The front door is slightly ajar, and I instantly recognize the scent of death.
I know he's not here—he got a message to me that they'd been attacked and were fine but relocating. But still, the scent of death sends panic whirling inside me. I draw my pistol, slip the suppressor from my right hip pocket and screw it on as I nudge open the door with my hip. The door opens into the living room—white walls, old, stained, wear-flattened beige carpet, sagging faux-leather couch and mismatched loveseat, and an easy chair. Aging flatscreen TV.
Blood spatters the walls next to the door, and a pair of bullet holes pock the wall—rounds that went through a skull and into the wall. More blood on the floor between the living room and kitchen—a giant pool of it half on the carpet in the living room and half on the warped laminate floor of the kitchen.
The wall separating the kitchen from the living room is dented on the kitchen side as if a big, heavy body had slammed into it. The sliding glass door to the back deck is shattered, the remaining shards stained with blood, which is pooled on the gray, weather-faded deck. An old, rusty, Weber kettle grill sits forgotten in one corner of the deck, the lid slightly askew—that niggles in my brain, but I leave it for later.
I finish my examination of the house—more blood in the hallway. Empty bedrooms, drawers open as if the contents werethrown into a bag in a hurry. The bathroom door is closed. I open it, and the stench of death nearly bowls me over. The A/C is off and it's fucking hot. Bodies have been piled in the tub like cords of firewood—Rafael's mercenaries, eliminated by Lorenzo.
After my initial look-through is done, I go through more slowly, looking for clues as to where he may have gone.
Cabinets are empty. Nothing under the mattresses. Nothing in the fridge or freezer. Eventually, I go back to that grill out on the deck. It could have been bumped by someone, by a raccoon or the wind. But I doubt it. I go out and lift off the lid, sighing in relief. A glossy coupon flyer sits on the grate, advertising pizza specials for some mom-and-pop place in…I scan the flyer…
Austin.
I'm not sure how he managed to get a flyer from Austin to Houston, but I know without a doubt that it’s the message from Lorenzo.
I pick it up from the grate and examine it more closely. He has circled numbers and letters in various places on the flyer—a coded message telling me the address of the next safe house.
I just have to crack it.
I fold the flyer and put it in my back pocket, walk around the side of the house to my SUV, and drive back toward the freeway. But instead of getting on, I recognize my own exhaustion and make the smart decision to call it a day—I drove straight through from Vegas, stopping only for gas and drive-through, and that was six hours ago.
I pick up a pizza from a nearby place and take it with me as I check into a Red Roof Inn near the freeway ramp. I devour the pizza while working on Lorenzo's code.
When I finally crack it, I burn the flyer in the sink, memorize the Austin address, and then burn the notepad paper I'd written the address on while cracking it. A Google search tells me thenew address is similar to this one—a nondescript little house in the suburbs of Austin.
The question is whether I'll reach them before Rafael's mercenaries do.
As much as I want to leave now, I know I need sleep, so I lay on the bed fully clothed, and draw on years of practice to fall asleep quickly.
I wake after a few hours of fitful sleep and get on the road, stopping for coffee and a breakfast burrito.
Three hours later,I arrive in Austin. The neighborhood is far from downtown, a quiet neighborhood, a bit more well-kept than Houston.
Scanning house numbers, I crawl slowly down the street, listening, watching.
I pass a shiny new Suburban parked outside one of the more run-down houses in the area—red flag number one.
The fit blonde woman pushing a stroller is red flag number two—I don't know why exactly, but my instincts don't like her, and I trust my instincts.
A flash of movement from a backyard is red flag number three—men in black tac gear carrying assault rifles.
"Fuck." I hit the single speed dial entry in my phone. It rings once, and he doesn’t speak. "Contact," I say in Spanish. "Multiple targets. Front and rear."
"I understand," he answers in Spanish. "We are ready."
I hang up, shove the phone in my back pocket, and park the SUV beneath a big spreading oak tree. Reach into the second row and grab my vest, shrug into it, hissing as my bruised and cracked ribs protest painfully. I clip my HK MP5K to myvest, shove spare mags in various places, secure my sidearm, suppressor off.
This will not be quiet or discreet.
This is going to be a firefight.
The woman with the stroller passes me, talking on the phone or pretending to. Pauses in front of a house a few doors down from where I'm parked. Bends over as if cooing at a baby I'm sure doesn’t exist.
Movement between houses.