been enough to screw up his aim, enough to make him the first Division agent in fifty years to leave a witness.
A photograph on a bookshelf caught his eye. The target from last night – Michael Rickner – smiling for the camera alongside the guy Enrique had just chased from the apartment. He thought the guy had looked familiar. At first, he thought he might have been the ghost of the other day’s kill. Was this Rickner’s brother then? What was it with this apartment, with this family? Twice he had been caught unawares by the brothers. Never before, in nine years with the Division, had he made a mistake. Now he had made two in as many days.
He stumbled to the bathroom, stripped to the waist, grabbed a blue towel from the rack, and pressed it to his injured side. It was bleeding pretty badly, but the damage seemed to be superficial. Seeing that there was no medicine cabinet in the room, he bent down, mindful of the tender muscles in his side, and rummaged under the sink for a first-aid kit. Finding one, he stood, set it on the counter, opened it, and procured a handful of cotton balls, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, and a package of butterfly bandages. After cleaning the wound with the cotton balls and the peroxide, he closed the wound as best he could with the bandages, then wrapped the gauze around his torso, covering the slice in his side with four layers. He tossed the bloody cotton balls into the toilet, pocketing the rest of the gauze roll and another handful of cotton balls for later.
Then he walked back into the hallway to survey the damage. Bullet hole in the ceiling, two in the bedroom wall above the bed. Nothing a little toothpaste – the poor man’s spackle – wouldn’t fix. He’d have to ditch the gun soon enough, anyway, and by the time the bullets in the ceiling and wall were found – if they were found – the weapon that had fired them would be long gone, with nothing for Ballistics to trace the projectiles to.
And then there was that unsightly blood trail. That much blood in an apartment, especially one that was so recently the scene of a police investigation, was bound to raise some questions. Add that to the fact that the blood belonged to a military veteran who was supposed to be dead, and some real red flags would start to go up. Enrique felt his face growing hot, his indignation with the Rickner brothers mounting, his anger at himself and his carelessness reaching a fever pitch. He kicked the sword at his feet, which flew across the floor and bounced off the baseboard. Releasing a deep sigh, he bit his bottom lip and shook his head in disappointment. How had this happened? But now, more importantly, how would he put it right?
First things first. Take care of the scene. From the bathroom, he grabbed the toothpaste – which, thankfully, was white, so it matched the walls and ceiling. From the kitchen, he got a small butter knife, which he then used to apply the toothpaste-spackle to the bullet holes, wincing as he stretched to reach them. That taken care of, he returned the toothpaste to its place and pocketed the knife.
And now, for the blood. He toweled the blood off his shirt, then put both the shirt and the towel in the bathtub. Using a bottle of bleach he found under the bathroom sink, he poured it liberally along the hallway, the bedroom, and everywhere else he had leaked. Returning to the tub, he poured the bleach over the towel and the shirt, rinsed the pinkish runoff away, then repeated. When he was content that they wouldn’t leak color or DNA, he wrung them out, then poured bleach around the tub and down the drain. More bleach went into the toilet and the blood-soaked cotton balls floating within. Then he flushed the whole mess down the toilet and poured still more bleach around the bowl, flushing again to make sure all the blood was gone. Next, with a scrubbing brush he found under the kitchen sink, he rubbed the bloodstains on the carpet into oblivion. He
A photograph on a bookshelf caught his eye. The target from last night – Michael Rickner – smiling for the camera alongside the guy Enrique had just chased from the apartment. He thought the guy had looked familiar. At first, he thought he might have been the ghost of the other day’s kill. Was this Rickner’s brother then? What was it with this apartment, with this family? Twice he had been caught unawares by the brothers. Never before, in nine years with the Division, had he made a mistake. Now he had made two in as many days.
He stumbled to the bathroom, stripped to the waist, grabbed a blue towel from the rack, and pressed it to his injured side. It was bleeding pretty badly, but the damage seemed to be superficial. Seeing that there was no medicine cabinet in the room, he bent down, mindful of the tender muscles in his side, and rummaged under the sink for a first-aid kit. Finding one, he stood, set it on the counter, opened it, and procured a handful of cotton balls, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, and a package of butterfly bandages. After cleaning the wound with the cotton balls and the peroxide, he closed the wound as best he could with the bandages, then wrapped the gauze around his torso, covering the slice in his side with four layers. He tossed the bloody cotton balls into the toilet, pocketing the rest of the gauze roll and another handful of cotton balls for later.
Then he walked back into the hallway to survey the damage. Bullet hole in the ceiling, two in the bedroom wall above the bed. Nothing a little toothpaste – the poor man’s spackle – wouldn’t fix. He’d have to ditch the gun soon enough, anyway, and by the time the bullets in the ceiling and wall were found – if they were found – the weapon that had fired them would be long gone, with nothing for Ballistics to trace the projectiles to.
And then there was that unsightly blood trail. That much blood in an apartment, especially one that was so recently the scene of a police investigation, was bound to raise some questions. Add that to the fact that the blood belonged to a military veteran who was supposed to be dead, and some real red flags would start to go up. Enrique felt his face growing hot, his indignation with the Rickner brothers mounting, his anger at himself and his carelessness reaching a fever pitch. He kicked the sword at his feet, which flew across the floor and bounced off the baseboard. Releasing a deep sigh, he bit his bottom lip and shook his head in disappointment. How had this happened? But now, more importantly, how would he put it right?
First things first. Take care of the scene. From the bathroom, he grabbed the toothpaste – which, thankfully, was white, so it matched the walls and ceiling. From the kitchen, he got a small butter knife, which he then used to apply the toothpaste-spackle to the bullet holes, wincing as he stretched to reach them. That taken care of, he returned the toothpaste to its place and pocketed the knife.
And now, for the blood. He toweled the blood off his shirt, then put both the shirt and the towel in the bathtub. Using a bottle of bleach he found under the bathroom sink, he poured it liberally along the hallway, the bedroom, and everywhere else he had leaked. Returning to the tub, he poured the bleach over the towel and the shirt, rinsed the pinkish runoff away, then repeated. When he was content that they wouldn’t leak color or DNA, he wrung them out, then poured bleach around the tub and down the drain. More bleach went into the toilet and the blood-soaked cotton balls floating within. Then he flushed the whole mess down the toilet and poured still more bleach around the bowl, flushing again to make sure all the blood was gone. Next, with a scrubbing brush he found under the kitchen sink, he rubbed the bloodstains on the carpet into oblivion. He
Similar Books
