He had watched the house for the last three days. They had a routine which was perfect. Their house was perfect. The view was perfect. Husband and wife, maybe. No kids. No dogs. Up and coming professionals, which meant no imagination where it counted. They would give him no trouble.
He'd watched the park also. Arriving at 2:00, he would casually stroll to a park bench and sit down to read his paper. He was safely positioned to observe as the principals in the farce showed up. He noted they had deliberately established a routine. The more visible you were, the less you were seen. A trick so old they probably thought he wouldn't consider it. Each day a delivery van had shown up about 3:00. After a wide circle around the park (and undoubtedly around the neighborhood), it would pull in at the side of a neighborhood grocery. The grocery was at the end of a small row of businesses facing the park. A delivery man would unload a stack of boxes onto a dolly, which he then took behind the store. Carla would show up around 3:30 or so and sit at a picnic table near the center of the park. She always sat facing the store. She would have a book with her, pretending to read. And so they would sit. About 5:00, the delivery man would return without his boxes. Carla would put away her book and walk away. The van would leave a few minutes later.
He had to admit, they had thought of almost everything. To someone who didn't know what to watch for, there would be nothing extraordinary going on, no one would connect the van and the woman. He might even have been taken in, not being familiar with the neighborhood's usual rhythm. And he would have been sitting with his back to the store. And the store's roof. Yeah, it might have worked. In the past. Not now.
Tomorrow he would prepare his answer to their ad.
"Still think he'll take the bait, Colonel? It's been five days now." Stockwell was generally a patient man, but this was little too much out of his control and it made him, well, not nervous but 'concerned'.
"He'll show. We don't know for sure when he got into Langley, or if he saw the ad right away. But once he's seen it, he'll come. We'll give it a few more days."
Hannibal left Stockwell in his office, heading for the set of rooms assigned the team for the duration. The lack of action on Face's part was making everyone nervous. Hannibal, himself, was beginning to show the strain of waiting. He couldn't find the Jazz this time. Not when Face was the quarry. It felt almost like an act of filicide.
He stepped into the first of three rooms, finding BA and Murdock playing a desultory game of gin. Murdock would hold an occasional whispered conference with his cards. He had been falling back more and more on his old ways of dealing with stress. Hannibal was worried but so far the pilot was doing what he was supposed to, when he was supposed to.
BA was another worry. He normally was a taciturn man, but his silences now were almost a constant. Hannibal had found him staring out at nothing on several occasions, which was totally unlike BA. He could guess what the big man was thinking about. He was never far from anyone's mind.
He approached the back of the house cautiously. He hadn't seen any dogs, but one could never be too careful. He also didn't know if these people had any guns in the house. A frightened amateur could inflict as much damage as a trained professional given the right conditions.
He'd waited until the lights had gone out, and then given them another hour to be soundly asleep. He quietly picked the lock to the back door, and crept inside. He flashed his pen light, the tiny light blinking quickly before being extinguished, showing him what lay in his path. He would have liked to have gotten in the house before dark but that was just not practicable.
He glided up the carpeted stairway, pausing to see if any lights shown from the upstairs proper. Nothing. There were four doorways in the upper hall; one belonged to the bathroom. He crept to each door, gently opening it and taking another quick glance with his penlight. One guest room, one bathroom, one storage. As expected, the master bedroom was at the front of the house. He pulled on a ski mask.
He took the woman first, quickly putting his hand over her mouth while his forearm pressed on her neck. He told her to be quiet and wake her husband. The man had the good sense not to put up any kind of fight. Turning on the bedside lamp, he had them sit up against the headboard and tied their hands and feet with a soft cord.
"I'm not going to hurt you unless you cause problems. I'm not going to gag you unless you try calling for help. I need your house for about 24 hours. Then I'll leave and you can go on with your lives." He looked at them. They glanced at each other, then nodded. "Good. In the morning, you will call in sick at work. You will not use any names other than your own. It will be short and to the point. After that, you'll be tied up again. It's for your protection as well as mine. I don't want any silly heroics. Tomorrow evening, I'll be done with your house and I will leave you alive and safe. End of story." Again they nodded.
He left the house briefly, to retrieve his equipment from his car, parked on the next street. Returning, he checked his prisoners once more before lying down to sleep.
"Getting time, fellas."
They each nodded and began their preparations. BA went out to check over the van, while Murdock checked to make sure the dart gun was well oiled and that they had at least two full-dose darts for it. A full dose would put BA out for a few hours. They figured Face would be waking up a good twelve hours after the administration. And they wanted him out long enough to put many miles between him and Stockwell.
Carla moved out to her car. She checked her purse, making sure the Beretta Stockwell had given her was easily accessible. Once the dart hit, immobilizing him, he was dead. And the organization, her organization, would be safe.
It was nearly 3:00. He moved his prisoners out of the master bedroom and into the guest room at the back. He had gagged them, apologizing that it wouldn't be for long. He could take no chances on them suddenly deciding to call out at the wrong moment. Closing the bedroom door and returning to the front, he checked his preparations. The curtains were almost completely closed, leaving a two inch opening in the middle. The window itself was open half way; a small hole had been cut in the screen early in the morning. The large dresser was positioned perpendicular to the window, the perfect platform. The rifle sat on top, ready.
He removed the ski mask gratefully. He hadn't taken it off since entering the house, not wanting to chance forgetting it when he was around the prisoners. He didn't want to have to kill them because of his own stupidity. He lay a dull colored netting lightly over the barrel of the rifle and the silencer so there would be no sun glints. He was ready. He felt a familiar buzz in his head; his heart's rhythm picked up. It was coming.
As soon as he saw the van arrive, he looked at his gloved hands. It was time. Steeling himself, he pulled off the gloves. Time to go to work, guys.
Carla walked casually over to the picnic table, positioning herself to face the van. The book on the table, her purse next to her on the bench, open and accessible. She took a deep breath and relaxed. She was ready.
BA and Murdock sat quietly in the back of the van. On the second floor roof of the store, Hannibal held the dart gun loosely across his lap, a smile on his face. He had forced aside the fact that this was Face, his friend, his teammate, his second-in-command. This was a take down of a bad guy, and the Jazz was building. He would take the shot, and as soon as the guy fell, BA and Murdock would drag him to the van. It would only take about two minutes.
If he showed up.
He lay on the dresser, stock against his cheek, sighting his target. His whole body was humming, buzzing, an incredible energized joy surging through him. He had to force himself to relax, to sight carefully, to slowly squeeze the trigger...
Carla's head snapped at the impact. She sat for just a second, a look of shock on her face. Slowly she toppled to the side, off the bench, on the ground.
There was a shout from the van, the sliding door wrenching open, The Pilot racing out. A second later the van itself roared, jumping the curb. Moments later The Colonel came from behind the store. All racing for the body on the ground.
A second shot stopped The Colonel. A mere foot in front of him. The Pilot nearly ran into him. Keystone Kops. The van shuddered to a halt. Silence. Watching them look around, frantic.
He lay still. He would fire no more. The job for today was done. He had sent them his reply. Slowly, he forced himself to don the gloves once more. He left the gun where it was, not wanting to alert the trio below to any movement. He watched them as they stood there, wondering if they dare to move. He smiled at their discomfort. Finally The Colonel took a tentative step, then another. When there were no more shots, he ran to Carla, picking her up. They clambered into the van, which roared out of the park and down the street, out of sight. Only then did he remove the gun and himself from the window.
It took a few minutes for his heartbeat to slow to normal. He found he was shaking slightly. This was not good. He had not wanted to stop shooting. He had not wanted to put those gloves back on. He wanted to keep that roaring energy that had flowed through him. And that scared him.
At least he hadn't killed anyone. This had just been a warning. Quit fucking with me...
