O U huge, and send it.
Then I turn to my right and look toward the corner where the bed is set up for Petty. I listen. I don’t hear any breathing, no sleeping sounds at all. I turn my phone, still lit, toward the corner.
I take a step closer, holding the phone out in front of me.
A noise from the front room. Books joins me again. “Got it,” he whispers. “What are you doing?”
I take another step toward the corner.
“Emmy—”
“Shine your light, Books,” I whisper.
“Huh?”
“Do it.”
He clicks the Maglite on and off real quick, like a compliance signal from a ship, so as not to disturb Petty.
But the bed is made and empty. Petty isn’t here.
He flips on the overhead switch, bathing the room in light. Petty isn’t here, and neither is that big duffel bag he always lugs around.
Just a perfectly made bed and, next to it, two stacked crates serving as some kind of nightstand. On top of that is a glass vase full of fake flowers that Books had put in the storage room.
“Huh. That’s weird,” he says. “I guess Sergeant Petty got a better offer. Anyway, let’s go. We won’t get back to your apartment until two thirty. That gives us maybe three hours of sleep before we have to get up and visit our serial killer in Annandale.”
I take one last look in the corner, then turn to Books. “You’re right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
90
NOT SOMEONE you know. It’s a target. An obstacle to your goals.
Eliminate the obstacle.
He stands outside the back door of the apartment, his pulse even, a cool breeze on his face. He doesn’t have his phone with him, but he knows it’s well past two in the morning. From what he can see of the interior, all lights appear to be out. Good. Even night owls have to sleep.
He goes to work on the lock with the hairpins. With a final, satisfying click of the lock, the knob turns. He opens the door with one gloved hand; with the other, he holds the Repressor Ultimate to scramble the alarm pad.
But there isn’t an alarm. Good. Surprising, but good.
He hears the faint sound of snoring to his right, in the bedroom. He softly closes the door and listens again—the same whispery sounds of sleep from the bedroom.
He removes the nylon cord from his bag and walks on the balls of his feet, slowly transferring weight, nimbly onward. When he reaches the bedroom, he lets his eyes adjust to the room’s darkness, illuminated slightly by a clock radio, the rhythmic breathing of a body asleep. He tugs at the sides of the cord to widen the noose, allowing it to fit over a human head.
His pulse drums through him; heat rises to his face. Something primitive is awakening inside him.
He draws a breath and focuses on his training.
Once in the room, move quickly toward your target.
Done. He’s by the bedside in three long strides.
Lasso the noose around the target’s head while he’s still sleeping.
Done. He hits the pillow with the rope and slides it down over the head in one fluid swoop before the target awakens.
Yank it tight, while he’s still disoriented, waking from sleep.
Roger that. His fingers grip the small knots on each end. He pulls with all his might, snapping the noose taut, and there’s one loud, wet squelch—a horrifically desperate gagging sound coming from the target, the target, not a human being, not someone you know—
If you are quick enough, he will never gain consciousness sufficient to offer resistance. It will be over before it starts.
But just in case—knees on the arms, if possible.
Check. Knees pinning down the arms, now unable to flail.
A target will do anything—arching his back, kicking out his legs—but as long as you pull that noose tight, immobilize the arms, and don’t get too close to the face, he can’t stop you. He’s helpless.
He keeps his chin up, pulls on each end of the cord so hard that his shoulders tremble, his biceps burn, sweat drips into his eyes. His jaw clenched, he remembers to exhale through his nose.
The target’s desperate body beneath him, torso heaving upward, but to no avail, only bucking his own body forward so his weight presses down harder still on the helpless arms, his grip on the nylon cord never wavering, his shoulders screaming out in pain, sweat blinding him, arms trembling from the strain.
“Fight,” he whispers. “That’s right…fight.” The knots of the nylon rope dig into the flesh of his