Read Online Hunter: A Thriller by Robert James Bidinotto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert James Bidinotto
Tags: Novels
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the lot. This being a Saturday night, he figured he was in for another long wait. But now, just before midnight, he watched the Civic turn into the cul-de-sac and head back into an empty parking space. He picked up the SuperVision scope from his passenger seat and confirmed that the driver was his man. This time the target was alone; he crossed in the direction of the door to his apartment unit and disappeared inside.
He checked his watch. Decided to give it two hours.
Settled back in his seat and waited.
*
At two a.m. he reached into a blue gym bag on the passenger side floor. Pulled out a black Sig Sauer P229 with a threaded barrel. From a side pocket of the bag he drew an Impuls IIA sound suppressor. Screwed it onto the end of the barrel.
He checked the magazine once again. It held thirteen 147-grain Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints —a subsonic round that would further reduce the noise of a gunshot. Then he replaced the gun in the gym bag. He put on his baseball cap. Tugged the brim down over his eyes. Pulled on a pair of black latex gloves.
He exited the car, carrying the gym bag and leaving the driver’s side door unlocked. He crossed the deserted main street in front of him, making sure no cop cars were in sight. He knew from his previous recon there were no security cameras to worry about, but he kept his head down to shade his face from the street lights.
He looked around the courtyard as he stepped quietly into the silent cul-de-sac. The shabby buildings were featureless three-story brick. Only a couple of lighted windows gave evidence that anyone lived here.
The buildings on his left were divided into tiny yards by three-foot metal fences—public housing’s illusion of private property. A maze of clotheslines strung across these barren plots, competing for space with plastic chairs, plastic toys, and plastic 55-gallon garbage cans, which stood at parade rest along the curb.
The buildings on his right were different. They were very narrow brick row houses. Their small front yards were set off from the street by a brick wall. It was four feet high, with narrow openings for sidewalks that led back to each building entrance. He scanned the walls of the buildings; no windows were lit.
When he reached the third opening in the wall, he entered the yard and walked without hesitation to the door. He reached into the gym bag and withdrew what looked like a hand-held electric drill. Illuminated from behind by a street light, he perused the locks. One was on the doorknob; the other, in the door itself, would be a dead bolt. Standard stuff, no big deal. He selected one of the metal picks he’d taped to the top of the device and pushed it into the barrel. Then he inserted the pick into the doorknob lock and pulled the trigger, keeping his other hand wrapped around the knob to minimize rattling. There was a low whirring noise as the electronic pick vibrated at high speed, moving the tumblers in the lock. In a few seconds, the knob turned freely in his hand.
He waited. No response from inside the house. No barking dog, no creaking stairs, no lights. His previous recon gave no indication of a dog or someone living with the target, but you never know.
He selected another pick and repeated the process on the deadbolt. This time when he turned the knob and pushed, the door cracked open.
He paused to listen for another full minute. Nothing.
He returned the electronic lock pick to the bag, but when his right hand emerged this time, it held the Sig. He reached in with his left and pulled out the night-vision scope. Flipped it on.
Leaving the gym bag outside, he slowly swung open the door, applying upward pressure on the knob to minimize squeaking from the hinges.
*
He was a rock star and everyone was cheering and he screamed into the mike and leaped around the stage naked between the bass and lead guitars and the lights were flashing on his face and now he was playing the lead guitar greasy fast licks up and down
He checked his watch. Decided to give it two hours.
Settled back in his seat and waited.
*
At two a.m. he reached into a blue gym bag on the passenger side floor. Pulled out a black Sig Sauer P229 with a threaded barrel. From a side pocket of the bag he drew an Impuls IIA sound suppressor. Screwed it onto the end of the barrel.
He checked the magazine once again. It held thirteen 147-grain Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints —a subsonic round that would further reduce the noise of a gunshot. Then he replaced the gun in the gym bag. He put on his baseball cap. Tugged the brim down over his eyes. Pulled on a pair of black latex gloves.
He exited the car, carrying the gym bag and leaving the driver’s side door unlocked. He crossed the deserted main street in front of him, making sure no cop cars were in sight. He knew from his previous recon there were no security cameras to worry about, but he kept his head down to shade his face from the street lights.
He looked around the courtyard as he stepped quietly into the silent cul-de-sac. The shabby buildings were featureless three-story brick. Only a couple of lighted windows gave evidence that anyone lived here.
The buildings on his left were divided into tiny yards by three-foot metal fences—public housing’s illusion of private property. A maze of clotheslines strung across these barren plots, competing for space with plastic chairs, plastic toys, and plastic 55-gallon garbage cans, which stood at parade rest along the curb.
The buildings on his right were different. They were very narrow brick row houses. Their small front yards were set off from the street by a brick wall. It was four feet high, with narrow openings for sidewalks that led back to each building entrance. He scanned the walls of the buildings; no windows were lit.
When he reached the third opening in the wall, he entered the yard and walked without hesitation to the door. He reached into the gym bag and withdrew what looked like a hand-held electric drill. Illuminated from behind by a street light, he perused the locks. One was on the doorknob; the other, in the door itself, would be a dead bolt. Standard stuff, no big deal. He selected one of the metal picks he’d taped to the top of the device and pushed it into the barrel. Then he inserted the pick into the doorknob lock and pulled the trigger, keeping his other hand wrapped around the knob to minimize rattling. There was a low whirring noise as the electronic pick vibrated at high speed, moving the tumblers in the lock. In a few seconds, the knob turned freely in his hand.
He waited. No response from inside the house. No barking dog, no creaking stairs, no lights. His previous recon gave no indication of a dog or someone living with the target, but you never know.
He selected another pick and repeated the process on the deadbolt. This time when he turned the knob and pushed, the door cracked open.
He paused to listen for another full minute. Nothing.
He returned the electronic lock pick to the bag, but when his right hand emerged this time, it held the Sig. He reached in with his left and pulled out the night-vision scope. Flipped it on.
Leaving the gym bag outside, he slowly swung open the door, applying upward pressure on the knob to minimize squeaking from the hinges.
*
He was a rock star and everyone was cheering and he screamed into the mike and leaped around the stage naked between the bass and lead guitars and the lights were flashing on his face and now he was playing the lead guitar greasy fast licks up and down
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