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“I watched because you don’t survive in my line of work by not paying attention to the details. One mistake could easily get you killed.”
Hawk looks up from his guns, and his eyes drift to Ghost’s face — which is both serious, and has a strange light in his eyes — and then somewhere further down on Ghost’s person. Then he looks at me, his eyebrow raised. “Is he hard right now?”
I look down, then nod. “I believe he is.”
“I am not fucking hard right now,” Ghost sputters, eyes wide.
“It really looks like you are.”
“There’s a noticeable bulge,” Hawk says.
“Doubt me? Fine, I’ll show you.”
Hawk raises one gun and points it right at Ghost’s chest. “You keep your hard cock in your pants, buddy.”
“And my flaccid cock, what about that?” Ghost says, hand still drifting lower to his belt buckle. “Where should I keep it?”
“In your pants, too,” I say. “Your cock — hard or soft — needs to stay out of sight and out of mind.”
“Fine,” Ghost says. His hand leaves his belt buckle and drifts to his pocket, from which he draws a large switchblade, which he unlocks with the press of a button. “It wasn’t my cock that was poking out. It was this. Satisfied?”
Both Hawk and I look down, then we look at each other.
“He still looks a little hard to me,” I say.
Hawk nods. “To me, too. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least sporting a half-chub thinking about breaking into this motherfucker’s house and dragging him out by his ear. So I’m inclined to give Ghosty boy the benefit of the doubt and attribute his throbbing erection to being excited about capturing Marquez and not about the fact that he’s obviously got some bathroom fetishes.”
“Fair point.” I shrug and give up the point, because the truth is I’m hard, too, thinking about finally getting some answers for Alexandra and for myself, as well. I take my gun out, check it, and then nod at the both of them. “Shall we?”
Hawk grins a predator's grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
We fall into step, moving in a synchronized formation that speaks of countless drills and a shared history painted in adrenaline and close calls. As we approach the house, the tension thickens the surrounding air, an almost palpable cloak wrapping itself over our shoulders. Ghost leads the way, his footsteps nearly soundless as he approaches the dilapidated front gate. He deftly eases it open just enough to slip through, his body melting into the shadows like he’s part of them. Hawk follows, his larger frame surprisingly nimble as he navigates the rusty obstacle, and then I’m right after him.
The car on blocks seems like a sentry as we pass it by, its dark windows reflecting our ghostly forms for a fraction of a second before we disappear once again. The overgrown grass whispers against our boots as we make our way toward the side of the house, where an old air conditioning unit hums its monotonous lullaby.
Ghost signals us to hold position while he scouts the perimeter. He moves with purpose, pausing at each window to check inside. The darkness inside the house is complete.
Then Ghost stops at the back corner of the house and crouches down. He waves us over with a subtle gesture.
“Bathroom window,” he whispers when we're close enough. “He left it open a crack. There are no trip wires, no sensors. I’ve scouted it before — we can use it as an entry point.”
“There he goes with the bathroom again,” Hawk says.
“Let’s save the toilet talk for later. Time to move,” I say.
I nod at Hawk, and we position ourselves on either side of Ghost.
Ghost opens the window further and then takes out a small mirror to check for reflections that might indicate hidden lasers or other signs of electronic traps. Nothing. No glint, no shimmer. We're good to go.
Then he gently slides the window open further and slips inside like a whisper. Hawk's next, and then it's my turn. I ease myself through the narrow opening, fighting off the urge to rush and make careless noise. Every sense of mine on high alert, aware of every minor detail — the smell of mildew from within the house, the sound of my breathing, the taste of anticipation on my tongue.
The bathroom is shrouded in darkness, and we take a moment to allow our eyes to adjust to the black. Then we slip out into the hallway, weapons at the ready.
I lead us towards the stairs when I feel something underfoot give way slightly — shit, a pressure plate. Instantly, I drop low, yanking Hawk down with me as a blade on a pole swings out from the wall with an angry whoosh, stopping just where our necks would have been.
"Goddamn Home Alone shit right here,” Hawk whispers.
Ghost is already disarming the trap with deft fingers.
