“The gate’s coming up.” One of Wulfe’s men pressed his fingers to his earpiece, listening. “It’s a dark blue Chevy Impala. The vehicle has exited the garage. It’s turning the corner.”
They’d parked a couple of blocks away so that the cops who were protecting the Benoit bitch wouldn’t see them and grow suspicious.
“It’s him. He’s alone, and he’s taking the bait. Go!”
The bait was one of Wulfe’s female operatives with a fake belly to make her lookembarazada—pregnant. The target’s wife was blond and pregnant, and they felt certain the target would stop to help a woman who made him think of her.
Arturo had to admit that part was clever, even if he hated the idea of women carrying guns and pretending to be men. It was unnatural.
The van drove quietly and slowly around the corner, and up ahead, Arturo saw a man with a dark ponytail get out of the Impala and walk over to the woman, who stood beside her own car, hand on her fake belly, staring down at a flat tire.
“Look at that overgrown Boy Scout.”
Wulfe’s men laughed, pulling ski masks down over their faces.
The van drew closer, the target looking over his shoulder once. He saw the van, watched it for a second.
“Easy now.”
Apparently not perceiving it as a danger, the target turned back to the woman and motioned toward the car’s trunk. The blonde waddled to the trunk and opened it. The target bent over, picked up a lug wrench and stood upright again.
Arturo felt the van speed up, his heart beating faster.
It went—how did thegringossay?—like clockwork. The target turned around, lug wrench in hand, just as the blonde pointed a suppressed handgun at his chest and fired. Five shots to the chest dropped him onto the pavement, where he lay still.
Their faces covered, their hands in nitrile gloves, Wulfe’s men jerked open the van’s door and jumped out, one of them carrying a pair of bolt cutters. Two of them lifted the man’s big body and shoved it into the trunk, while the third cut off his left thumb. Then they shut the body inside the trunk and climbed into the van, the blonde following them in.
Having no modesty at all, she kicked off her heels, pulled her dress over her head, and unfastened the shoulder straps that held her fake belly in place. It fell to the floor, leaving her wearing a wet tank top and shorts. “I am fuckingnevergetting pregnant. That shit is uncomfortable.”
The men laughed.
Puta estupida.The stupid whore.
She quickly dressed in pants, a shirt, and body armor, sliding a ski mask over her face. Then she grabbed a rifle. She was going in with them? A woman?
The van moved forward, turned the corner, and drove up to the protected entrance of the tall glass building. The man who held the bloody thumb, passed it forward to the driver, who rolled down his window and carefully pressed the pad of it to the scanner.
An electric buzz. A green light. And the garage door began to move.
“We’re in.”
CHAPTER 31
ARTURO FELT HIS heartbeat quicken as they reached the penthouse. But it wasn’t from excitement. It had been many years since he’d taken part in a hit. A man of his standing shouldn’t have to get his own hands bloody. He had others to do wet work. He’d tried to stay down in the van, but Wulfe’s underlings wouldn’t let him. They shoved him from the van, calling him “old man” and “coward.” When he’d asked for a ski mask, they laughed at him.
“Remember to smile for the cameras,” that bitch of a woman had said when they stepped into the elevator.
Arturo hoped she eventually found herself in Mexico. He would enjoy breaking her and watching her cower before the altar of Santa Muerte.
The elevator opened, and they moved out, Arturo keeping to the rear as they quietly got into position around the door to the penthouse, his pulse pounding, but not just from nervousness. Now that he was here, it excited him to think that McBride and Benoit were on the other side of this door. They thought they were safe, that they’d gotten away from him. But they hadn’t.
Oh, how he wanted to watch Benoit suffer! He wanted to see her face twist with fear when she saw him. He wanted to hear her scream and beg. He wanted to look into her eyes the moment she realized Death had found her at last.
“Remember, we need the DUSM alive. Wulfe wants to know what he knows.” The man in the lead drew the bloody thumb from his pocket once more, pressed it against the biometric scanner, then dropped it onto the floor.
A quiet buzz. A click.
The door opened.