Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,80

would be in a neighborhood like August’s meth lab safehouse. Places like that meant tight quarters and a lot of bystanders who could call the police, but they also meant lots of places to take cover—behind fences, cars, hedges, trash bins, or whatever was handy. It wouldn’t be an easy extraction, but it was probably the most ideal setup he could hope for right now.

He wasn’t so lucky.

As he closed in on the blue dot, the truth was unavoidable: Victor’s hidey hole was out in the middle of nowhere. Judging by the sprawling fields and lack of both buildings and trees out here, the structure was probably out in the open, too. Maybe not locked down like Lance goddamned Baldwin’s fortress, but not sheltered by a damned thing.

The alternative was that it wasn’t a hidey hole, but an actual hole. Likely fresh, shallow, and occupied only by August and the tracker.

Ricardo wasn’t going to think about that. No way.

“Son of a bitch,” Ricardo muttered to the steering wheel.

Two miles later, he parked the van and walked about a hundred yards up to the top of a hill to survey the landscape. As soon as he crested the hill, his eyes confirmed what his gut had already figured out: the safehouse was completely exposed.

Worse, it was at the center of a small valley. Vineyards sprawled across the land and up the ring of hillsides surrounding the house. Aside from a few oaks and maples sprinkled throughout and twin rows of skinny alders lining the long driveway, there wasn’t a tree in sight.

Great. Victor had a goddamned winery in the middle of a punchbowl type valley. It was the perfect setup—there was literally no way to approach the house without being spotted. He could wait until nightfall, but he didn’t know if August could wait that long. And anyway, there were probably as many motion sensors and alarms as there were grapevines. Fuck.

Hopefully Victor wasn’t keeping August in the wine cellar. As satisfying as it was to imagine August untying himself and relieving Victor of a few bottles of expensive wine while he waited for Ricardo to rescue him, Ricardo didn’t relish the idea of extracting a shit-faced August. He was annoying enough when he was sober.

With a frustrated sigh, Ricardo returned to the van, mind reeling as he tried to formulate a plan. This wasn’t like Lance Baldwin where he could stroll in and pretend to be an exterminator. There wasn’t time to put a charade like that in motion anyway, but also Victor knew Ricardo’s face as well as Ricardo knew his. He couldn’t just drive up to the front door. Or servants’ entrance. Whatever.

Or…could he?

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he peered in the rearview at the various toys he’d brought along for this op. The layout of the property and its driveway flashed through his mind.

And slowly, he started to grin.

Hang in there, August. I’m on my way.

By the time Ricardo had everything in place to make his move, it had been just under four hours since Victor had grabbed August. Too long, as far as Ricardo was concerned, but it had been necessary.

The blue dot was still there, and the battery should last another eight hours. He’d call it six to be on the safe side. August might or might not last that long, depending on how much information Victor pried out of him.

Well. Ricardo had no intention of keeping him waiting. With his heart in his throat and adrenaline shooting through him, he turned off the blacktop and started down Victor’s driveway. The drive was reasonably straight, and once he was about halfway down, he set the cruise control at slightly under eight miles an hour and attached a makeshift device to keep the steering wheel in place. He quickly made sure everything was where it needed to be, then slid out of the driver’s seat and into the back, making sure he didn’t dislodge or even tug the thin piece of paracord extending from beneath the driver’s seat and down the length of the van. He glanced out the windshield—still crawling straight, and some sentries had definitely noticed.

Pulse racing, he unlatched the back door of the van. He balanced precariously on the edge, one foot on the bumper and the other just above the ground. Then he grabbed the paracord, tucked, and rolled.

Before Ricardo had even landed on the driveway, the engine whined as the cinderblock came down on the accelerator. Gravel sprayed up behind the