Chapter 9 · Cleaner at the Door

The knock came at 6:47 a.m.

Three taps. Polite. Like someone delivering a package.

I was still standing in the middle of my apartment, staring at the 06 on my wrist, trying to figure out how the hell they'd found me five hours faster than last time. My gun was on the kitchen counter. Ten feet away. Might as well be in another country.

Another knock. Same rhythm.

"Mark Weston." The voice came through the door, calm and professional. Male. Mid-forties, maybe. "We should talk."

I didn't move. My pulse was hammering but I kept my breathing quiet. Whoever this was, they weren't pretending to be maintenance or a neighbor. They knew my name. They knew I was here.

And that voice. There was something familiar in the cadence, the way he stretched out the second syllable of my name.

"I know you're awake," the man continued. "I can hear you breathing. And before you go for the Glock on your counter, you should know there's a rifle scope on your kitchen window. You take two steps that direction, you'll be dead before you touch it."

I glanced at the window. Curtains were half-open. Stupid.