Quinn stopped, saw a beam of blue light moving in the darkness.
Someone was up there.
In a heartbeat, Quinn’s training kicked in. He moved soundlessly toward the door, saw that someone had broken the lock. He nudged the door open, found the house dark and the control panel for the security system forced open.
Bloody hell.
A wee pair of night vision goggles just now would have been brilliant, not to mention body armor and his Glock. At least he’d brought his knife. He set the paper bag of tools aside, bent down, drew the knife out of its ankle rig. Holding the blade, he moved down the hallway toward the stairs.
He took the stairs quickly, quietly, the sound of footsteps and rustling coming from Jack and Ava’s bedroom.
Squeeeeeeek!
The sound could have woken the dead.
Fuckin’ hell!
In the dark, he’d stepped on a fucking toy.
Whoever was up there now knew he was here. There was no doubt about that. The rustling stopped, and the house fell silent.
Aye, Quinn would give his bollocks for a firearm right now.
Keeping his gaze on the bedroom door, he backed down the stairs, not wanting to get caught by an armed assailant in such a narrow space.
A dark shape emerged from the bedroom.
“Who the fuck are you?” Quinn flicked on the light. “What’s your business here?”
The man was dressed entirely in black, a balaclava covering his face. He flew down the stairs straight at Quinn, hurling something as he ran.
Quinn ducked, a metal torch grazing his cheek before crashing to the floor behind him. It was just a distraction, a way of trying to take Quinn’s attention off the blade in the fucker’s right hand. But Quinn saw the knife and blocked the blow with his left arm. He thrust with his right, chibbed the bastard in the face.
The attacker grunted, staggered back, and fled, gloved hand raised to his left cheek. It was only then Quinn noticed the black bag hanging over the man’s right shoulder, something heavy inside.
“What are you stealin’?” Quinn ran after him, but the bastard disappeared through the hedge in the neighbor’s front garden. If Quinn followed, he might end up with his throat slit, too. “You fuckin’ bastard!”
Rage thrumming in his veins, Quinn walked back inside, shut the door, glanced about. In the light, he saw that the place had been ransacked. Whoever the man was, he’d been here for a good while before Quinn had arrived. He’d gone through everything—DVDs, kitchen drawers, the pantry, the refrigerator.
Then Quinn saw it.
Blood.
A trail of crimson drops led to the door.
Quinn must have got him good.
Naw, ya eejit. That’s your blood.
The prick’s knife had cut deep into his left forearm.
He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bit of kitchen roll, pressed it against the gash to staunch the bleeding. He needed to call the police. But before he did that, he would have to hide his knife and the ankle rig, as well as the lockpick tools he’d bought. He couldn’t risk rousing the suspicion of investigators, who might search him.
He wiped the blade, sheathed it, and stuck it in Jack’s tool box with the lockpick tools beneath the kitchen sink, then took out his mobile and dialed 101.
What the hell would he tell the police? What would he tell Ava?
I came here to break into the place, but someone had beaten me to it.