Page 119 of Silas

“In—inside,” he breathes.

“No shit, Sherlock.” I press harder, drawing a bead of blood. “Where, exactly?”

“Bedroom. Top floor.”

“How many guards inside?”

“Four.”

“Where?”

“Kitchen, parlor, stairs, and outside his room at the top of the stairs, just outside his door .”

“He alone inside?”

“No.”

“Who’s with him?”

“His girlfriend.”

“He armed?”

“He has a pistol under his pillow.”

His radio squawks. “Alpha Niner, report.”

“That you? Alpha Niner?” He nods, and I press harder. “Report inexactlyas normal.”

He nods, and I key his mic. “Central,” he says, his voice admirably steady, “this is Alpha Niner. All clear.”

I remove his walkie-talkie, clipping it to my vest and putting the earpiece in so I can monitor the line. I take his weapons as well.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” I tell him. “But I will if I have to.” He nods, and I sheathe my knife. “Stay here. Copy?”

He nods again. “Who—who are you?”

“A ghost from Malik’s past,” I answer.

“How—how’d you get in?”

I grin. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

I shove open the hidden door; it’s warped and sticks, and I have to bump it harder than I’d like. I pause, listening, but no alarm is sounded.

I peer into the garage, sweeping my light across the interior: Malik’s Range Rover gleams as my light hits it, and then his Ferrari, and then his antique Indian motorcycle.

I kick my feet through the opening and drop down, then pull the door closed behind me. Pause, listen. Creep across the garage to the door leading into the house; I don’t need an extra rifle, so I leave it by the door, but I shove the extra side arm into my vest. The door opens into a mudroom with a hallway leading to the kitchen; there’s a laundry room on one side and a powder room across, and then the kitchen, where a guard is posted.

I open the door slowly; the hinges are quiet, thankfully. I shuffle inside. The mudroom is dark, coat racks hung with coats and hats, muck boots and galoshes and riding boots and battered running shoes lined up in neat rows below. The laundry room is dark, as is the powder room.

At the end of the short hall, a dim yellow light glows, casting long shadows. I inch forward, step by step, until I reach the end of the hall. Peer around the corner.

The guard is sitting at a small round breakfast table, his phone turned landscape and leaning up against his carbine which is lying on the table in front of him. Porn flashes on the screen; he has his earpiece in one ear, and a single earbud in the other. He’s jerking off.

Good lord. This is too easy.

I sneak up behind him but hold off. He’s watching a bukkake film, and judging by the speed at which he’s jerking his turkey, he’s almost done. It’ll be easier to subdue him if I let him finish.