Page 118 of Silas

Malik’s men walk the perimeter in evenly spaced patrols, with four men at the front gate, two at the front door, two at the back, and several more posted throughout the house. About a hundred feet east of the main house is a huge gambrel barn even older than the house, and kitty-corner to that is a long, low shedrow structure, once servant’s quarters and now the bunkhouse for the guards. Opposite the bunkhouse and kitty-corner on the other side of the barn, forming a U-shape of structures, is the small squat shack which was once a milking shed and is now where Malik does his interrogations. Behind the barn is a gaping expanse of open pastureland, dotted with sleeping cows and a few wakeful, grazing horses. A large white dog wanders the far fence line, sniffing for threats.

My only chance, the only weakness in this otherwise airtight security, is to get a running start and leap hard, hoping I clear the razor wire and electrified chain link. I have to stick my landing without injuring myself, and without alerting the guards.

It’s a fool’s errand, but it’s the only way. I might be able to breach the hard way,ifI had my brothers, andifI was willing to kill. Neither is true, so here I am, about to try something damn near impossible and dumber than shit.

I slide backward away from the edge, gripping my HK tight and close against my chest. Marking the guards, I time their patrols. Wait…wait…

There’s about a minute when each guard is facing away, pausing, scanning, reporting in.

Now’s my chance.

I go back as far as the landscape will allow, dig in, and sprint as hard as I can. When I reach the drop-off, I leap with everything I’ve got, soaring over the razor wire with scant inches to spare. The ground hurtles up to meet me, far too fast. I touch down with my feet and instantly fling myself forward into a roll. My HK digs into my belly, hard, jolting the air out of my lungs. The impact sears up my ankles and knees, sending jangling bolts of pain up both legs. My shoulder spasms from the impact of the roll, as well. Gagging for breath, I have to crawl on all fours toward the house, panic boiling in my blood. I have to get out of sight or the gig’s up. These cold-ass motherfuckers will fill me with holes before I can even raise my hands to surrender.

Still trying desperately to catch my breath, I stumble and slip in the dew-slick grass; my knees and ass and sleeve are soaked, freezing. I reach a patch of shadows near the side of the main house, and slump to one knee. I close my eyes and focus on breathing, regulating my pulse and calming my mind. There are no shouts, no alarm, so my entry has gone unnoticed, so far.

In control once more, I watch the guards and plan my next move.

The best point of entry into the farmhouse is a side door. The house dates back to the seventeen hundreds and has been renovated and added onto half a dozen times; like many historic New England farmhouses, doors were added willy-nilly as additions and renovations congealed, and some of the doors end up not leading anywhere. The door in question opens onto a narrow stairwell leading up to a bedroom on the second floor; the door at the top, however, was drywalled over at some point. What makes it perfect for my purposes, though, is the low, half-sized door just inside on the left, which leads into the garage. It’s old, with rusty hinges and an antique latch. It’s so old I doubt Malik even realizes it’s there, let alone that it’s actually a working entryway into the house. It’s not a half-size door, though, it’s full-size, it’s just that the two sections weren’t built at the same level, or even in the same century.

I slip up against the wall and skirt the perimeter of the house, pausing every few feet to listen. I heard static crackle, and freeze.

“Central, this is Alpha Six reporting. All clear.” A deep, gravelly voice, touched by a faint, rough English accent.

I hear his boots, and then he’s pacing past my hiding place, which is little more than a dense pool of shadows.

He’s a good guard: he sweeps his light side to side, searching the grounds, and then the flower garden running the perimeter of the house. I drop to my belly, and his light sweeps directly above me. I shut my eyes, not breathing. My pulse hammers.

I hear his steps fade away.

Fuck, that was close.

I keep going. The door is just a few feet ahead.

Except, there’s a guard posted by it.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

I creep closer. He’s young, and tired, and bored. It’s a dull gig, guarding Malik’s place; who in their right mind would dare try to breach this place?

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, and then yawns prodigiously. I seize him, mid-yawn, clamping my palm over his mouth and pressing my tactical knife against his throat.

“Not a sound,” I hiss directly in his ear.

He nods, a minuscule movement.

“Open the door.” I pivot him to face the door. He fumbles the antique brass knob and then pushes it open. “In.”

He stumbles in.

“On your knees, face the stairs.”

I nudge the door closed with my foot. The guard holds his hands out, empty—they shake.

“Face down, move slow.”

He complies, and I fish the zip-ties from my pocket. I loop one around each wrist and then use a third to bind them together behind his back, so he can’t tighten them and then snap them against his knee—a move I’ve personally used. I use a fourth zip-tie to bind his wrists to the back of his belt, further immobilizing him. Then, I sweep his black wool watch cap off his head, revealing sweaty, messy blond hair. I roll him to his back, balling the hat in my fist; I touch the point of my knife to his Adam’s apple.

“Where is Malik, right now?” I ask, in a low whisper.