Blown Cover

This was an insult. They had not even tried to hide the fact that they had broken into his house. The large black sedan in the driveway shouted “Welcome home! We are waiting for you!” The inside lights were on. Even the front door was ajar; all very sloppy and unprofessional.

The man known only as Armando allowed his car to cruise past the front of his house, scouting the area with his peripheral vision. It looked like they had a couple of goons in the shadows on either side of the street. They would be easy enough to deal with. His cell would log onto his house-cams and let him know the size of the reception committee inside.

He pulled over a block away and checked his home-cams; four on the inside plus Fat Tony. That fat pig was sitting in Armando's favorite chair apparently partaking of the expensive wine collection maintained in what should have been a locked wine cellar under the stairs. Armando would have to act fast before Tony got into the good stuff.

The goons didn’t stand a chance against a killer more familiar with the shadows of his neighborhood than most were with their own faces in the morning mirror. Entering through a bathroom window, Armando moved purposefully through his house dispatching quiet death to the uninvited.

He walked around the corner to face Fat Tony who immediately began sweating vintage Zinfandel.

“Armando! It … it’s good to see you my friend,” Fat Tony said as his eyes darted around for the mob equivalent of a cavalry.

Armando held out his hand and simply said, “Your keys.”

Twenty minutes later, he was on the road; a blown cover meant a change in GPS coordinates. Don’t Fear the Reaper rocked on the radio.

Word count 300