Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
Vic Walters watched out for cactus as he crossed the moonlit desert. In his gray suit and black loafers, he wasn’t dressed for hiking, but he didn’t have far to go. A hundred feet away, the target’s house sat behind three towering saguaros, their arms draped in twinkly Christmas lights.
Vic had never understood Arizonans’ fascination with spiny plants. Water was just as precious in Albuquerque, where he lived, but New Mexicans managed to keep their shade trees alive. Some shrubs. Something to give a man some cover when he’s prowling through the night.
At least it was cold enough he didn’t have to worry about rattlesnakes. Early December in Phoenix: short sleeves during the day, freeze your ass at night. The chill made the bursitis in his shoulders ache.
Security flood lamps were mounted on each end of the rambling house, pointed at the surrounding desert. Vic veered to the right, keeping just outside the illuminated area. To the south, the lights of the metroplex stretched toward Tucson. But here on the outskirts, where the rich folks lived, each house was an island in the dark.
He’d been told to expect a guard, but he circled the property without finding one. The house was constructed of weathered timbers and way more glass than seemed safe. It was past midnight, and most of the rooms were dark. Nobody moving around inside.
Behind the house, a light in the swimming pool cast a blue glow. The covered patio next to the pool was filled with shadows. Vic stared into the shadows a long time. He could make out a white towel thrown over the back of one lounge chair, but he couldn’t see anything shaped like a person. No splashing from the pool. Just the hiss of distant traffic and the whistle of the desert wind.
He eased the .22-caliber target pistol from the deep pocket inside his suit. The four-inch suppressor was already attached, making for a long, unwieldy handgun, but Vic was accustomed to that. He’d used this same streamlined Ruger model several times, and never had a problem with any of them.
He kept the gun close to his body as he hurried into a slice of shadow next to the house. He stopped there, watching and listening.
Nothing.
The pool seemed like the best bet, so he went along the wall, ducking past dark windows. When he reached the patio, he peeked around the corner. Still no sentry, but a corpse floated facedown in the kidney-shaped pool.
Vic crept closer. The floater was a swarthy guy in a black Speedo. Lots of black hair on his legs and back, not much on his head. Likely the home owner, Harry Marino, the man Vic had been sent to kill.
He gave the silent house another once-over, then slipped the gun back into his pocket. Hanging on the wall nearby was an eight-foot-long aluminum pole with a net on one end. Designed for skimming bugs off the water, but it would do for his purposes. He lifted the skimmer off its brackets and carried it over to the pool.
After a couple of tries, he snagged the net over the dead man’s head and dragged him within reach. Vic knelt and grabbed the man’s thinning hair. He lifted the head out of the warm water and studied the dripping face. Harry Marino, for sure, and he hadn’t been dead long. Looked just like the photo supplied by Vic’s client. Only wetter.
Vic stood and shook water from his hand. Still no sign of anyone else around the house. Was it the help’s night off? Had they fled after discovering the body? That thought gave him an itchy feeling. Maybe the cops were on their way here right now. No longer bothering with stealth, he jogged across the rolling desert to where he’d left his rental car.
Puffing for breath, he climbed behind the wheel, cranked the engine and eased away. The movements were automatic. His brain was busy with Harry Marino.
Awfully odd coincidence, Harry drowning in his pool on the very night a hit man shows up to bump him off. Vic didn’t like coincidences, but he didn’t see much he could do about this one.
He decided to consider it a lucky break. Easiest money he’d ever made. But he watched his mirrors all the way back to his motel.
