He was right.
I would.
Standing above my sleeping daughter, I knew that I would do whatever he wanted to stay at her side.
Andros reached for my chin and turned me to him. “Will you agree?”
“Yes, Andros.” There were many emotions that I’d experienced since I’d been brought to Detroit. Currently, hate wasn’t one of them. With my daughter safe and cared for, the one prominent among them was gratitude. “I don’t hate you, Andros.”
“Give me time. You will.”
Patrick
Present day
Sparrow called ahead for a favor in the form of a car and driver. The call wasn’t made to any Sparrow in the area. This visit was too covert for that. The man driving us was from a cartel we’d worked with in the past. In exchange for their help once before, we’d granted them limited access to Chicago in the form of selling heroin. Since the cartel was based out of Denver, the man wasn’t local. He’d also made a trip to San Clemente and had the perfect qualifications: quiet and didn’t ask questions. Once our trip was complete, this man would head back to Colorado and we to Illinois. There would be no record of our renting a car or arriving. Our flight plans were made with an alternate identity, that of a rarely used shell company.
In and out.
Our research showed us that the Millstones had done well for themselves, complete with a home secure within a gated community that sat upon a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Each home also contained a widow’s watch patio for sunsets.
During our travels, we’d followed the sun. Though the flight was four and a half hours, the clock had only advanced two and a half. When we arrived in San Clemente, the time was early afternoon and as we planned, the Millstones’ maid was out of the house.
Reid or Mason had done what they did and cleared our car for entry into the neighborhood. The man from the cartel merely waved and we were allowed entry beyond the community gates. Fourteen houses made up the neighborhood. Only four had cliffside views, one being the Millstones’ home.
During our airplane conversations with those still in Chicago, Reid explained that he would override the Millstones’ private security system. The cameras and audio would fail to record, and if at any point an attempt to contact the authorities was made, it would be diverted and deleted.
Sparrow and I studied the blueprint of the Millstones’ home as well as the schematic of their property. The decorative landscaping of each estate created nice obstructions to the neighbors’ views. The focus of each home, whether cliffside or not, was the blue water of the Pacific Ocean. Watching the comings and goings of the street view was the job of the security. With Reid and Mason’s assistance, that would be resolved.
Our best access to entering their home was a side door partially hidden by shrubbery, off the garage. Once within, we could enter the residence through the garage directly into a coat room off of the kitchen. This entrance was mostly used by the maid and any other workers. It was the safest option for us to enter and exit unseen.
Initially, our driver waited in the driveway as Sparrow and I both slipped from the car.
This wasn’t our first clandestine job working as a team. Through the years, the four of us—Sparrow, Reid, Mason, and I—had worked together in every combination possible. We all had our talents. Those years developed a sixth sense where words were rarely necessary and trust abounded.
Less than a minute later, the two of us were inside the garage with our hands covered by latex gloves. With a push to the interior control button, we opened the large garage door, and the driver pulled the car inside. Once it was there, we closed the garage door. It would have been more conspicuous to stay on the street or in the driveway. Few observers question a car entering someone else’s garage.
It must be a friend or trusted employee.
The willingness of bystanders to accept the most benign reasoning made what we did much easier. No one saw things out of the ordinary and first jumped to the conclusion of malfeasance.
We removed the guns we were carrying from their holsters and opened the door to the house. Without manipulation, the knob turned.
Unlocked.
Slowly pushing the door within, we scanned the coat room. Built-in shelving, a bench, and pegs covered in jackets lined one wall. More cabinetry lined the other. Our shoes made no noise upon the tile as we quietly approached the entry of the kitchen.
The sounds from a television wafted through the air, coming from the living area. I scanned the kitchen for any sign of trouble. Nothing was out of place. According to the blueprint, the homes in this neighborhood were all given the open feel, allowing for an ocean view from many angles. At the back stairs, Sparrow gave me a nod and step by step ascended the stairs to the second floor while I canvassed the first.
The woman Madeline had named, Wendy Millstone, had her back toward the kitchen. Sitting upon a long white sofa, her mind was upon a television drama playing on a large screen before her. Her head shook as she mumbled to herself about the unrealistic storyline. Another step and I saw that her phone lay upon a large glass coffee table beside a fresh floral arrangement.
To her side was a wall of glass with doors that led onto a balcony, infinity pool, and beyond to the Pacific Ocean. The woman who had orchestrated the buying, selling, and using of humans wasn’t wearing a long black dress, a pointed hat, or anything to indicate her evilness. No, she was dressed in a yellow shirt and long white shorts. Another step and I could see her completely. Her feet wore sandals with large rhinestones, her fingers glistened with various diamond rings, and upon her wrist, she twisted gold bracelets.
As I approached, I imagined what could be done to her if we had more time. The images in my mind weren’t pretty, and I wasn’t proud that the thoughts occurred. I also wasn’t ashamed. After the role this woman had played in Madeline’s nightmare, my visions included various ways to return the favor.
The barrel of my gun came to her neck.
“Don’t scream,” I demanded.
Her spine stiffened as the unmistakable putrid stench of alarm emanated from her pores, overpowering her expensive perfume. “What do you want?” She hadn’t yet turned around. Not that it would matter if she saw me. She wouldn’t be alive long enough to recount my description.
“Wendy,” a male voice called with a shaky tenor from a large staircase to our left.
We both turned to see Sparrow a step behind with his gun drawn upon an older man with graying hair, wearing khaki shorts, a bright orange golf shirt, and white canvas loafers. The man’s hands were lifted in the universal sign of surrender as step by step, they descended the stairs.
“Stand up,” I said to Wendy Millstone. “Walk to the dining room.”
Ever compliant, a few moments later, both Jerry and Wendy Millstone sat in padded large chairs at a long glass table with bowed white legs, set with colorful place mats and cloth napkins in rings. Upon the center was another fresh floral arrangement.
Their hands were placed on the surface as they’d been instructed, staying visible to me and Sparrow. Beyond the tall windows, whitecaps topped the waves in the distance as only the television show still playing in the other room could be heard.
As Sparrow and I moved around the couple, the Millstones’ eyes widened as they continually looked nervously from one to the other and back to us.