Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

During his recons the past few nights, he’d watched the kid walk the dog several times around eleven. He was relieved that the kid, and not his target, owned the dog: No way he’d break into an apartment and face down a guard dog. Still, even though the animal would be in another apartment, he might bark up a storm when he entered.

In addition, the target, Orlando Navarro, was obviously on guard, keeping out of sight for the most part, and staying close to other people whenever he emerged from his apartment. From all reports, Navarro-a beefy bodybuilder covered with gang tats-was no genius. But it didn’t take genius to figure out that murderers whose names appeared in the newspapers were vigilante targets.

And the fact that his old amigo, Tomas Cardenas, had been whacked must have scared the hell out of him. Navarro had gone into hiding immediately after Cardenas was killed, changing his residence, with permission of the court. However, he had a problem staying hidden. Though free on appeal for the killing of Tommy Banacek, he was still on the hook with his probation officer for past crimes. Navarro had to show up at the office once a week to check in with the Man and take a urine test. And his P.O. knew where he lived.

So it really wasn’t too hard to track him down. From a disposable cell phone, he’d called a low-level clerk in the probation department, routing the call through an online Caller ID “spoofing” service. The service allowed his phone to “spoof” the local courthouse’s phone number, so that it appeared on the clerk’s Caller ID. The service was even programmed to alter his voice as he spoke.

All it took, then, was a little “pretexting”: prying privileged information from an unsuspecting source by impersonating somebody with a legitimate need to know. His pretext was that he was a records manager at the courthouse. He told the probation clerk that the judge needed to know if one Orlando Ramirez Navarro had been complying fully with the terms of his probation. Could the clerk look up his records, please?… Great. Now, at what day and time are Mr. Navarro’s weekly appointments with his P.O.?… Uh-huh. And have his urine tests been coming back clean?… Good. By the way, let me read off the contact information we have, just to make sure it’s all correct in our records… Oh, you say that’s his old address? Well, please give me the new one, so that I can update our files… Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Jones.

Piece of cake.

So, the guileless clerk had pointed him to Navarro’s new digs in this public-housing complex in Columbia Heights. A lot of Hispanics lived in the area, and his target no doubt hoped that he would blend right in. From his recons, during which he used a different vehicle each night, he was sure that the guy lived alone. Gang pals sometimes showed up in the evening, allowing him to note which second-floor apartment lights went on and off when they arrived and left. That gave him an idea of the layout of the place. Tonight, a couple of them showed up around eight and left at ten-thirty. One set of windows, which he’d figured for the living room, went dark about eleven, and immediately the window to its left lit up. The bedroom. He’d be in there by himself, now.

For this job, he’d use a combo from the Eastern Shore weapons cache that already had been used previously: the Beretta 92FS with SWR Trident suppressor, popping Alabama Ammo 147 grain Special Ks. Reliable, accurate, and most importantly, very quiet.

But this couldn’t be like any of the previous missions; that had already been decided. The plan was to leave the target here, with the news clipping on him. It was just too difficult to remove the body, unseen, and deposit it where it might be more symbolically appropriate.

Still, this guy-the second gang-banger involved in the death of George Banacek’s kid-just had to go. For one thing, he was unfinished business. For another, after he was taken out, the other murderers in the news stories would know that none of them could hide anywhere.

He waited for the kid to drag the Doberman back inside, then gave it another two minutes for everyone to settle in. His watch said eleven-fifteen. Time to go hunting.

Once the traffic cleared, he rolled the Chevy Trailblazer out from the curb, down the street past the front of the building, then into the driveway that led behind the complex. He backed into a parking spot close to the building, leaving the engine running. The silenced Beretta and newspaper clipping were inside the deep, right-hand pocket of his long leather coat. A small lock-pick gun was inside the left one.

There were no security cameras to worry about, but he wore a broad-brimmed leather hat, anyway, and kept his head down as he moved down the sidewalk and up the short steps to the building entrance. He also wore brown leather gloves to match his coat and hat. A good gangster look that wouldn’t be out of place here.

The door lock was no problem; the electronic pick got him inside within ten seconds. Against the wall to his right, stairs led to the second- and third-floor apartments. He made sure to keep himself physically oriented as he crept up to the second-floor hallway. Estimating the distances from what he’d seen from the front of the building, he knew that Navarro occupied the second apartment to his left.

He stepped quietly to that door. Listened. Noise from a TV or stereo from within, probably the bedroom. More bass thumping from somewhere else down the hall. Good. The racket would mask any sounds of his entry.

He glanced down the hallway in both directions. Clear. Then drew the Beretta from his coat. One in the chamber, full mag, hammer down. He thumbed off the safety. With his left hand, he carefully inserted the pick into the upper dead-bolt lock and pressed the button. Even the soft buzz-rattle of the pick made him cringe. Then stuck it into the door-knob keyhole. Another brief buzz. He withdrew the pick, dropped it back into his coat pocket.

Pointing the gun upward in his right hand, he leaned against the door with his left shoulder. Carefully turned the doorknob with his left hand. Eased the door open, just enough so that he could slip quickly into the darkened room and swing it almost shut behind him, leaving it slightly ajar for a fast exit.

For just a second, he saw the bright rectangle of the bedroom entrance, ahead and to his right.

Then there was a rustle and blur of motion on his left.

The big Doberman, barely visible in the weak light from the bedroom, was so fast that he only had an instant to jerk up his left arm to shield himself as it leaped. Its weight and momentum knocked him back against the apartment door, slamming it shut loudly.

His hand banged against something and he dropped the gun.

He fought to retain his balance as the dog snarled and clamped down on his left forearm. It shook its head violently, its sharp teeth tearing right through the thick leather and into his arm. The pain was excruciating.

He regained his footing, straightening his body and lifting hard with his arm. But the animal, growling savagely, wasn’t about to let loose; he only succeeded in pulling it upright, flat against his body. Barely a foot from his face, its wild eyes glinted darkly into his.

Then his peripheral vision caught a huge silhouette in the bedroom doorway.

“Matar!” Navarro yelled. Then lunged toward him.

One chance.

He pushed out with his left forearm, forcing the Doberman’s head back vertically, while simultaneously crashing his right forearm down like an axe against the back of the dog’s neck. He heard the snap, felt the jaws release. He kneed the dying creature hard, propelling it into the path of the charging giant. Navarro stumbled over its body, staggering toward him, off-balance.