And she was definitely in the know.
Her reconnaissance had been thorough.
Before crossing the gap between the homes, she reached into her pocket and pulled out several blobs. They looked like sticky toys — the kind that kids threw at walls. They had been colored the same shade as the house’s bricks. When thrown, they stayed wherever they hit, like spitballs on a chalkboard. Inside each was a powerful transmitter that would pick up sounds, even through a brick wall.
They were the latest gizmos in her bag of tricks.
Aided by the breeze, she tossed the rubbery splotches across the narrow stretch of grass between the homes. They splatted softly against the side of Kozlov’s house. The sound of their impact was so quiet that it was drowned out by the pounding surf. Before long, the outside wall was lined with devices. They were nearly undetectable.
Within seconds, data streamed from the bugs to her earpiece. She listened to their chirps and interpreted their sounds as her eyes scanned the darkness below. She wouldn’t begin until she was sure the coast was clear. Anything less would lead to certain death, and she enjoyed life too much to risk it.
A full minute passed. Then another.
Midway through a third, she had heard enough.
It was time to commence the breach.
She reached inside her cargo pocket and pulled out a small baton. It was painted matte black. She pulled on either side of the device to extend it. It grew longer than any layman would expect. Two feet, then five, and finally ten. She repositioned her hands in the middle of the baton while swinging it in tight little circles. Telescoping sections continued to grow from both ends. It lengthened while getting impossibly thin — as well as impossibly straight — until it was twenty feet long.
It was the exact length she needed.
Wasting no time, she extended the baton between the two homes. To her, it looked like a long, black sliver of air, as if a demon had sliced open the night. Even if someone from the house had been looking, they would have been hard pressed to see it.
Next, she angled the far end of the baton toward a balcony in the rear corner of Kozlov’s house. She positioned the far tip between two banisters and made sure it wouldn’t shift. Then she laid her end of the baton on the edge of the roof and quietly tapped a long, arched nail into the wood. Once it was secure, she slid her end of the baton into the hook — just enough to hold it in place, but shallow enough that she could pull the baton free once she had reached the other side.
Kozlov’s balcony was lower than her position by about twenty degrees. That angle was nearly perfect. She took a deep breath, checked the chasm for eyewitnesses, and then climbed over the lip of the roof. Without pause, she grabbed the baton with both hands and slid across the narrow gap like water down a string.
In less than five seconds, she had glided from one house to the other like a cloud across the moon. She pulled herself over the railing and onto the scenic balcony. She stuffed the baton inside itself, then shoved the device into her pocket.
A moment later, her hands were on the curtained French doors that led to the rear of the house. Her gloved fingers moved quickly and quietly, as if assuring the door that everything would be fine. She kept at it until she heard a click.
A wide smile spread across her face.
Her blank mask revealed nothing.
With a twist of her wrist and a turn of her body, she stepped inside the most expensive and most heavily guarded house in Brooklyn.
3
She entered the house and immediately froze in place.
Her surprise had nothing to do with alarms or warnings. It had to do with the striking difference between the exterior of the house and its lavish interior. From the outside, the house appeared to be an extra-large Colonial on a nice street in Brooklyn. Inside, the place was more like the Taj Mahal, the Winter Palace, or Versailles.
It reeked of wealth and opulence.
The master bedroom yawned around her, like the treasure cave of the forty thieves. The sheer scope of the white walls and the wooden floor was incredible. Kozlov and his guards could have played basketball in there — it was that high and wide. The cathedral ceiling had sloping sides with multiple skylights. Each had a motorized shade. A king-size bed with a hand-carved mahogany frame sat along one wall. Magnificent bureaus and dressers lined another. Elaborate panel molding adorned them all.
As she was admiring it, a warning chirped in her ear.
Someone was approaching.
She went from still observation to quick, silent movement in the blink of an eye, racing across the floor to the master bath just as the bedroom door opened. With steady nerves, she crouched next to the elevated soaking tub and hid in the shadows. From there, she was able to use the large bathroom mirror to her advantage.
She watched the reflection of two muscled men in severe dark suits as they entered the bedroom. They flipped on the light and walked across the room toward the balcony window where she had been a moment before. Neither man had seen her.
‘Is the art ready for auction?’ one asked in Russian.
The other unlocked a writing desk near the window. ‘Da.’
‘All of it?’ the first responded.
He nodded as he grabbed a key from the drawer.
The two men hustled back toward the bedroom door, as if taking their time would have been unwise. They turned off the light, then closed the door behind them.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the muttering in the corridor diminished. She hoped they had ventured far enough away from the bedroom for her to use the hallway. Otherwise, she would be forced to exit the balcony and find another way to reenter the house. Moving carefully, she returned to the bedroom and listened intently at the door.
Nothing but silence.
She smiled and opened the door just a crack.
The view was remarkable.
It looked like the main gallery of an art museum. A circular mezzanine surrounded an indoor courtyard, framed by an ornate, jade-colored railing. It sat beneath a diamond-shaped skylight. Hanging from the center was an extravagant, hand-etched crystal chandelier. Thankfully, the upstairs hallway wasn’t spotlighted. Instead, it was bathed in soft-white light that seemed to emerge from the walls themselves instead of the well-hidden, recessed fixtures.
She continued to listen closely but heard nothing once the guards had disappeared: no idle chatter or detectable noises like the blare of a radio or the squawk of a television. In some ways, the silence made her life easier. She could easily tell if someone was approaching. In other ways, it made her mission harder. Any noise she made would stand out in the silent house.
Moving like a shadow, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her before she dashed the length of the corridor. She stopped in front of the locked door of the next room, but only long enough to pick it open. Ten seconds later, she was standing inside the library and admiring the hand-carved shelves and mahogany floors. It was so beautiful, so opulent, she almost felt guilty for what she was forced to do.
She silently and efficiently tore the room apart.
Every page of every book. Every shelf and every drawer. Every map, every picture, every chair, and every inch of every table. She checked the slats of the herringbone floor and checked every inch of the walls for secret panels and safes. She even climbed the shelves and furniture to check the ceiling and the recessed light fixtures.
But she found nothing. The library was clean.
Undeterred, she exited the room and headed toward the stairs. The walls were so white that her sheer black outfit stood out like a neon sign. Her trip wouldn’t take long, but she knew she would be totally exposed until she reached the ground floor.
She moved with silent assurance.
Never pausing. Never doubting.
Never taking a moment to consider the risk.
She had spent years in the field in her former career where the stakes had been even higher. Back then, she had worked her magic for
the stars and stripes. Now, she was working for herself. She liked this a whole lot more.
She reached the bottom of the stairs without incident. She looked left, then right, making sure she was alone. With no one in sight, she hustled straight ahead.
The entry was lined with marble floors. It was flanked by a huge living space on one side and an equally large dining area on the other. The spaces were separated by a barrel ceiling, supported by elegant columns and accented by traditional wainscoting. A crystal chandelier, matching the large one in the mezzanine, dangled in the center of each room. Neither was turned on, but they sparkled like diamonds in the faint light.
Who said crime didn’t pay?
She scanned both areas for any signs of a recessed safe or a hidden door, but came up empty. Just as well. Anyone could have spotted her in there, whether they were hired to protect Kozlov or just waxed the floors on weekends.
She continued forward, finding the kitchen beyond. Not surprisingly, it was massive and had two of everything — stoves, sinks, dishwashers, and refrigerators — as if Noah had ordered the appliances. In reality, she knew the real reason for all the duplicates: Kozlov was feeding an army.
For some reason, Russian mobsters took care of their men like doting mothers. They housed them. They fed them. They gave them gifts. In return, they expected unwavering loyalty and utmost respect. All it took was a whiff of betrayal for heads to roll. The betrayer’s head. His family’s heads. His pet’s head as well. In one memorable case, they even hunted down his ‘friends’ on Facebook and killed them, too.
The Russian bratva didn’t mess around.
She forced those thoughts out of her mind as she opened the lone door in the kitchen. It led to a concrete staircase that disappeared in the darkness below. Weighing her options, she closed the door behind her and tested her sight.
She saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She cursed to herself.
Although her mask had built-in night vision, it only worked when there was ambient light. In the basement, there would be none. If she wanted to see, she knew she had to take a giant risk. Reluctantly, she pulled out a small flashlight from her pocket. She turned it on and followed its beam down the stairs.
The basement came as another surprise. Not only because Kozlov had built one so close to the water’s edge, but because of its simplicity.
It was the opposite of everything she had seen above.
The red floor was nothing but painted cement. The walls and ceiling were lined with plastic and insulation, probably to absorb sound more than heat. It looked like the ‘boiler room’ of a telemarketing firm that went bust. Ironically, she got the sense that more business was done down here than anywhere else in the house. The kind of business that involved a pair of pliers, a baseball bat, and a screaming victim.
She focused her attention on the gray metal door in the center of the far wall. It sat next to an elaborate cooling system that clanked in the corner. Blueprints and work orders had led her to believe that there would be a room in the rear of the basement.
In a flash, she realized it wasn’t a room at all.
It was a walk-in meat locker.
4
It wasn’t the polished steel exterior of the giant door that had given the freezer away. It was the oversized, single-handle latch.
She had come prepared for every kind of door. Even the simplest, most well-concealed vaults were protected by a lock of some kind. Bank and casino vaults — the gold standard by which vaults are measured — employed everything from analog pin-and-tumbler combination locks to next-generation biometric triggers, such as palm and retina scanners. She had even seen systems that monitored perspiration and blood pressure. If someone showed any signs of distress while attempting to access the vault, the software would deny access — even if the correct codes had been entered.
Fortunately for her, this door was pretty basic.
All it required was a simple tug.
A rush of cold air pushed against her as she peeked inside the freezer. The walls were lined with steel racks that held bins of frozen vegetables, as well as store-bought items such as ready-made pasta entrees and desserts. In the center of the room stood a butcher’s station — a heavy, stainless steel table and an assortment of saws, cleavers, and carving knives. Two sides of the steel island were surrounded by hanging slabs of meat. Sides of beef, as well as whole hogs, slabs of mutton, chicken, rabbits, and duck dangled from hoists like a wide curtain of flesh.
As she closed the door behind her, the unit’s compressor hissed. The vents spewed freshly chilled air in an effort to compensate for her body heat.
She shivered as her breath crystallized.
For all its innovations, her suit did little to shield her from the cold. Then again, it wasn’t the frigid temperature that bothered her the most. She was more interested in the size of the room. Large as it was, it was still much smaller than she had been led to believe. This room should have consumed nearly a third of the basement, but it wasn’t close to that. Either the blueprints were wrong, or this freezer was more than it appeared to be.
Five minutes later, she had her answer.
Thanks to the icy walls, the second door was virtually invisible in the back of the freezer. What gave it away was the set of hinges that allowed the racks in front of the door to pivot forward and swing aside. Once she pushed the frozen vegetables out of the way, she spotted a tiny slot in the metal surface of the rear wall. She immediately recognized it as a card reader, like those used in fancy hotels.
Unfazed, she produced a slim device from one of her many pockets. She flipped open the cover and inserted the gadget into the card reader. It fit perfectly. A flurry of access codes streamed across its tiny screen. She raised an eyebrow when the microcomputer continued to process after matching a fourth number. ATMs only require four-digit pin numbers, so a fifth digit seemed slightly excessive. By the time her device had acquired the tenth and final digit, she was beyond intrigued.
What the hell is he keeping in here?
The Ark of the Covenant?
With a faint click, the door popped open. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door, then pulled it toward herself. She was expecting to see stacks of cash, mountains of cocaine, or something that would justify the security measures.
Instead, all she saw was a giant.
At nearly seven feet tall and roughly 400 pounds, the Russian guard literally filled the doorway. Standing face to face — make that chest to face — with a crafty ninja, he panicked and reached for his pistol instead of wrapping her in a massive bear hug that would have squeezed the life out of her in a matter of seconds.
It was a mistake he would later regret.
The moment he pulled his weapon, she thrust her right hand into his throat as if hurling a javelin. It was a knuckle punch — what mobsters called a ‘bear claw’ and martial artists called a ‘panther fist.’ Her thumb was pulled tight, her palm distended, and her four fingers were curled to provide a hard striking surface. It was intended to slip under the chin in a way that a normal punch couldn’t.
It was the perfect choice for a taller target.
Her strike was so violent and so precise that it collapsed his trachea and damaged his vocal cords, temporarily rendering him mute. More importantly, the force of the blow and the pain of the impact caused him to lose his grip on the pistol. It flew from his hand and slid to the rear corner of the secret room, far from his immediate reach.
Unfortunately, all that did was piss him off.
Fueled by rage, the giant lowered his shoulder and charged at his opponent, driving her back toward the butcher’s station. She glanced over her shoulder as she stumbled backwards. Given the force he exerted, she realized that the table’s blunt edge would most likely crush her spine, so she dropped to the floor and allowed the brute to kick her underneath. She slid across the floor and quickly bounced to her feet. Staring across the table at the hulking guard, she waited for his next
move.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The Russian grabbed a large carving knife from the butcher’s block. He grasped the edge of the table with his other hand. With little more than a swipe of his arm, the guard flung the heavy steel table across the room. It had taken four men to bring it into the freezer, yet he had tossed it aside with no more effort than swatting a fly.
He lumbered toward her, his eyes ablaze. He swung wildly, then caught his balance. Again he struck out at her, and again it took him a moment to regroup. Clumsy as he was, she knew that he only needed to connect once. With his fury and strength, one blow would take her head clean off.
After his third swing, she struck back. The moment the blade sliced past, she stepped forward and delivered a vicious jab to his lower abdomen. The bastard barely winced, so she changed her approach and went for his face. She aimed for the bridge of his nose, but connected with his orbital cavity. It felt like she had punched a cement wall. Almost instantly, his eye swelled shut. Blood trickled down his cheek from a wide gash under his brow, but he shrugged it off like a boxer in the ring.
He swung again, but this time she defended the strike. She knew she could never fully stop his arm’s momentum, but by focusing her block on his wrist, she was able to disarm him. The impact sent the knife flying across the room. Unfortunately, the guard followed this blow with a punch to her ribs, which sent her flying across the room in the opposite direction.
The guard took the opportunity to retreat into the hidden room. After scanning the floor, he found what he had come for and grabbed the pistol.
Time to end this, he thought.
The Hunters h-1 Page 2
