ALLIES

Chapter 1

Carter Clay lay concealed amidst the lush foliage that skirted the perimeter of the opulent Miami estate. His gaze fixed upon a window aglow with light emanating from within the mansion. A fleeting shadow danced across the pane, followed by another, until darkness enveloped the house as its occupants surrendered to slumber. Glancing at his watch, Carter noted with satisfaction that all was proceeding according to plan, as anticipated. Although the life he was expecting for a bitcoin billionaire that had defrauded thousands of people disappointingly mundane. Amidst the looming specter of multiple indictments, even wealth couldn’t insulate him from the harsh realities of his predicament.

As he prepared to emerge from his leafy concealment, Carter’s phone vibrated, displaying the name “Emma” before he swiftly diverted the call to voicemail. The timing of her call puzzled him, but he resolved to address it later, once the task at hand was completed. Another vibration signaled a waiting message, which he acknowledged before stowing his phone and deftly navigating the terrain towards the mansion’s rear entrance, a shadowy figure blending seamlessly with the moonlit landscape. Aware of the surveillance cameras trained upon him, he proceeded with calculated confidence, confident in his ability to evade identification.

Crouching by the back door, Carter’s thoughts turned momentarily to the discomfort of his balaclava, its persistent itchiness a perennial annoyance. Resolving to request a more tolerable alternative from his handler in the future, he set to work on the lock with practiced precision. Unremarkable in its simplicity, the lock posed little challenge, much like the security measures of the unassuming domicile he was about to infiltrate—save for one unexpected obstacle.

As the door yielded to his efforts, a low growl emanated from the darkness within, prompting Carter to produce a raw sausage from his backpack. With a toss, he appeased the diminutive chihuahua guarding the threshold, ensuring its temporary pacification. A dog’s life: loyal to the food and not to the hand it comes from. Either way, it would give him no more grief tonight.

With the obstacle neutralized, he slipped inside, his movements calculated to minimize sound, a testament to his adherence to the maxim: “Murder 101: Stealth is Key.”

The last thing he needed was for some overzealous target holding a gun with a nervous grip and a jittery trigger finger, while waiting for the cops to arrive to arrest him. No, the best kills were the simplest ones. In, kill, out. Couldn’t be easier and didn’t need to fuck around.

Some killers wanted to make a production of the whole event. Meticulously curated poisons delivered in obscure means, an opportunity to showcase their talents to… who? Exactly! Nobody. Trust me, the dead person isn’t going to be impressed. You managed to give them sufficient poison for their weight that won’t show up on a toxicology report. And drowning? Who’s got time for that affair? What do you want to do? Fill a bath? Drag the person to the toilet and flush their face for thirty minutes? He had places to be.

Ascending the stairs with silent intent, Carter affixed a noise suppressor to his pistol before proceeding along the hallway. He reached the top and turned right. Why a single person was living in a five-bedroom house was beyond him, however people made decisions all the time, and one thing he knew was that decisions had consequences, and some of those consequences were good, and some were bad, and some were very bad. In fact, some were so bad that meant someone like him had to knock on your door. They aren’t the visits anyone wants.

The room at the end of the hallway, the door on the right. He dropped to his hands and knees on the luscious pile and peeked under the door. No feet, nothing to suggest the target wasn’t doing anything other than sleeping. Pressed their ear against the door, heard the rhythmic deep breathing of sleep coming from within. It was all too easy. Turned the handle and pushed open the door, a slight squeak from the hinges. Clay held the door, waited, a statue in the dark, seeing if there was any impact.

Noting no difference, they ventured inside, extracting their phone and gun at the same time. Stood beside the bed and checked the photo on his device. One last check to make sure the right person was being executed. There’s nothing worse than killing someone and realizing they were the wrong person. Obviously, it’s not good for that person, but you’re doing two lots of work for only one paycheck. You tell me what worker wants to do that. These days, it’s all about working smarter, not harder, or working less for more. He didn’t want to be in that position.

With the gun aimed unwaveringly at the target’s face, Carter deftly positioned the phone beside the slumbering figure. A mere glance confirmed what he already knew—the disheveled hair and meticulously groomed goatee were unmistakable identifiers. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he prepared to execute the task at hand.

In an abrupt interruption, the phone vibrated in his grasp, the caller ID flashing “EMMA.” Carter’s gaze flickered from the screen to the wide-eyed stare of Victor, whose sudden burst of action sent the firearm tumbling from Carter’s grip. Amidst the chaos, he fumbled with the phone, inadvertently answering the call, while simultaneously attempting to wrestle Victor back into submission.

Attempting to get a hold of the device to his ear, he reached out with his other to grab Victor, who had been attempting to roll out the other side of the bed. Pulling him back down. Clay immediately straddled the struggling man, pinning his arms under his knees, and pushing a hand around his neck as he spoke, using his body weight to add pressure.

“Emma?”

“Hey, honey. Is everything okay there?”

“Yeah,” Clay replied. “I think I pulled a muscle at the hotel gym. I’ll be fine.”

Hands slapped his body, and Clay continued to ignore them.

“What are you doing up? What time is it there?”

“I just got a call from my sister. What’s the noise?”

“It’s nothing,” Clay said. He punched Victor in the face, sending a splash of red onto the pillow with a groan. Then grabbed another pillow and jammed it down on his face, holding it steady. “It’s just the television. I was about to go to sleep.”

“Sorry for disturbing you, babe.”

“Not at all. What about Anna?”

“Ah, well, she’s flying in tomorrow afternoon to tell us something.”

Victor’s flailing fists intensified, found another burst of energy.

“Oh,” Clay said. “Hang on a second.”

Clay removed the pillow, punched him again, then alternated between holding the pillow down and reaching behind himself for his knife.

“So, what’s the news?” Clay jammed the knife into Victor’s abdomen, a muffled groan with each rapid insertion. He quickly pushed back down on the pillow.

“I don’t know, but she’s bringing her boyfriend with her.”

Another stab. Another push on the pillow.

“The boyfriend? Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re on vacation.”

Arms flung around flaccidly. A soft groan emanating from under the pillow.

“Who holidays in Chicago?” Clay asked. “Anyway, why are you telling me this now and not when I get home?”

“I was wondering if maybe you could meet them at the airport and all come in together.”

“Yeah,” Carter said, suppressing a groan. “That’s sounds like a great idea. As soon as we get off this call, I will check the flights. What time is she getting in?”

“Around four.”

“Perfect. I’ll let you know how I go.”

“Love you.”

Clay pressed down on the pillow harder, as the fight slowly diminished. “Love you too,” he said between gritted teeth.

The call ended abruptly, and Clay shoved the phone back into his pocket before pushing himself off Victor’s lifeless body. A low moan escaped Victor’s lips as Clay slowly lifted the pillow, only for another agonized sound to emanate from the man beneath. Dropping the pillow, Clay reached for his gun, pressing it into the down and pulling the trigger repeatedly—once, twice, three times—just to be certain.

Silence followed the barrage of shots, broken only by the faint sound of redness seeping into the fabric, creating large crimson circles around the compressed burn marks left by the muzzle of the gun.

Exiting the bedroom, Clay swiftly disassembled the gun with practiced precision. He unscrewed the suppressor, unclipped the magazine, and carefully pried out the bullets, dropping everything into his backpack without hesitation. Moving silently past the snoozing hound, he noted the quarter of sausage left on the floor, but made no move to disturb the animal.

Exiting through the rear door, Clay closed it with a gentle slide and used his tools to secure the lock once more, ensuring no trace of his presence remained behind.

With one last scan across the expanse of the yard, Clay noted the stillness and silence enveloping the multiple houses beyond the perimeter. Satisfied, he dashed off, retracing his inbound journey with practiced ease. Ducking behind trees and snaking through yards, he emerged onto a side street, his balaclava now concealed in his hand.

Turning left, then right, Clay navigated onto a main road, the urban landscape shifting into a bustling retail marketplace. As he passed an alleyway brimming with industrial-size bins, he slipped his backpack from his shoulders, retrieving a camera and slinging it around his neck. A cap followed suit, pulled snugly onto his head to obscure his features.

He then eased up a corner of the bin lid and pushed his backpack inside, along with his black top. It was due to be collected the next morning, in about five hours’ time, and all the evidence would be carried away.

Clay flagged down a taxi and dropped to one knee to capture a shot of it, the yellow vehicle gleaming under the streetlight. Satisfied with the photo, he climbed into the cab and directed the driver to a hotel just a block away from where he was staying.

As he strolled along the streets, hands in pockets, his white shirt shimmered under the soft glow of the streetlights. He occasionally paused to snap an artsy photograph if something caught his eye.

Upon reaching his hotel, he pushed his way through the doors and sauntered across the lobby to the elevators. Arriving at his room, he flicked off all the lights and collapsed onto the bed, instantly succumbing to sleep.