He pivoted 180 degrees and steadied his Beretta at the corner of the house.

A 350-pound man in flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a white tank top stepped around the corner, made eye contact, and froze.

He painted the laser on the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger. A red hole replaced the red dot. Like an expertly cut tree, the big man fell. He twitched on the ground for several seconds before lying still.

Three shots. Three kills.

He abandoned the radio he’d taken from the first guard and eased past the downed man.

At the side door he shucked off his ghillie suit and backpack and visualized the interior layout. This door led into a den connected to a library with a large central living room and kitchen beyond. Five bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom, occupied the west wing, served by a wide hall. The security room with the bank of cameras was in the first bedroom on the right side of the hall. A guest bathroom occupied the same wall. And the door to the basement was hidden in a small coat closet off the central hall leading into the living room.

Time became critical. Ramsland didn’t know how long it would take for his target to notice the absence of his men, or if he was even home. All bets were off in that case. Too many questions with no answers. Only one way to find out.

He reached for the handle.

***

Montez entered the living room and turned toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Raul. I need your help. Now.”

No answer.

“Raul? Are you in there?”

Silence.

He walked over to the security room. Empty. So was the guest bathroom. Montez looked at the bank of monitors and saw no sign of his men. He knew Raul smoked. Maybe he’d gone out to the pool with the others. The cameras couldn’t see the area immediately next to the house where they usually lit up. Looking back and forth, he strode through the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors. Nothing.

Uneasy at finding himself alone, he grabbed a small device that looked like a TV remote from the coffee table. He returned to the sliding glass doors and scanned the rear yard.

Where were they? Probably walking the Dobermans. He’d trained them to vary their routes to avoid establishing a pattern. And they definitely weren’t supposed to walk both dogs at the same time. He sighed. Good help was hard to find—at least help he trusted.

***