Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

control panel just inside. Marco strides up to it, confident and unhurried. After he opens the panel, he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, glances at it, and punches a code into the keypad.

The beeping stops.

Marco probably thinks this is the most ingenious part of his plan. But it is the weak point that first led Jar to think all the crimes were connected. Every single place he and Blaine have broken into has an alarm system from the same company—SecurTrax Solutions, based in Costa Mesa.

We knew Marco and Blaine—well, probably only Marco—had either figured out a way to hack into a SecurTrax system, or they’d gotten their hands on the access codes for each of their targets. Looks like it’s option number two. Which means there has to be a third person in their little operation. Someone who gives them the codes, and who subsequently removes any traces of Marco and Blaine using them from the SecurTrax log systems. We know this is true because there’s never any record of the alarms being shut off.

Now that we know for sure what’s going on, it should be simple enough to figure out who this inside person is, but we’ll leave that job for the police.

Marco and Blaine have turned on flashlights and are walking down the hall. Every time they pass a door, they peek inside but do not enter. Just like I predicted, they are taking a look around before they start rampaging. They’re probably looking for the main office, where they can find info on anything that might be worth stealing.

As they near the lobby, I can hear their voices without the aid of my electronic bugs.

“Hey! Look at all this!” Blaine says.

His eyes are on the glass cabinets displaying several antique urns along the back wall. I’m sure he’s imagining the fun he’ll have smashing them up.

“Come on,” Marco says. He points across the lobby to the hallway leading to several other banquet rooms. “The office should be over there.”

They walk past my door without even glancing in my direction, and head toward the other side of the room.

I slip my phone into my pocket, pull my black ski mask over my face, and retrieve from my bag the two specialized guns I’ve brought with me.

Up to this point, Marco and Blaine have remained pretty much unscathed. The only problem they’ve run into happened at a kitchen supply store in Brea, where, unbeknownst to them, a security guard had been recently hired. Luckily for Marco and Blaine—and not so much for the guard—they saw the man first and beat the living crap out of him. He’ll live, but he’s still recovering from his injuries.

Marco and Blaine are unaware of my presence. And they won’t be as lucky this time. Have I mentioned I don’t play fair?

As soon as they enter the office, I sneak out of the maintenance closet, walk past the office door, and stop three meters down the dark hall to wait.

Between the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, I can hear the two men talking. I haven’t heard any smashing yet. I’ve been afraid I might have to let them do a little of that before I act, but hopefully that won’t be the case.

When Marco’s voice turns excited, I know they’ve found something of interest. He follows this up with, “It says it’s in the storage room. Come on.”

The office door swings inward, and two flashlight beams dance into the hallway. One of the beams momentarily points in my direction, but the men’s attention is aimed toward the lobby and neither notices me.

I let them take a couple of steps away from me, then I clear my throat.

Both men jerk in surprise and whip around.

Marco snickers at the sight of me. “Oh, buddy, are you in the wrong place tonight.”

I have no doubt they’re going to rush me, but before they can, I point my guns at them.

This is not what Marco expected. His expression switches quickly to one of innocence. “Whoa, hold on there. No need for any trouble.”

He takes a tentative step toward me, so I raise the gun that’s trained on him a little higher. This stops him in his tracks.

“Why don’t you put those down,” he says. “And we can talk about this.”

There will be no talking. Just like they will never see my face, they will never hear my voice. Not now. Not ever.

“I can take him,” Blaine whispers, as if I can’t hear him.

“Shut up,” Marco hisses back, then to me says, “No one’s going to rush anyone. Now please, lower those guns, buddy. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Needless to say, my hands remain in place.

Marco’s eyes narrow. Poor boy. I’m trying his patience.

For a second, his gaze slips from me to the gun. Then he does a double take, his eyes returning to my weapon. “What the hell are those?”

It’s not an unreasonable question.

My guns are not the bullet-shooting kind. They’re dart guns, but nothing like the kind I had as a kid that dispensed plastic darts with rubber suction-cup tips. The darts these hold are carbon-fiber tubes topped by a needle that can deliver all kinds of drugs into a target. My colleagues and I often fill them with a knockout drug like Beta-Somnol. But that’s not what I’m using today.

“Those don’t even look like guns,” Blaine says. “They look like toys.”

They don’t look like toys, but they do look odd. I’ll give him that.

While Marco still seems a bit wary, I can see in Blaine’s eyes that he’s decided I’m not a threat. His head moves forward a beat before he lifts his foot to make his move on me.

I pull both triggers at the same moment.

I’m naturally right-handed, but I have worked hard to be ambidextrous when it comes to things like weapons, as that ability could—and has—saved my life. So both darts fly true and hit their targets in almost identical spots mid-torso, just below the ribs.

Blaine