Page 52 of Sardonic Burn

“Does it matter if I’m not? I need to do this regardless.”

“I still think that you should’ve had De Santis come with you.”

“I’m capable enough,” I grit out. “I don’t need Hudson.”

“If you die, don’t blame me. Blame yourself for being reckless.”

“Is the lecture over, mother? I need to go.”

“Wait.” He pauses. “I see some movement. Give it another minute.”

I’m hiding across the street from the house where the bullet maker is said to live and handle his business. The black van is conveniently parked under the only streetlight that is off, giving me a good place to observe without being seen.

My outfit matches the van’s color, too. It’s all pitch black, and I’m wearing a ski mask. For tonight, my lovely knives aren’t enough. I have six on me, but my hand is firmly wrapped around my Sig Sauer, ready to shoot.

“Two are leaving,” Lucas announces. “Whatever you do, don’t let them see the earpiece. If you get kidnapped, I can track you with that.”

I snort. “That’s the worst-case scenario. They have no need for me, right?”

“Who knows? The bullet maker might as well be the ringleader.”

“That’s highly unlikely.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Ringleaders have a superiority complex. No way they’d be making weapons on their own. Oftentimes, they’re too arrogant, which does prove to be useful for my case.”

“Right,” he agrees. “Okay, two men just left through the backdoor. Two more are inside. It’s now or never, Noah.”

I nod. “If anything happens, let me know. I won’t be able to respond, though. If not, remain quiet. I have to focus.”

With a deep breath, I step away from the shadows, showing my presence. This part of the city is good, the criminal rate lower than expected. However, it doesn’t make it safe. I bet his neighbors have no idea what he’s doing to pass time. The house has two floors, but only the lower-level lights are turned on.

I’m a little nervous. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. I’m not someone who blindly follows danger, yet here I am, determined to do everything on my own and convince myself that I’ll never need anyone to help me with such tasks,

It’s quiet and dark. The snow is no longer falling, though I’m careful to make sure my footsteps can’t be heard over the heavy snow. The thick curtains are closed on one window, and I’m moving slowly toward the open one.

Carefully, I glance around, cautious of my surroundings. It’s quiet for the most part, aside from some hushed noises on the inside. I peek through the window, but I can’t see anyone.

It looks like a regular living room; nothing is out of the ordinary. The TV is turned off, and there are four empty glasses on the small coffee table with a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

I move and find myself standing at the front door. There is a moment of hesitation, but I brush it off quickly. This isn’t the most dangerous or the hardest task I’ve had. There’s no reason for me to be this reluctant.

My eyes close briefly as I take in a deep breath, and that’s all it takes for me to grab the doorknob with my free hand. The door is unlocked, and I push it open with ease.

I pause, waiting to see if someone heard me.

After a moment of silence, I softly close the door behind me and make sure my gun is the first thing they’d see. With slow, silent steps, I stroll forward, glancing to the right and left every few seconds.

The voices are coming from the last room down the long hall. The closer I get, the louder their voices are. They seem to be arguing about some payments, though that’s none of my business.

I lower the gun and knock on the door.

The voices suddenly stop, and I push the door open with a small smile on my face.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I greet with a small nod.

The man on my left whips out his gun immediately, aiming it at my head. His posture and stance are terrible. The chances of him missing me, despite being within breathing distance, are higher than him actually killing me.

However, the man I came looking for is right in front of me. I know it.

He’s older, in his fifties, with a big beer belly. His expression shows no sign of shock or surprise. I’m impressed by the poker face he’s displaying. He’s holding a thick cigar between his lips, staring at me.

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