Chapter Five

The circuit blow brought Jamie Rico instantly awake. He hadn't seen the flash, as he had his back turned to the window and his curtains drawn. So, he thought it was a gunshot. He laid still on the bed, his ears straining. Then, as he relaxed, his quick suspicious ears picked out the faint noise of a door click. He stiffened.

His hand drew out a drawer by his bedside and his fingers closed over the steel butt of a .38mm.

He raised his head from the pillow and listened. The noise was repeated. It was a soft sound, like someone taking care not to be heard, was slowly turning the handle of a door.

Silently, he took out the gun from the drawer, raised himself, and with his left hand, he groped for the light switch, found it, and turned it on. There was no response from the light bulbs as if the switch and bulbs had recently had a discord.

Darkness still hovered around the room, but he wasn't scared. He had a gun. He pulled back the safety catch of the gun and gently drew off the blanket, and slid out of the bed.

He groped his way across the room and quietly drew the curtains back. The moonlight came in, providing him with enough light to see around the large room.

Suddenly, the lights came up, flooding the room with hard light. His heart skipped a beat, and he swiveled around with the gun raised, ready to fire. But nothing unusual presented itself as a target. He listened. The noise from the running generator downstairs drifted up to the penthouse.

Suddenly, it made sense to him. The blow he had heard thinking it was a gunshot must have come from damage in the electrical lines. “That would explain the earlier darkness and the running generator.”

A reasonable explanation it was, but he was uneasy. His built-in instinct for danger still nudged him. It was this same instinct that had kept him alive up till now in a deadly lethal game of crime, where only the paranoid and ruthless survived.

Jamie Rico, born of an American migrant and a rural farmer, had lived his early years as a farm boy. Those years in rural poverty had left him with a deep scar of a humorous face and a humble look. But behind his humble eyes hid a cold, ruthless, and deathly soul. He was the CEO of Rico Truck Agency. A business that was just a front for his real dealings; drug trafficking.

He tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. His fingers closed over the door handle and turned it. Gently, he eased open the door a few inches. The light from the bedroom spread out into the corridor. He peered through but saw no one.

Cautiously, he opened the door wider, so he could see the full length of the corridor. He listened. He heard nothing to alarm him. But he felt the danger was there. He was sure of it. The feeling in him was growing intense, the tension in him was rising.

Quietly and swiftly, he edged out of the room and flattened himself against the opposite door. His gun and eyes fixed on the direction of the living room. He was almost certain the noise he had heard had come from there.

His left hand moved over the wall in front of him, reached for the light switch, and turned it on. The lights in the corridor came up, spreading far into the living room. He leaned back against the door and listened. His hand pushing on the trigger, ready to squeeze. When he heard no sound, he turned the handle of the door he was leaning on, eased it open a few inches, maneuvered his left hand behind the door, pulled out the key, closed the door, and locked it.

He paused for a moment to listen, then quietly, he crossed to the door to his room, drew the door close, pulled the key from the back, and also locked it. Even as he did all this, neither did his eyes nor the gun in his right hand, ever waver in the direction it pointed.

He slipped both keys into the pocket of his pajamas. He now had one more bedroom, the living room, the foyer, the powder room, the kitchen, and the terrace, to search. The benefit of living in a small house, he thought gloomily.

Staying close to the wall to his right, he headed cautiously for the living room. He stopped at the mouth of the corridor, and with care, peered left into the foyer. Then, in one swift movement, he swiveled right into the living room, gun in hand. His eyes swept over the room in one glance, and almost immediately, he turned left to the foyer.

Both rooms were empty, and he drew in a deep breath in relief. But, instinctively, he knew it was just a delay of the danger, which was to come. His hand reached for the light switch, and he turned it on.

The hard lights came up, illuminating in all its glory, the products of success; Picasso's painting, hung elegantly on the marble accent wall, a leather upholstery L-shaped sofa, complemented by imported armchairs, a 75-inch flat-screen hung above the linear fireplace. All that gave confidence to a man, but Rico wasn't to be reassured by their tranquility.

The danger was near. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing. The danger was near, lurking around, waiting for its moment to strike.

He looked again into the foyer, and suddenly, he went cold, his nerves fluttered, his legs shook. A single detail he had been searching for, and dreading to see, confirmed his suspicions.

The house key was no longer at the keyhole of the double glass doors. It was never taken out, so long as there was someone in the house, and he could vividly remember leaving the key there when he locked for the night.

In two quick strides, with his gun pointing to the living room, he backed into the foyer. He turned the handle of the front door and drew it inwards. The door didn't move. It was locked. So, he was locked with the intruder. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He felt his rib cage could no longer contain his pounding heart.

He thought sourly of how ten years ago he would have appreciated a set-up like this, but now, he couldn’t afford to take any risk with his life going after this intruder. He was at the top of the crime game and when one climbs the ladder, without being murdered or jailed; to the top of this lethal game, one suddenly realizes that just a bullet through the head can end it all.

He had to get back to his room, get Pascal to come here, and fish out this intruder.

Pascal would handle this set-up better than I would, he told himself. After all, this is why I pay him.