Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Of all the things I've stolen so far, the kayak takes the cake. The same night as my therapy session, I drive to the Miami Beach marina, spray paint a kayak black, and row away into the night guided by the GPS on my cell phone. I carry all my gear in a dry bag just in case. My buddies at the 24th Special Tactics Squadron would roll on the floor with laughter if they saw me all camouflaged in black and paddling along in this thing.

The distance from the marina to Tony's house is roughly a mile or so, and this way I don't have to deal with gates, guards, or cameras. As I get close, I see that the house is completely dark. I hide the kayak on the lawn and enter through the unlocked garden door. It seems that I brought my lock picks for nothing. The alarm system is no more challenging than the one back at the flight school in Venezuela. Only this time, I bypass the system so it looks like it's still working.

I check the cell phone tracking website on my mobile. Tony is still at the gym, so I can snoop around freely. There's a safe underneath the carpet in his office. I press "1" repeatedly to find out that it's a six-digit combination.

The movies are right about people being able to guess passwords, but usually they're not some cryptic book title or the obscure name of a childhood toy. No, most people keep it familiar and simple.

"Never use your birthday as a password; it's too obvious," I always warn people at work.

Tony has no steady girlfriend, kids, or even pets; so after eight different permutations of his birth date, the safe clicks open. Well, well, well, seems that Christmas has come early. There is ten thousand dollars in cash, and the equivalent in euros and bolívares. I also find a Venezuelan passport and a key inside a box. The name of a bank and a number are written on the reverse of the lid. A safety box. I take a picture with my cell phone and seize the loot.

The lock on the file cabinet is not a problem. I pick it in two seconds and find the address for the bank on an old statement.

The only interesting thing inside the desk is his American passport, which I also take. Let's see how fast he can run out of the country without his documents. I check my phone again and see that Tony is on the move, and lucky me, he's headed for home. It's time to prepare for his arrival.

When Tony comes in, he turns on the entrance lights and inputs his password on the security panel. Tony walks into the living room and flips the switch, but nothing happens.

"Shit!" he says.

He puts his gym bag on the floor and goes to another switch. Nothing. When he turns around, it takes a second for him to fully realize that I'm standing behind him like a shadow in the darkness.

"Who are you? What the fuck are you doing here?" he says.

I lift up the gun I took from his gym bag and Tony takes a step back. I let the magazine fall to the floor, take the barrel off, and throw both parts of the gun in opposite directions. Tony charges at me.

That's the spirit! He throws a punch combination. I parry the first two, elbowing his shoulder and I counter the third with a punch of my own. I stop his roundhouse kick with my shin and I connect one with his thigh. Gritting his bloody teeth in pain, Tony tries a front kick, but I move inside his guard, hit him with my forearm, and sweep him to the floor. I force him up by his fingers, punch him twice in the ribs, and throw him again. Tony hits the ground hard and I stomp his chest before backing off.

He has guts; I'll give him that. He's a weekend warrior who might come out on top in a bar brawl, but I've done this all my life and I've been battle hardened. Every strike I've given him has reduced his performance, yet he gets to his feet and attacks me again. I can't help but be impressed by the son of a bitch.