It was close to midnight by the time he reached home.
He checked the door and window alarms; everything was normal.
He stripped off his hoodie and cargo pants and tossed them into the washing machine, adding a heavy dose of disinfectant.
His gloves, shoes, and other items that might have left traces were also soaked in disinfectant, though he immediately packed them into a trash bag to be disposed of tomorrow.
As the hot water hit him in the shower, Mike closed his eyes and replayed the scene.
Between the ruptured carotid artery and the effects of the illicit drugs, the junkie Jimmy’s chances of survival were infinitesimal.
Mike didn’t feel much guilt, but the mistake he’d made when stabbing the man’s neck annoyed him.
It proved there was still a significant gap between him and a true professional.
He needed more practice.
After drying off, Mike walked to his desk and spread out a map of Brooklyn.
He located Pine Street and estimated the position of Villa No.
147.
That area was in the North District, near Greenwood Cemetery, mostly consisting of detached houses and small villas.
Choosing such a place for a hideout suggested the Buffalo Gang wasn’t stupid.
It was inconspicuous, had convenient transport links, and didn’t have many neighbors.
Mike marked potential entry and exit routes on the map.
Routes alone weren’t enough; he needed more intelligence.
The next day at ten o’clock, Mike finished breakfast and changed into his “recon” outfit: khaki chinos, a light blue plaid shirt, and a New York Yankees baseball cap.
He looked like an ordinary resident.
He applied a thick layer of dark foundation and sunscreen to slightly alter his skin tone and put on a pair of non-prescription glasses.
He drove to the vicinity of Pine Street and proceeded on foot.
The weather was fine, the sun shining brightly.
The houses on both sides of Pine Street were quiet, with only the occasional car passing by.
No.
147 was situated in the middle of the block—a red brick wall with closed black iron gates, exactly as Jimmy had described.
A high wooden fence ran along the side, enclosing the backyard.
Mike feigned a leisurely stroll.
As he walked past, he caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye.
The lawn was tidy but not meticulously manicured.
The first-floor windows had blinds drawn, while two windows on the second floor were open with the curtains half-drawn.
There was a doorbell intercom on the gatepost, likely equipped with a camera.
He continued walking, turned at the next intersection, circled back to Oak Street, and returned to his car.
In the afternoon, after checking his gear and making a few simple changes to his appearance, Mike headed back to Pine Street.
The neighborhood was more active in the evening than it had been during the day.
Mike parked his car further away in an open lot.
He aimed a camera at the target villa; this way, he only needed to look at the camera’s viewfinder screen, making him less likely to be exposed while allowing him to take photos or videos at any time.
This time, he saw a black Chevrolet Suburban pull into No.
147.
The driver was a bald man with tattoos, and a skinny man sat in the passenger seat.
Once the car entered the garage, the iron gates closed.
About twenty minutes later, the gates opened, and the skinny man left on foot, heading north.
Mike staked out the place in his car until six-thirty.
Once he confirmed there was no other movement, he left.
He reached home at seven.
Mike boiled a bowl of noodles and took out the camera, reviewing the footage as he ate.
There was at least one bald guy in the villa, and certainly others.
It was relatively quiet during the day with very few vehicles or people coming and going, but there would definitely be people delivering goods, handing over cash, or changing shifts in the evening.
Overall, the security seemed weak.
There weren’t many cameras, and the fence was climbable.
His assessment: he could strike tonight!
However, he had to be mindful of the time; he had the late-night shift later.
At nine-ten, Mike completed his final preparations.
Black hoodie, cargo pants, soft-soled shoes.
He applied black greasepaint to his face and wore a black neck gaiter.
Most importantly, he attached the silencer to his Desert Eagle.
This time, he parked two blocks away at a spot without cameras and jogged over.
Mike crouched in the shadows of the bushes across from the target villa.
After observing for a few minutes, there was movement inside.
Nine-forty.
The iron gate opened.
Mike held his breath.
A man in a jacket walked out and pressed a remote in front of the garage.
The rolling door rose, revealing the black Suburban inside.
The man got in, started the engine, backed out of the garage, turned, and drove out of the villa heading north.
Mike counted to ten.
No one else came out.
He didn’t hesitate any longer.
He sprinted across the street, raised his gun, and pressed against the fence to peer inside.
The front yard was empty.
The lights on the first floor were still on.
To avoid being caught by any cameras that might be at the front door, Mike circled to the side.
With a running start, he jumped, grabbed the top of the fence, and vaulted over.
He landed on the damp grass with almost no sound.
Crouching in the shadows, he observed the side of the house.
The first-floor blinds were shut tight, and the second-floor windows were dark.
A few flower pots were stacked in the side yard.
Mike moved along the wall to the backyard and checked the tool shed.
No one was there, and nothing seemed out of place.
He approached the back door of the house and tried the handle.
It was locked.
Mike stepped back and looked up at the second floor.
The back window was dark.
He circled back to the side of the house, found an external air conditioning unit, stepped on it, and stood on his tiptoes.
He could just barely reach the windowsill, but the window was also locked.
At this moment, Mike suddenly felt that the [Lockpicking Tools] item card in the system was actually quite useful—especially since there had recently been a [Universal Lockpick] available.
Unfortunately, he only had fifty points, and buying the [Universal Lockpick] only provided five uses.
It didn’t seem worth it.
Although he was carrying a thin metal shim that could open a simple lock like the one on the back door, he knew his technique wasn’t professional enough to do it silently.
The two men inside were definitely hardened gang members, not peripheral junkies like Jimmy.
If he was discovered, they’d start shooting, and he might just end up “retiring” permanently.
Mike checked the time: 9:50 PM.
He decided to wait a little longer.
Mike retreated to the tool shed, left the door slightly ajar, and crouched in the shadows.
At 10:10 PM, the sound of the front door opening and closing drifted over.
Mike’s body tensed, and he pricked up his ears.
“I’m back!” a male voice said.
“Get the beer?” another voice called from the living room.
“Yeah, and cigarettes and chips.”
There were at least two people in the house.
At 10:20 PM, the TV volume was lowered, and dialogue drifted out:
“…Boss Jack is coming over tomorrow afternoon.
Is everything ready?”
“Pretty much.
Wood is making one last delivery tonight.”
“What time?”
“Before midnight.
He said we need to be careful lately.”
“Hmph!
I’m telling you, it’s definitely those crazies from the Blood Angels…”
Mike’s heart skipped a beat.
“Woody” Danny would be arriving before midnight.
If he was going to act tonight, he had to move fast.
Mike took a deep breath and stepped out from the shadows of the tool shed.
He pulled a roll of adhesive tape from his waist pack, stuck a few strips across the bathroom window glass, and then delivered a sharp blow with his elbow.
*Crack!*
The sound of the glass shattering was dampened by the tape, but it was still distinct in the silent night.
Mike immediately ducked down, holding his breath and listening.
The sound of the TV inside stopped.
“What was that?” a man asked.
“Backyard?
Or the bathroom?”
The sound of footsteps approached the kitchen.
Mike was pleased.
As long as they didn’t come straight to the bathroom, he could get inside before they realized what was happening.
He quickly cleared the broken glass from the frame, reached in to unlock the window, pushed it open, and vaulted inside.
He drew his Desert Eagle, flipped the safety, and pressed himself against the door.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar, leading to a hallway.
The footsteps drew closer, and a silhouette appeared at the end of the hallway.
“What dropped?” the man grumbled as he stepped into the bathroom.
Mike flashed out from behind the door and slammed the butt of his gun into the man’s neck.
“Ugh!” The man let out a muffled groan and pitched forward, crashing against the toilet.
He didn’t move.
Mike moved forward quickly to check.
He was still breathing, just unconscious.
He immediately used zip ties to bind the man’s hands behind his back, dragged him into the corner, and took his gun.
Just then, another voice called from the living room, “Joe?
What’s going on?”
Mike obviously didn’t answer.
He moved swiftly to the edge of the hallway.
“Joe?” the voice called again, now laced with suspicion.
Mike peered out from the shadows.
A bald man was standing up from the sofa, his hand reaching for his waist.
Mike stepped out and raised his gun.
“Don’t move.”
The bald man froze, his hand hovering in mid-air.
He saw the Desert Eagle in Mike’s hand, and his pupils constricted.
“Hands up.
Turn around,” Mike ordered.
The bald man slowly turned, his hands raised high.
“Who are you?
You guys are crossing the line!”
Mike stepped forward, pressed the gun against the back of the man’s head, and quickly frisked him with his left hand.
He found a Glock and a folding knife.
“On your knees.”
The bald man complied, kneeling down.
He tried to keep his voice steady.
“Don’t do this.
Jack won’t let you get away with it.”
Mike reached for a zip tie with his left hand, but hearing those words, he hesitated.
After a moment’s thought, he aimed the gun at the tattooed back of the man’s head.
*Pfft!*
A mixture of blood and brain matter sprayed across the wall.