Simple enough, in theory. Reality was almost always a different story.
A glossy black sedan with tinted windows drove up to the gate, which was their signal. “Go,” Charlie whispered through the earpiece, but it came across loud and clear. Just another shadow in the night, Jack made quick work of the wall, scaling the stone (not as easily as he once had, but not too bad for a thirty-eight year old bartender, either). His back and shoulders protested only slightly, probably because of all the hefting of kegs and cases he did around the Pub. He made a mental note to work on his finger strength, too, then shook that thought off. This was a one-time thing only, right?
He dropped down to the ground on the other side, silently landing in a crouch. And there was reality, ready and eager to bite him on the ass in the form of a slightly deranged-looking, Buick-sized Rottweiler in the process of relieving himself.
“Good boy,” Jack murmured. The dog tilted its massive head as if it couldn’t believe Jack had actually spoken to it, then let out a low, menacing growl.
“Hamburger with tranquilizer, left ankle pocket,” Charlie’s voice said in his ear. “Keep it close and ice it.”
Ice it, Charlie’s term for freezing, or staying unnaturally still.
Very slowly, Jack extracted the meat and tossed it in front of the dog’s nose. Keeping his eyes on Jack, the beast lowered his head and sniffed, then gulped it down in one bite. In less than a minute the dog wavered and sidestepped, then went down.
Things like that were exactly why he liked working with Charlie.
“Fang! Come,” a voice commanded from near the garage.
Jack looked down at the now-sleeping dog. “Fang? Really?”
A guard came around the corner and stopped under one of the spotlights, peering out into the darkness as he lit a cigarette. “Fang!”
From his position in the shadows, Jack did a quick analysis. Big guy, but not very smart if he was standing there in a pool of light. Probably armed, though whatever he was packing under that black jacket wouldn’t compare to the beauties Duffy had provided. Clearly, the owner of the mansion wasn’t overly concerned about his security. As the personal residence of one of the traffickers, they probably didn’t expect anyone to come looking for Brian here. But, according to Charlie, microchips didn’t lie.
Still covered by darkness, Jack reached out and shook the nearest bush, drawing the guard’s attention.
“Come on, you stupid mutt.”
Jack rattled the shrub again. The guard drew a weapon—– what looked like one of the newer SIG Sauer models –—and took a step forward.
“Fang!”
Come on, come on, Jack silently urged. He needed the guy away from the light and the cameras before disabling him, and time was wasting. Thankfully, the guard complied. The moment he was within reach, Jack sprang up from behind the bush, took him down with one swift shot to the head with the butt of the gun, then dragged him behind the bush next to Fang.
“I’m in.”
Damn it, Charlie was already inside and here he was playing footsie with Muttley and some Scarface wannabe. He was tempted to skip the zip-ties and duct tape, but opted for the ounce of prevention just in case things didn’t go exactly as planned. If he could eliminate another possible obstacle later, he would. After ensuring those two wouldn’t be causing any more problems, Jack high-tailed it around the garage, staying low as he slipped past a red Maserati and a black Lincoln Towne Car.
With the theme song from Mission Impossible inexplicably going through his head, he made a beeline for the back, where Charlie’s blueprints had indicated a door leading to the lower levels. Crouching behind the front end of a Bentley, Jack raised the small gun and pointed at the security camera above the entrance. With a deep calming breath, he lined the sights and pulled the trigger. According to Charlie, the fingernail-sized scrambler would freeze the feed for ten seconds, giving him the opportunity to slip in unnoticed. Jack figured it worked when he stepped up to the door, disabled the lock with another new-age-looking contraption, and entered without a gun in his face.
“I’m in,” he whispered.
“About fucking time. What kept you?”
Jack ignored Charlie’s ribbing and focused. Eight minutes. That’s how long he had to find Brian and get the hell out before the next guard came around the house and discovered the first guard missing.
He crept down the stairs noiselessly, moving quickly and on full-alert. When he hit the bottom, he waved the high-tech gadget again and heard the telltale snick of the lock disengaging on the door there. Charlie had some very cool toys.
The beefy guy on the other side turned, clearly expecting someone else. Before his eyes fully widened, Jack disabled him with a stabbing jab to the throat and sharp rap to the back of the head.
“Pathetic,” he murmured.