Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Someone was approaching.

She went from still observation to quick, silent movement in the blink of an eye, racing across the floor to the master bath just as the bedroom door opened. With steady nerves, she crouched next to the elevated soaking tub and hid in the shadows. From there, she was able to use the large bathroom mirror to her advantage.

She watched the reflection of two muscled men in severe dark suits as they entered the bedroom. They flipped on the light and walked across the room toward the balcony window where she had been a moment before. Neither man had seen her.

‘Is the art ready for auction?’ one asked in Russian.

The other unlocked a writing desk near the window. ‘ Da .’

‘All of it?’ the first responded.

He nodded as he grabbed a key from the drawer.

The two men hustled back toward the bedroom door, as if taking their time would have been unwise. They turned off the light, then closed the door behind them.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the muttering in the corridor diminished. She hoped they had ventured far enough away from the bedroom for her to use the hallway. Otherwise, she would be forced to exit the balcony and find another way to reenter the house. Moving carefully, she returned to the bedroom and listened intently at the door.

Nothing but silence.

She smiled and opened the door just a crack.

The view was remarkable.

It looked like the main gallery of an art museum. A circular mezzanine surrounded an indoor courtyard, framed by an ornate, jade-colored railing. It sat beneath a diamond-shaped skylight. Hanging from the center was an extravagant, hand-etched crystal chandelier. Thankfully, the upstairs hallway wasn’t spotlighted. Instead, it was bathed in soft-white light that seemed to emerge from the walls themselves instead of the well-hidden, recessed fixtures.

She continued to listen closely but heard nothing once the guards had disappeared: no idle chatter or detectable noises like the blare of a radio or the squawk of a television. In some ways, the silence made her life easier. She could easily tell if someone was approaching. In other ways, it made her mission harder. Any noise she made would stand out in the silent house.

Moving like a shadow, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her before she dashed the length of the corridor. She stopped in front of the locked door of the next room, but only long enough to pick it open. Ten seconds later, she was standing inside the library and admiring the hand-carved shelves and mahogany floors. It was so beautiful, so opulent, she almost felt guilty for what she was forced to do.

She silently and efficiently tore the room apart.

Every page of every book. Every shelf and every drawer. Every map, every picture, every chair, and every inch of every table. She checked the slats of the herringbone floor and checked every inch of the walls for secret panels and safes. She even climbed the shelves and furniture to check the ceiling and the recessed light fixtures.

But she found nothing. The library was clean.

Undeterred, she exited the room and headed toward the stairs. The walls were so white that her sheer black outfit stood out like a neon sign. Her trip wouldn’t take long, but she knew she would be totally exposed until she reached the ground floor.

She moved with silent assurance.

Never pausing. Never doubting.

Never taking a moment to consider the risk.

She had spent years in the field in her former career where the stakes had been even higher. Back then, she had worked her magic for the stars and stripes. Now, she was working for herself. She liked this a whole lot more.

She reached the bottom of the stairs without incident. She looked left, then right, making sure she was alone. With no one in sight, she hustled straight ahead.

The entry was lined with marble floors. It was flanked by a huge living space on one side and an equally large dining area on the other. The spaces were separated by a barrel ceiling, supported by elegant columns and accented by traditional wainscoting. A crystal chandelier, matching the large one in the mezzanine, dangled in the center of each room. Neither was turned on, but they sparkled like diamonds in the faint light.

Who said crime didn’t pay?

She scanned both areas for any signs of a recessed safe or a hidden door, but came up empty. Just as well. Anyone could have spotted her in there, whether they were hired to protect Kozlov or just waxed the floors on weekends.

She continued forward, finding the kitchen beyond. Not surprisingly, it was massive and had two of everything — stoves, sinks, dishwashers, and refrigerators — as if Noah had ordered the appliances. In reality, she knew the real reason for all the duplicates: Kozlov was feeding an army.

For some reason, Russian mobsters took care of their men like doting mothers. They housed them. They fed them. They gave them gifts. In return, they expected unwavering loyalty and utmost respect. All it took was a whiff of betrayal for heads to roll. The betrayer’s head. His family’s heads. His pet’s head as well. In one memorable case, they even hunted down his ‘friends’ on Facebook and killed them, too.

The Russian bratva didn’t mess around.

She forced those thoughts out of her mind as she opened the lone door in the kitchen. It led to a concrete staircase that disappeared in the darkness below. Weighing her options, she closed the door behind her and tested her sight.

She saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She cursed to herself.

Although her mask had built-in night vision, it only worked when there was ambient light. In the basement, there would be none. If she wanted to see, she knew she had to take a giant risk. Reluctantly, she pulled out a small flashlight from her pocket. She turned it on and followed its beam down the stairs.

The basement came as another surprise. Not only because Kozlov had built one so close to the water’s edge, but because of its simplicity.

It was the opposite of everything she had seen above.

The red floor was nothing but painted cement. The walls and ceiling were lined with plastic and insulation, probably to absorb sound more than heat. It looked like the ‘boiler room’ of a telemarketing firm that went bust. Ironically, she got the sense that more business was done down here than anywhere else in the house. The kind of business that involved a pair of pliers, a baseball bat, and a screaming victim.

She focused her attention on the gray metal door in the center of the far wall. It sat next to an elaborate cooling system that clanked in the corner. Blueprints and work orders had led her to believe that there would be a room in the rear of the basement.

In a flash, she realized it wasn’t a room at all.

It was a walk-in meat locker.

It wasn’t the polished steel exterior of the giant door that had given the freezer away. It was the oversized, single-handle latch.

She had come prepared for every kind of door. Even the simplest, most well-concealed vaults were protected by a lock of some kind. Bank and casino vaults — the gold standard by which vaults are measured — employed everything from analog pin-and-tumbler combination locks to next-generation biometric triggers, such as palm and retina scanners. She had even seen systems that monitored perspiration and blood pressure. If someone showed any signs of distress while attempting to access the vault, the software would deny access — even if the correct codes had been entered.

Fortunately for her, this door was pretty basic.

All it required was a simple tug.

A rush of cold air pushed against her as she peeked inside the freezer. The walls were lined with steel racks that held bins of frozen vegetables, as well as store-bought items such as ready-made pasta entrees and desserts. In the center of the room stood a butcher’s station — a heavy, stainless steel table and an assortment of saws, cleavers, and carving knives. Two sides of the steel island were surrounded by hanging slabs of meat. Sides of beef, as well as whole hogs, slabs of mutton, chicken, rabbits, and duck dangled from hoists like a wide curtain of flesh.