He glanced once more at the clock. It was time to go. Krantz double-checked that he had everything he needed in his backpack and climbed out of the vehicle. He locked the rental car and walked toward the general’s house, keeping an eye out for nosy neighbors or anything else out of the ordinary.
Girdner’s garage door was still open, and the manual sprinkler was still watering the front lawn in a circular motion. The general was making it way too easy. Krantz took one last look around to make sure nobody was paying him too much attention, then walked up Girdner’s driveway and entered the garage. The interior was tidy and smelled like a mix of gasoline and freshly cut grass. On the right was a beautifully restored vintage Harley-Davidson. It was in pristine condition. On the motorcycle seats were a pair of stylish helmets and matching leather gloves.
Realizing his eyes were lingering way too long on the Harley-Davidson, Krantz forced himself to snap out of it.
Get your head in the game, he told himself. Still a tad jealous, Krantz climbed the four interior steps leading to the door connecting the garage to the living quarters. He eased his pistol out of his holster and screwed the sound suppressor onto the end of the weapon.
He tried the handle. Unlocked.
Krantz froze in place. Was he being played? Or watched? Who would be stupid enough to leave his garage door open and access door unlocked? Krantz reminded himself that for Girdner this wasn’t a war zone, or even hostile territory. This was his home. His neighborhood. He had lived in this house for a few years now—five to be exact, if Krantz was to believe the old real estate listing he’d found online—and had gotten himself overly comfortable with a false sense of security, trusting that nothing bad could happen to him or his wife. To Krantz, that kind of mentality wasn’t compatible with being in the military. The only explanation was that Girdner had only seen combat from afar. The general’s reputation was as a gifted bureaucrat, but he wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t like Krantz, or Oxley.
Krantz pushed the door open an inch, waited, and pushed it another two inches. No matter how old the house was, these connecting doors always seemed prone to creaking. This door was no different. Just before Krantz had enough room to slip inside, the hinges squeaked. He stopped breathing and counted to ten. When he didn’t hear anyone, he entered what looked like a mudroom, his pistol extended in front of him. He eased the door shut behind him.
The savory smell of meat, onions, garlic, and spices cooking together set his stomach rumbling. The small mudroom led to a hallway, and as he entered it, he made an effort to remember the photos he’d seen from the real estate listing.
To the left along the hallway was the dining room, and Krantz heard the chatter between two people sharing a meal. Wanting to clear as much of the house as he could before confronting the general, Krantz made a right into the hallway. He hugged the wall, his pistol up and at the ready. The first door to his left was open. It was an unoccupied powder room. He continued past an empty bedroom and a small office. There was only one more room left to check on this side of the hallway. Krantz would have bet ten bucks it was the laundry room. A dull noise was coming from within. It sounded as if the clothes dryer was on. Krantz was less than three feet away when a small woman in her midfifties, dressed in purple nursing scrubs and sneakers, came out of the room holding numerous sets of clean sheets in her arms. Embroidered over her breast pocket was the name of a well-known cleaning company.
Shit. The goddamn housekeeper, Krantz thought.
The woman froze in shock, completely immobilized by the sight of the gun aimed at her head. She opened her mouth to scream. Krantz fired two suppressed shots into her heart at point-blank range before any sound could come out of her mouth. The linen fell to the floor, but Krantz was able to catch the woman’s body as her legs collapsed under her. He eased her to the ground and pivoted 180 degrees toward the opposite end of the hallway, his pistol leveled, ready to fire at anyone who might have heard something and decided to investigate. One minute later, after no one showed up, Krantz concluded that the tumbling items in the dryer must have covered the sound of his muffled shots. Keeping his pistol in his right hand, he grabbed one of the woman’s arms and dragged her into the laundry room, leaving a streak of blood on the hardwood floor.
With one side of the hallway clear, Krantz moved more rapidly. The hallway opened into a large living room to his left, and a formal dining room on his right. He couldn’t see farther without breaking cover, but he assumed the kitchen and another smaller dining area were beyond the dining room. He heard someone laugh and the sound of utensils hitting plates. Krantz scanned the living area and spotted the staircase leading to the second floor. He briefly considered skipping clearing the second floor but decided not to take the chance. Even if the general or his wife heard his footsteps, they would believe they came from the housekeeper.