Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            Kowalski had taught him that move, too. He would be so proud.

            He’d thought a lot about Kowalski and had concluded that the man couldn’t be convinced to back off. DJ needed to either kill him or get the weapons he was looking for, finish the job he’d started with Mercy and Gideon, then disappear.

            It was possible that none of Kowalski’s weapons were stored here, but DJ wasn’t leaving until he’d found either enough firepower to take out the Sokolov house with Mercy Callahan in it or something to trade for what he needed. If he had to, he’d take Kowalski’s kid.

            DJ really didn’t want to do that. Hostages were messy, but he needed as many weapons as he could get, and he wasn’t naive enough to believe that Kowalski would just give him some. If Kowalski played ball, DJ would return the kid. Worst case, he could leave the kid at the Smythes’ house and Mrs. Smythe would find him once she returned.

            And if Mercy wasn’t in the Sokolovs’ house when he blew it sky- high? She’d show up to the funerals of whoever had been. DJ wasn’t picky and didn’t care if he killed the entire Sokolov family. He wanted Mercy and Gideon gone. Then he’d pick off Amos for stealing his truck and Daisy Dawson for shooting his shoulder.

            Which, while not at a hundred percent, was far better than it had been a week ago. After a few nights in a soft bed, nightly soaks in Smythe’s Jacuzzi tub, and doses of the painkillers he’d found in Smythe’s medicine cabinet, his arm was steadily improving.

            He still couldn’t lift his rifle, so he now had it propped on the trunk of the Honda Civic he’d stolen from the woman near the airport.

            It was time to get this show on the road. Kowalski’s wife had finally turned out her bedroom light an hour before. He wasn’t sure where the kid’s bedroom was, but he had a decent idea. One of the windows had a very faint glow, like it might have been a night-light. He’d soon find out.

            Centering the sedan’s driver in his sight, DJ pulled the trigger. He wouldn’t have a lot of time now, especially if the driver had been on his radio. His rifle had a damn good suppressor, but glass still made a shattering sound. And the driver would be unable to check in.

            Someone could show up soon, so he slid the rifle to his back, adjusting the strap, then grabbed his nearly empty duffel bag. It was for carrying away any treats he came across. Hopefully lots and lots of rifles, piles of ammo, and a pound or two of explosives.

            His handgun was holstered at his waist. In the duffel was the service weapon he’d taken from the cop he’d killed the night before, the drugged hamburger he’d taken from the schoolteacher, and zip ties that he’d taken from the dead cop’s gun belt. He’d also brought rope, duct tape, and a can of black spray paint in case he encountered any security cameras.

            Another of Kowalski’s tricks.

            He was sprinting from his car toward the house when a burly man came from a gate in the electric fence. The man approached the black sedan from the passenger side and peered in.

            DJ dropped to a crouch behind a tree and slid his rifle from his shoulder, propping it on the ground. He slithered to his stomach and checked his scope.

            Well, damn. He knew the burly guy. He’d met with him several times. He was Kowalski’s right-hand man, responsible for the Chicos’ security. DJ centered the crosshairs on the man’s head and pulled the trigger.

            The guy dropped like a rock.

            DJ ran to Kowalski’s security man and checked for a pulse. There was none, so he helped himself to the man’s gun, phone, and keys, stowing everything but the keys in the duffel. The keys went into his own pocket.

            He was relieved to find the tree near the back fence standing tall. The lowest limb was a little too high for him to easily reach, so he fashioned a pulley from the rope and a few minutes later was standing on the limb, looking into Kowalski’s windows. The house was grand, of that there was no doubt. It had to be ten thousand square feet, the backyard enormous.

            So far, so good. No lights in the house came on, so the wife and kid were still sleeping. There was no sign of the dog mentioned in the teacher’s notes, which was a relief. It would take precious minutes for the drugs to incapacitate a Rottweiler. Plus, he liked dogs.

            He heard the next security guard before he saw him, softly speaking into a walkie-talkie.

            “Keating isn’t answering. Be on alert and do not leave your post,” the man commanded. Once he came into view, DJ realized he knew this guy, too. They’d done a drop-off a few years ago.