Page 30 of The Twins

“We have absolutely zero connection to him so we’ll do the job, in and out, no complications. And no vehicles, we can walk there in less than an hour avoiding cameras.” He looked at Cillian. “Did you get any information about who he lives with?”

“Yeah, his social media says single and proud, not letting no bitch tie him down, apparently.”

“Charming.” The professor huffed. “Well, let’s hope he’s tucked up in bed alone. Like I said, I can’t be doing with complications.”

We headed out into the warm morning. Our pace was fast, and we used backstreets, alleys, and the shade of a park to reach the sprawling estate where McDougal lived. Once there, our vibe changed. This wasn’t familiar territory to us, and we got a few eyeballs off locals who clearly didn’t like three big guys in dark clothing walking with purpose through the estate.

The houses were unloved, the cars and vans old, and a couple of dogs roamed on their own.

I kept my head down, hood up, the weight of my gun tucked into the small of my back reassuring.

“It’s this one,” Finn said, stopping at the entrance to a street almost blocked by three rubbish skips. “Other end, I reckon.”

“And backing onto the river.” Andrew nodded. “We’ll leave that way, less of these damn doorbells with cameras.”

I pulled my cap even lower and resisted the urge to slide up my bandana. It was too soon, folks around here would know trouble was afoot if we covered our faces, and we didn’t need the extra attention.

We paused briefly outside number fifty-nine. It was a flat-roofed terraced house with a large fence around the front and back garden and a photo of a Rottweiler on a side gate that read: Can you run faster than me?

“You reckon he’s really got a dog?” Cillian said.

Andrew picked up a stick and threw it over the fence. He then pulled up his bandana and peered through a gap in the wooden slats. “If he has, it’s not in the garden.”

“And that’s why you’re the one with letters after your name.” I squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, we can handle a dog.”

“If there even is one,” Cillian said from behind his bandana. “Sign likely just a deterrent.”

The gate was locked, so I gave Andrew a leg up, and he dropped quietly to the other side of the fence. I did the same for Cillian and then climbed over, landing beside them. A cat sat in the long grass to my right, and I hoped that was an additional sign that we wouldn’t have a dog to deal with.

There were two upstairs windows, and downstairs a door beside a boarded-up window. All curtains were drawn, and thepaint on the door was marked, as though someone had bashed it with a hammer or baseball bat at some point.

A horn beeped in the distance, and a woman shouted at a kid a few doors down.

“You think he’s home?” I asked, also lifting my bandana so it hid most of my face.

“Yeah, I do, and likely sleeping,” Andrew said. He withdrew a small tool and started picking the lock. I glanced over my shoulder and then up to the house on the right. It appeared derelict with a broken window and broken gutter. Likely they’d moved on when they’d realized who they lived next to.

The door clicked. Andrew opened it a fraction.

I held my breath, waiting for a dog’s bark or an angry voice to emerge from the dark crack.

Neither came.

Andrew opened the door.

We all stepped into the musty hallway.

My heart was steady, my senses on high alert.

Cillian stuck his head into what appeared to be a living area. “Clear,” he whispered.

Andrew gestured up the stairs with his gun.

I went first, testing each one for creaking boards. The carpet was threadbare and stained. The handrail was a mass of peeling paint. At the top was a pile of grubby clothes along with a pristine pair of white trainers. The door to my left was closed.

Cillian checked the other rooms. He nodded and pointed at the closed door.

We had him.