Should I run from the car to the house, to make a running target? But that would tip my assassins to my knowledge of their existence and the job they’d come to do.
Bad move.
Of course, not as bad as just making myself a casual easy shot by sauntering up the steps to the deck and in the door. The best I could do was split the difference — move quickly but not suspiciously.
And I would make the best target when I paused to use my key. If I were in those woods across the way with a sniper-scope rifle, that’s when I’d do it, and the fucker in my sights would not have a chance in hell.
So I changed things up.
I got out of the Impala, quick but not frantic, and did not go up the steps to the deck. Instead, acting like there was something I had to do — which was true: stay alive — I cut back alongside the A-frame to the rear door and used my house key, already in my left hand, quickly and efficiently.
And went in.
For what seemed like the thousandth time, I moved carefully through my A-frame with the silenced nine mil in hand and checked everywhere. Yes, even under the beds.
The place was clear.
Last night, keeping the drapes shut made sense. This time of day it didn’t. I wanted to see what was coming. Who was coming. So I drew open the drapes, revealing my picture postcard view of the lake, sun shimmering gold on the water, sky blue with cotton ball clouds, with only the dark trees, dead-looking ones mingling with evergreens, to remind me of reality.
All the thinking had got me tired. That and the no sleep last night. I figured I’d need to spend the day in here, the evening too, waiting. Waiting for company.
So I prepped by piling some furniture in front of the back door, kitchenette chairs, tables and such. Blocked paths that would trip up an invader, should he come through a window, or at least make him reveal himself by noise. Even spread some bubble-pack on the floor under bedroom windows.
Not that I would fall asleep. By God, I would stay awake. I’d started the caffeine regimen with that Diet Coke at breakfast. I brought a whole six-pack back from the fridge.
I got a fire going, which prompted me to get out of the bomber jacket, and I moved the sectional couch pieces around so I could have my feet up and the gun in my lap as I lay back against the comfy cushion. I had an extra ammo magazine for the nine mil on the cushion next to me. I’d removed the silencer, which made the weapon too bulky for combat situations.
Didn’t dare put music on or the TV or read a book. I needed to stay alert. No distractions. Just the shimmer of lake and blue of sky, with enough light coming in to help keep me from nodding off. It took me back to the sniper days in country, where I might sit watch for hours on end, waiting for somebody to kill. Sometimes a specific somebody.
I was ready.
“Wake up,” a voice said.
Simmons.
Training my silenced nine mil on me.
Five
I sat up.
Not a sudden movement. Very slow and careful, and some part of my brain was wondering if this could be a dream, which is to say nightmare, but it wasn’t.
This was all too real.
Bruce Simmons was seated on a backless section of the sectional facing me, his somewhat pointed features lending him a satanic cast, as did a widow’s peak I hadn’t noticed before on the product-heavy dark hair, longer than mine. His position was edge of his seat, leaning just a little forward. I was slumped, which was why I needed to straighten some.
Falling asleep was unprofessional, if human, and I can credit myself only for snapping awake immediately, going instantly alert, the way you are if you hear somebody trying to break into your house or hotel room.
Of course I hadn’t heard him actually breaking in, had I? So I didn’t have much to brag about. And I had no idea how he’d got himself inside, maneuvering around my bubble-pack and furniture blockades, and didn’t really care. That was beside the point now, wasn’t it?
On the other hand, I’d been deep enough asleep that my guest had risked setting the stage some. The drapes on the double doors onto the deck and the lake were now closed. The square of cushioned sectional he was perched on was backed away from me enough to avoid a kick at his gun-in-hand or anything else for that matter.
And, as I said, he was aiming my own nine-millimeter automatic at me. The extra ammo clip he had confiscated and tucked away somewhere. He was out of his topcoat and wearing a black track suit with white stripes down the sleeves and legs. If he was here to force me into dressing like that, he’d have to shoot me.
I’d fallen asleep in the clothes I’d worn since yesterday and through the night, jeans and a long-sleeve navy t-shirt. I’d like to tell you I had a throwing knife or small revolver tucked at the small of my back, but I didn’t.
The only thing I had going for me was that I was alive. That he hadn’t killed me while I slept, which is what I deserved; but I’d only been awake maybe two seconds before I realized he was here for more than fulfilling a contract.
“Wondering why you’re still alive?” he asked. He had a baritone voice that would have gone well with a gig as a late-night jazz-spinning disc jockey. Soothing, almost, except for the part where he was a hired killer holding my own gun on me.
“I am,” I admitted. “Pleasantly so.”
“Thing is, I know who you are.” Smug. Proud of himself.
“If you didn’t,” I said, “this would be random, and you don’t look nuts to me. And I’m not just trying to get on your good side.”
His mouth twitched a smile. His dark eyes were hooded, which added to the vaguely sinister effect of the sharp if handsome features. Reminded me of the old movie actor Zachary Scott. Same oily smoothness.
“When I say I know who you are,” he said, “I mean I know who you are... Quarry.”
What did he want, applause? Or maybe for me to start shaking? I’d already done enough shaking for this prick, waiting outside his room at Wilma’s and he hadn’t even been in it. Fuck this guy.
“Is that right,” I said politely, “Mr. Simmons?”
The eyes weren’t hooded now.
“How do you know who I am?” he demanded, some edge in the disc-jockey baritone.
My turn for smug. “Is that really what you want to talk about? How we know who we are?”
He sat back just a little, but no couch was behind him to lean on. “You worked for the Broker. I did, too, a long time ago. That must be how you know me.”
“Must be how you know me. What next? And, uh, by the way — I didn’t work for the Broker.” I tapped my chest. “He worked for me. He was my agent.”
Simmons nodded in irritation, said, “Of course. I work through the Envoy.”
I had to laugh. “Christ, not a very imaginative bunch in this business, are they?”
He seemed vaguely offended. “There are a number of agents, brokers, in our game. They each have kind of... code name. Designating regions.” He gestured a little with the hand with my gun in it, not threatening, really — just gesturing. “Didn’t you know that?”
I shrugged, not putting much into it, not wanting to get shot. “Not really. I figured as much, but, no.”
I obviously knew the assassins on Broker’s roll call all had one-word aliases, and figured that was to keep real names or traceable fake ones off phone calls and other communications. That the same was true of other middlemen in the killing game came as no surprise.
And, of course, I knew what Simmons’ own wry little Broker-invented “code name” was — Brace. Something or somebody you could lean on. But it was also a synonym for “crutch,” wasn’t it?