Page 71 of Final Vendetta

The house wasn’t hard to spot — a small, one-story structure tucked between other aging homes with the same van from the surveillance video parked out front. Except now, the rear license plate was back on.

I pulled my car down the block and killed the engine. Popping the glove box, I retrieved my weapon, checking the magazine and chamber with practiced efficiency before tucking it into my waistband. After scanning the street for any movement, I slipped out of the car and made my way toward the house.

The sun had set, casting everything in a shroud of darkness, the street lamps the only source of light. The neighborhood was a collection of forgotten dreams, houses in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, fences sagging with the weight of neglect. It smelled like stale grease and overripe trash, a stench that clung to the air like a foul perfume.

I kept my head low, scanning for movement. Each step I took echoed, my shoes crunching over dirt and grime. A dog barked in the distance, its warning growl cut short by a command from its owner.

As I crossed the street toward Vargas’ house, the weight of what I might find tightened my chest. The faint hum of an air conditioning unit buzzed in the background, nearly masking the distant murmur of a television. A gentle breeze blew around me,making a scrap of newspaper skitter across the concrete like a ghost.

The curtains in his house were drawn, but a flicker of light seeped through the cracks. My fingers brushed against the cool metal of my gun as I moved toward the side of the building, keeping to the shadows.

His house was no different from the others — a one-story box with peeling paint and a roof patched with mismatched shingles. The grass was yellowing, weeds sprouting through cracks in the concrete walkway leading to the front door. A faded lawn chair sat near the garage, its webbing frayed and sagging. The smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air, sharp and pungent.

Slipping through the broken gate and into the back yard, I surveyed my surroundings once more. It was in worse shape than the front. Scattered beer cans, a barbecue grill rusted beyond repair, and nothing but dust where grass once grew.

As I reached the edge of the house, I heard a creaking sound followed by footsteps. I froze, my hand instinctively tightening on the grip of my weapon as I carefully peered around the corner. Vargas stepped outside, his height and build matching the man in the surveillance video, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

As he leaned against the doorframe, he took a long drag from the cigar, the ember glowing red. He exhaled slowly, giving off an air of arrogance, as if he thought no one could touch him.

He was about to learn how wrong he was.

I waited until he turned his back before making my approach. The click of his lighter echoed as he reignited the cigar, oblivious to the predator closing in.

When I was close enough to see the shine of sweat on the back of his neck, I struck, grabbing him from behind and slamming him against the stucco siding.

His cigar tumbled to the ground as I twisted his arm behind his back and shoved him inside. He cursed and tried to resist, but before he could make a move, I had him pinned against the wall, my gun pressed to the side of his head.

“Where is she?” I growled, my voice low and menacing.

“Who the hell?—”

I slammed him harder against the surface, cutting off his words. “The girl you just took. Where is she?”

He grunted and struggled against my hold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

I delivered a harsh blow to his sternum, leaving him gasping for air long enough to allow me to drag him to a nearby chair and secure him to it with zip ties. Every fiber of my being wanted to put a bullet in him right then and there, but he was my only lead as to where Imogene could be.

I needed him alive.

But the second I knew where she was, he would die.

And I would enjoy every minute of it.

As he tried to catch his breath, I scanned the messy living area. Takeout containers were stacked on the counter, beer bottles littered the table, and dirty dishes caked with food sat in the sink. But amidst the filth, there were expensive electronics. A high-end TV, multiple gaming consoles, a state-of-the-art sound system. Probably stolen.

“Let’s try this again,” I said once his wheezing stopped. “Where’s the girl?”

“I told you. I don’t know. I?—”

Before he could utter another syllable, I pressed my gun to his knee and fired, using his own body to muffle the sound.

“All right!” he shouted, pain etched on his face as blood soaked the tile floor beneath him. “I was hired, okay?”

“By who?”

“No idea.”

“Wrong answer.” I grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter and thrust it into his open wound, eliciting another cry of agony.

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