Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,1

arc while twin rows of tiger teeth and a pop-up barrier descended into the ground. Ricardo rolled his eyes. If the gates were this secure, the house was probably something out of an Indiana Jones movie. His favorite.

That was the problem with jackwagons like Baldwin: they were narcissistic enough to believe entire armies might come after them, and they also had the money to protect themselves from those imagined armies. No one gave enough fucks about Baldwin to send in an army, but he had pissed off enough people that someone was sending in Ricardo, and that meant Ricardo had to deal with the inconvenience of an obstacle course comprised of paranoia-induced security protocols.

All of that was why he’d gone to the lengths he had to gain legitimate-looking access to the house, rather than trying to infiltrate the property and the structure like a wannabe ninja. Crap like that only worked in the movies. People who wanted to stay alive, get the job done, stay alive, get out, still stay alive, and live long enough to get paid… didn’t learn the trade from Hollywood.

Ricardo slowly followed the long, winding driveway, looking around like someone who wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to be going. On any of the ridiculous number of CCTV cameras watching him now, he’d appear to be clueless rather than giving his surroundings a tactical sweep and memorizing potential escape routes, hazards, and annoyances.

The landscaping was, unsurprisingly, designed for more than just aesthetics. Dense bushes that were useless for cover even without taking into consideration the poison ivy growing along the edges. Narrow, well-lit pathways monitored by cameras mounted on the many trees. Ponds that looked deceptively like a place someone could hide in a pinch… right up until he noticed the swan standing with water just barely cresting its knees. Did swans have knees? Well, whatever that joint was. And the swans were an issue too—they could be even meaner and louder than Canada geese, which said something. There were also a few Beware of Dog signs, which may have been a bluff (the dogs hadn’t eaten the swans after all) or they may have underscored what assholes those birds could be if they roamed fearlessly on the same turf as guard dogs.

Guard swans. Awesome. That was exactly what Ricardo needed. The feathery bastards were probably armed and everything.

After the driveway had taken him through nearly half a mile—seriously, half a fucking mile—of forest and landscaping, the house came into view. Ricardo had been surprised when he’d scoped out the property online. He’d expected a tech guru to have one of those ridiculously over-the-top modern houses with a bizarre angular design and too many windows. Instead, Baldwin had gone for an enormous plantation style mansion with soaring white columns out front. Maybe after this job was over, Ricardo could ponder how nauseatingly poetic it was for a man known for exploiting workers both here and abroad to be living in a house that gave oversized homage to the people who once owned slaves.

But there wasn’t time for that now. He had a job to do.

The driveway split, and as instructed, he followed it right. Several cameras were mounted here, probably to alert staff that someone was heading their way. A gate closed behind him; good to know for when he made his escape, especially since this one also had a pop-up barrier and tiger teeth. If things went well, he’d drive out as casually as he’d driven in, but if things went to shit, that gate could be a problem.

Yes, this job was definitely going to be a pain in Ricardo’s ass. Possibly a literal one, he realized when he saw that Baldwin even had rosebushes under all the windows. Cliché, perhaps, but effective. Ricardo squirmed at the memory of tumbling onto a rosebush during a botched burglary in his youth. Those thorns had left some nasty scars, including three that were still noticeable on his left butt cheek—something that had thoroughly amused the last few men he’d taken to bed. Needless to say, he never threw himself blindly out windows anymore.

The driveway led him to a covered portico behind the house. There were a couple of security guards waiting for him out here along with a white man in a suit who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Ricardo stopped the van and got out.

As he did, the man in the suit approached, tapping his watch. “You’re late.”

Adopting the American accent again, Ricardo