He circled once around the safehouse, staying well back in the trees and watching out for any movement of the curtains that would indicate a watch on the perimeter. Their vehicles must be in the garage, he thought. A passerby might think the place was vacant, perfect for a little B&E, unless guided to the spot by someone in the know.
The lodge had one door, in the front, with windows on three sides. Around in back, the blind side, storm doors opened on a cellar that would almost certainly grant access to the ground floor via stairs or a ladder. It was worth a try, and for sure a damn sight better than a stroll up to the porch. If he was forced to go in through the door or windows, he would have to wait for nightfall, six or seven hours yet.
He knelt behind a massive oak and took the pistols from the shopping bag, cocked each in turn, made sure they both had live rounds in the firing chamber. Then he tucked the extra magazines inside his waistband, the metal cool against his flesh. He left the bag where it was, to rot or blow away.
From the garage, he had to cross roughly twenty yards of open ground. No facing windows, but you could never tell when someone would come out to check the grounds, fetch something from the cars. He kept both pistols pointed at the lodge until he reached the storm doors, knelt before them. Only then did he reluctantly put down his weapons, setting one on either side of him, and take the lock picks from a pocket of his jeans.
The padlock was a good one, but he knew his business. Forty seconds saw it open, and he set it on the ground beside one of the .45s Took time to check the hinges on the storm doors, ensure they wouldn’t scream out in the quiet of the woods and give his act away. A flight of wooden steps led downward, into darkness, and he took the pistols with him, one tucked in his belt as he reached back to close the hatch.
It was pitch dark in the cellar, and he took a moment while his vision adjusted. Once he got used to it, thin shafts of light were visible between the storm doors, coming through the floor above his head in spots where there was no rug over wooden planking. He could see enough to find a. second set of stairs, directly opposite, and navigate around some boxes stacked up in the middle of the floor.
The trapdoor opened in a narrow closet, with canned goods on the shelves behind him. Someone’s notion of a nifty little secret, but they hadn’t thought to bolt the latch shut the last time someone used it.
Once he had the trapdoor shut, the cleaner stood and listened to the house. A muffled sound of voices came from somewhere to his left, in the direction of what he supposed was the living room. He couldn’t say how many voices—two or three, at least—but he wasn’t intimidated by the numbers.
Feds were nothing special. When you shot them, they fell down like anybody else.
He held one pistol ready as he found the inner doorknob, cracked the door an inch or so and peered out through the slit. No one to challenge him that he could see. The next few seconds would be critical, because he was on the move, he had no fear of coming off as second best.
The cleaner stepped out of his closet, guns in hand, ready to crash the party.
One surprise for Ira Goldblum and his escorts, coming up.
The bathroom furnishings were sparse but adequate. Someone had left a well-thumbed Playboy magazine behind, and Lockwood started going through it, killing time with Miss July. He was in no great hurry to rejoin the others, listen to another round of Ira’s bullshit whining. Goldblum had been well versed in the risks and the requirements of the Federal Witness Program when he started talking to the FBI, and he could bitch from now till Doomsday without changing anything. As long as the Balduccis had an open contract on his head—in other words, as long as Goldblum lived—he would be running for his life, employing false identities and looking twice at every new acquaintance.
Either that or he would wind up in a sanitary landfill somewhere, maybe join the missing-persons list with Jimmy Hoffa and the rest of gangland’s greatest hits.
In human terms, Marsh Lockwood didn’t care what happened to the Mob accountant, once he did his part to ring the curtain down on Leo B. Conviction on a shopping list of RICO charges would eliminate Balducci as a force to reckon with inside the Mob, strike one more target off the federal hit list.
When Leo B. was safely locked away, then Ira Goldblum could be shuffled off to Phoenix, San Francisco, Newark—anywhere the Feds decided he would stand at least an even chance of living out his days. What happened after that was largely up to Ira—and considering his mouth, Lockwood thought he would be lucky to survive six months. without a full-time bodyguard.
Tough luck.
The Playmate of the Month was honey blond and well endowed, fond of skiing, skydiving and “watersports.” Her hot-tub layout made Lockwood feel a bit on the athletic side himself.
He had the gatefold open on his knees, examining a choice tattoo, when thunder rocked the lodge. The sound of small-arms fire vaulted Lockwood off the toilet, spilling Miss July at his feet. She held her enigmatic smile as he yanked up his trousers, grappled with the belt one-handed, reaching for his Smith & Wesson automatic on the run.
Two hours in the fucking safehouse, and it had already blown up in his face. The best that he could do was try and save it now.
And maybe, in the process, save himself.
The cleaner went in shooting, his eyes skimming over the four men spread around the living room, three with weapons showing. On his right was a massive black man, first gaping at the unexpected new arrival, then exploding from his chair. The cleaner shot him in the face, one hollowpoint enough to blow his head apart as if it were a melon stuffed, with fireworks.
That left three alive, but only two who counted at the moment. Over on his left, a skinny redhead; and a guinea had been setting up a card game by the window, but they had to react in a hurry, reaching for their guns and cursing as the cleaner swung around to bring them under fire.
He gave them two rounds each. The redhead vaulted over backward, crimson spouting from his chest. His shoulders slammed against the wall and left a dark smear as he slithered to the floor.
His partner had some moves, despite his chunky build. Some kind of fast-draw artist with his stainless-steel Smith & Wesson, pulling from a high-ride pancake holster on his hip and squeezing off two rounds in rapid fire.
The cleaner heard them whisper past his face and smiled as he returned fire, nailing down the guinea with a one-two in the bull’s-eye, opening his chest.
That left the rat.
He made a sorry spectacle, crouched down behind the sofa, crying and pleading for his life. What wasted effort. Any real man would have shrugged it off or made a last-ditch rash to grab the cleaner’s gun, but this one was a pussy.
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t wanna do this!” he blubbered. “They made me, don’t you see that? I can take it all back, change my statement—anything!”
“Too late,” the cleaner told him, stepping close enough to give the pussy one more chance. An easy grab from where he stood, one of his pistols almost touching Goldblum’s forehead.
“Please!”
He didn’t have to aim at that range, and he shot the whining bastard twice, to shut him up. Once more to grow on, as his body tumbled over backward, just because the cleaner hated cowards.
Done.
It had been all of sixty seconds since he stepped out of the closet, and he had twelve thousand dollars in the bag. How much was that per second?
Not too shabby.
He was turning toward the front door when a furtive scuffling sound behind him made him swivel, the twin Colts rising to confront another threat.
Marsh Lockwood smelled the blood and cordite as he burst into the living room. He saw the stranger, guns in hand. He swung around to face Lockwood, firing as he came, and the reports of two big .45s were deafening.