Hector would be the one on the floor in her room, if the man in the suit had described events correctly. He would have opened the door, flipped on the light, and dropped. After a few minutes, Angel would have come looking to see if he needed help, seen his legs, and slid along the wall with gun in hand until the gas overpowered him.
She had no idea how long they’d been down.
So far, the man in the suit had been pretty honest with her. It made her feel safe enough to holster the Glock and get started. First, she took the gun she found in the first man’s hands and tossed it over the railing to the floor below. There was another gun tucked into the back of his pants – that went over the railing, too. She didn’t have time for a better search. She wished she could inject him with something that would keep him quiet, but unlike the gas, which would disappear from his system in the next half hour, the longer-term sedation would linger in his bloodstream and be a dead giveaway to anyone who suspected she might be here. She zip-tied his hands behind his back and then zip-tied his ankles together.
Hector was smaller than Angel, who looked similar to the dead blond in the SUV except for his coloring; both Hector and Angel were dark-haired, as she’d expected from the suit guy’s description. Hector was no more than medium height and lean, fit, but not in a way that would stand out on the street. He was clean-shaven and his skin was unmarked, at least the parts she could see; he wore a long-sleeved black athletic shirt. Angel had tattoos on three of his fingers and one on the side of his neck. Hector was smarter. If you were going to do wet work for a living, it was better to blend in, avoid features that any witness could easily describe to the police sketch artist.
A huge suppressed Magnum lay inches from Hector’s right hand. The sniper rifle was holstered across his back. She pulled the magazine from the rifle, took the massive handgun, and carried them back to the hallway to dump them over the stair railing. She heard them thud against the hard wood below; one of them made a metallic chink when it hit the previously discarded weapons.
She turned back to secure Hector.
The body lying in her storage room was gone.
She ripped the shotgun out of its holster and pressed her back against the wall beside the door. There was no sound. He would have to come through the door. When he did, she would shoot him. Even the most experienced assassin would be incapacitated with his legs blown off.
When the movement came, it was not through the door. Angel began to writhe, moaning in Spanish. In the split second that Alex was distracted, a shadow peeled off from Angel’s body and flew straight at her, knocking the shotgun from her hands and sending them both crashing toward the ground. She braced for the impact even while wrestling with the hands that were trying to strip the gun from her waist. His hands were stronger than hers, but then the crash came, and with it the shattering of tiny glass bulbs.
She could feel the scalding gas sear her neck, the exposed skin around the base of her mask, and she knew she would probably look sunburned there for a few hours, but her eyes and lungs were protected.
Her attacker was not prepared. He choked, his hands flying of their own accord to his throat, his blinded eyes. She whirled, .38 already drawn, and shot, aiming for his kneecap. She hit him in the left thigh instead.
He crumpled to that side and rolled into Angel, who was thrashing in earnest now, straining to pop the zip ties from his wrists. They were heavy-duty restraints, but he was a strong man.
She couldn’t handle them both. She was going to have to make a choice. Quickly.
Angel’s head was the closest thing to her. She fired twice into the top of it. He went limp.
Hector was gasping and scrubbing at his eyes at the same time as he was trying to roll away from her toward the stairs. She sprinted after him, hugging the wall to avoid his reach. He wasn’t in control enough to make a grab for her yet. She pulled the bolt cutters from her waist and clubbed the back of his head. His convulsing jerked to a stop.
This was all going to be a wasted effort if she’d killed him, but she had to secure him before she could even check for a pulse.
To be safe, she put an additional bullet through his left kneecap, then threw the .38 over the banister to the floor below. It had only one bullet left anyway. She used another zip tie to attach his uninjured right leg to the railing at the ankle and the knee, then his right arm at the wrist and the elbow. He wouldn’t be able to do much with his left leg. For lack of a better option, she zip-tied his left hand to Angel’s big black boot. Angel’s inert form had to weigh two seventy, at least. It was better than nothing. She touched Hector’s wrist, marginally satisfied to locate a steady pulse. He was alive; whether or not his brain function was preserved, she would have to wait to see.
She decided to double the cables, just in case. While she was tightening the second tie around Angel’s boot, she heard the change in Hector’s breathing as he came to. He didn’t cry out, though he had to be in tremendous pain. That wasn’t a good thing. She’d interrogated other hardened soldiers with good control over their reactions to pain. It took a long time to break them.
But those men had loyalty to their companions or their missions. She was confident this was a hit for hire. Hector would owe nothing to the people who’d given him the job.
She scooted a few feet away with the Glock gripped tight in her hands, watching to see how well her containment system would perform. It was too dark. She got up and backed toward the bathroom doorway, keeping her eyes on the figure on the ground. She felt behind her until she found the light switch and flipped it on.