South Beach, Florida
Hunt approached the condominium building. It was four stories high, and the developer’s website indicated there were only four condos, all of them sprawling across two floors. The building had a minimalist look that Hunt didn’t like. He noted two security cameras aimed to cover the area around the front door. From the real estate files he had downloaded at Tony’s house, he’d studied the layout of the building carefully. The unit he was interested in occupied the third and fourth floors on the north side of the building. This was both a blessing and a curse. The unit would be more difficult to access since it was on the third floor, but the upside was that more people left their doors unlocked on higher floors than on the first or second floors.
Especially drug dealers looking for a quick exit.
There was no point waiting outside and trying to slip in behind someone. With only four condos, the owners or tenants knew each other and wouldn’t hold the door open for someone they didn’t know. So Hunt continued to explore the exterior of the building while making sure to keep his face away from the cameras. Since the front of the building was sleek and contemporary with lots of glass and steel, and the pedestrian traffic showed no sign of abating despite the late hour, climbing the facade on the east side or the wall on the northern side of the building was out of the question. The back of the building was a different matter. It was accessible through a small path between the building and the restaurant next door. The path led back toward an alleyway with no sidewalk. It was darker in the alley than on Ocean Drive, and the smell was different too, thanks to the open lids of the two dumpsters.
Hunt didn’t care about the reek coming out of the dumpsters; he had found a drainpipe. He scanned his surroundings. He was alone. He grabbed hold of the drainpipe and pulled himself up like a spider. By the time he reached the third floor, his arms and lungs were burning, and his neck was slick with sweat. Hunt cursed under his breath. There were no entry points on the third floor, only a large window ten feet to his left. He had to keep going. His arms started to shake, but he continued, grimacing through the pain, until he reached the fourth floor. Three feet to his left was a small balcony overlooking the alleyway. A ledge—maybe three inches in width—ran from the drainpipe to the balcony. Hunt had his left foot on the ledge when he heard the back door of the restaurant open. He looked down and to his right and saw that a cook had lit up a cigarette. That couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Any sudden movement he made could attract the cook’s attention and prompt him to call the cops. Who wouldn’t?
The fingers of his left hand struggled to maintain their hold on a small protruding brick while his left foot kept sliding off the narrow ledge. His right wrist and shoulders were cramping, his back was tensing up, and his shoulder blades were getting tighter by the second. The cook only had to look up to see Hunt hanging between the balcony and the drainpipe.
Hunt was stuck. He couldn’t move left, and he couldn’t move right. And he couldn’t hold on much longer.
édgar Pomar couldn’t sleep. There was too much on his mind. Nothing that couldn’t be handled, but he was a perfectionist. You had to be when you worked for the Black Tosca. The slightest slip could cost you your life and those of your loved ones. It made him anxious and in need of a cigarette. He thought about lighting up in bed, but his bitchy wife could come back at any time, and there was no chance of a late-night blow job if she caught him smoking inside. He opened his nightstand drawer and pushed aside the SIG Sauer to grab the pack of Marlboros and the lighter underneath. He stopped in the bathroom to relieve himself, thought about washing his hands but decided against it, and made his way to the second floor. Thank God for that small balcony. His wife hated it. “It fucking smells like shit in the alley,” she kept complaining. But he didn’t mind. It allowed him to smoke without having to go all the way down to the sidewalk. He slid the glass door open and stepped outside.
Damn! The missus was right. It did smell like shit. Maybe he didn’t need that cigarette after all. He was about to shut the door when he saw movement to his left. His heart leaped in his throat, and he involuntarily took a step back before he dashed back inside to get his SIG.