“He had hidden weapons, too,” Pistorius said. “A lot of them.”
“Really?” she responded, shining the flashlight at the molding near the ceiling. There was something about it that had been bothering her and now she knew what it was. The paint was color coded to indicate the strength of the walls. It wouldn’t have been obvious in normal light, but the powerful LED beam exaggerated the different shades where the corners met.
“You have eight more minutes,” Pistorius said, looking increasingly nervous.
“My understanding is that there’s a safe room?”
He nodded and motioned for her to follow.
It wasn’t particularly elaborate—basically the best that could be retrofitted into the space. A bank of monitors were undoubtedly fed by hidden cameras covering every room from at least one angle. Redundant communications and network equipment was equally sophisticated, including controls for what appeared to be remote door locks.
It seemed almost certain that Mitch Burhan—a former Green Beret—had been fed real-time information on his enemies’ movements from this room. Combined with a truly extraordinary amount of nerve and skill, he’d managed to take down eight heavily armed killers here and two more on the road. Even with his training and background, no small feat.
“Can I go upstairs?”
On the second floor, there was enough sun coming through the windows to make the flashlight unnecessary and she gave it back to Pistorius. The layout was fairly simple—a master bedroom with an en suite bathroom, a second bedroom set up for guests, and a room that was obviously the home of seven-year-old Anna. The latter two shared a bathroom in the hall.
The fight had clearly not reached that level and there was no appreciable damage. Cyrah entered the closet and reached for a drawer but her police shadow immediately protested.
“What are you doing?”
“Just looking for some personal details. These kinds of stories are about human interest. People want to know who these people are. How they—”
“No,” he said firmly. “I told you not to touch anything and I meant it. You have three more minutes.”
“If it’s a matter of money—”
“Two minutes fifty-five seconds.”
She knew men like him and recognized that nothing short of a claw hammer against his skull was going to change his mind. Tempting, but not practical.
She finished her tour of the second floor and then descended again. There was a mangled door lying on the tile behind the entry and she looked down a hallway that led to an exit covered with plywood. Based on the limited damage to the front of the house, this is where the main incursion had likely happened. But it was tight, favoring a single man against a larger force.
“Thirty seconds.”
She would have liked to see the kitchen, but instead headed back toward the front door. There was nothing to be learned there. In the end, the visit had probably been a net negative. She’d revealed her existence to a dishonest policeman and accomplished little beyond confirming what she already knew: the family had been expecting trouble and were prepared for it. What she hadn’t fully understood—fully internalized—was how dangerous the owners of this house were. Claudia in particular piqued her interest and admiration. When those men attacked, she’d gathered her daughter, entered the safe room, and then calmly directed Burhan in his battle.
A formidable woman. It was going to be a shame to kill her.
Cyrah glanced in her rearview mirror but saw only the dirt road and mountains. Pistorius was likely securing the house in a way that would hide the fact that he’d allowed a visit by someone he believed to be a reporter.
When her vehicle reached the paved rural highway, she used her phone to send a code that would let her colleagues know that she was clear. It took longer than normal to get confirmation that the message had been received, but she wasn’t surprised. Her associates didn’t share her enthusiasm for this job and used every opportunity to subtly remind her of that.
Not that there was any need. She understood their position completely. They’d already had an extremely successful year, completing four assassinations in its first half. An Asian political hopeful, a European playboy, an aging Qatari billionaire, and a cheating husband who had underestimated both his wife’s vindictiveness and her resourcefulness. That had netted them just under seven million euros after expenses, which, split three ways, had allowed her to increase her holdings by more than two million euros.
One of her colleagues wanted to take the rest of the year off for additional training, technology upgrades, and to do a detailed analysis of the few mistakes made during the year’s operations. The other wanted to do all those things plus cherry-pick a few easy jobs. Since their fee was set, there was no incentive to take on anything dangerous or complicated. In their minds, easy money was better than hard money.