When Unhappy Neighbors Drop By

Ethan stood in front of the compound entrance with his arms folded and watched the vehicle make its way up the dusty road.

Frank, who had first spotted the car and sent word to the captain, stood next to him. The huge Russkie glowered at the dingy white vehicle, waiting with a team of six soldiers gathered close by. Ethan knew, without looking, that several of his men were already lined up along the battlement walls, their rifles ready. Nicolo and Angelo were perched on the hood of the Boxer MRAV. Both mechanics leaned their elbows on their knees as if merely spectators, though the 9mm Berettas tucked into the back of their belts made it clear they had no intention of staying out of the way.

The morning sun shone warmly on all of them. Good thing he’d decided to leave his robe behind…even though it was becoming more obvious as to why he had ultimately chosen to abandon the heavy garment. He turned Vanessa’s words over in his head:

I wish you would wear the robe less often…Your physique is impressive…

Ethan reached up and jerked on the chin of his mask, stretching his jaw against the rough fabric. Focus, damn it. Don’t let her take credit.

Getting the robe off was only practical. Freedom of movement.

Her voice again, this time with a sultry tone: I like seeing more of you…

He jerked on the mask again. Damn it.

He glanced to the side when someone drew up next to him. Morgan did not even look at him but kept his eyes fixed on the white car as it closed the distance to the compound. Mabayoje and Angus appeared on Morgan’s other side. Good. All his officers were in place now. Ethan returned his attention to the arriving vehicle as it stopped.

Clouds of pale dust rose to coat the already dirty windows. All four doors of the battered Opel swung open, so that now he could distinguish the blue logo of the town’s police department on its sides.

He uncrossed his arms, the muscles across his body tightening like they always did when he was about to beat the shit out of someone. Thomas damn well better have Vanessa safeguarded somewhere deep in the compound, away from all this, as Ethan had instructed. She didn’t need to see him in his element again.

Two men climbed out of the Opel. The driver seemed to be the only one wearing anything that resembled a uniform. The other was a tall, gangly older man who had occupied the front passenger seat and who wore a neatly pressed suit. But the next to exit the car was a familiar hostile.

Caretaker Dijkstra clambered out of the back seat, as skinny and stiff as ever—like a Popsicle stick wearing a tunic. Only this time, he was also dressed in what looked like a long gold-embroidered green bathrobe, the entire ensemble held together by a sequined belt. He tripped once on the robe’s bedazzled hemline before he skittered forward to hover behind the gray-suited stranger. But then Ethan’s body went rigid as a fourth man emerged from the back seat.

Known hostile number two.

The burly leather merchant strolled forward. Limping slightly, he came to stand beside the driver of the vehicle. A large white bandage was taped prominently over the swollen bridge of the merchant’s nose and there was an obvious bulge under the left shoulder of his shirt where someone must have dressed the knife wound Ethan had given him.

He should have ignored Vanessa’s pleas for his life and put that dagger through the bastard’s heart instead. She hadn’t recognized the merchant’s wares spread obscenely across his cart. She didn’t know what human skin looked like when it was tanned and treated, like the hide of a common white-tailed deer. One of Achterwaartsstad’s homeless had probably given their life for a pair of gloves that neatly matched those wallets.

The merchant seesawed his hulking shoulders and glared at Ethan as he wiped his right index finger under his nose, the gauze-covered splint on his middle finger making the motion clumsy.

Ethan felt Morgan shift. His second-in-command was no doubt resting a hand on his Glock 17.

The man in the suit stopped a few meters away and made a huffing noise as he smoothed his tie. The man’s eyes swept twice over the mask covering Ethan’s face, making it plain that the unusual sight unnerved him.

“I am Mr. Alpers, one of Mayor Visser’s chief advisors and representatives,” the man announced.

His voice shook almost as badly as his hands, which were unbuttoning and rebuttoning the bottom of his dust-gray suit jacket.

“We have come to press charges against all of you here, who have unrightfully taken over this building. You will be evicted at once and made to leave this province after we exact proper fines. In addition, we have come to take one of you into custody, who yesterday perpetrated a heinous act of violence against one of our upstanding citizens.” The man indicated the leather merchant with a swipe of his arm. “Mr. Reust is one of our most reputable vendors and was attacked in our streets.”

The merchant’s lips drew up, exposing the same crooked teeth that Ethan had recently tried to punch through the back of his skull.

That encounter in the city alley had been no accident. It had been obvious from the moment they’d locked glares that the merchant would come after him. Ethan was constantly prepared for such confrontations, as they had become routine for him whenever he occupied new territory. But he had not been prepared to feel rage. To feel possessive. And all of that had been his own fault.

Because he’d brought Vanessa with him.

He had not had that kind of distraction before, when facing an opponent. He had never been compromised by any motivation outside of defeating an enemy for the sake of survival. But she had a way of making him abandon his logic when she was near him, of evoking some primal need to protect her at all costs. Even now, every nerve ending sizzled as he recalled the way the merchant’s eyes had probed her—greedy and sadistic, as if he’d already tied her down and wormed himself onto her naked, bruised body. And then to see him actually putting his fucking paws on her…

Morgan grabbed Ethan by the elbow, stopping him when he unconsciously started moving toward the merchant. The lieutenant shook his head, and Ethan unfisted his hands.

“Mr. Reust accuses you, Mr. Evans, of this crime,” the well-dressed man went on firmly, seeming to have gathered confidence from the silence that met his speech. “It was done in the presence of several witnesses. We know you believe you can enforce your own set of laws within the walls of the compound, but we will not tolerate—”

“My compound.” Ethan kept his voice deceptively serene. The mayor’s representative paused with his mouth open. “And my rank is ‘captain.’ Use it.”

Mr. Alpers made a louder huffing noise than before, and his fingers began to unbutton and rebutton his jacket again.

Dijkstra pushed past Mr. Alpers and jabbed his finger at Ethan. “The compound is not yours! It is not!” he declared in his shrill, whining voice. “Burgemeester Visser recognizes only me as the rightful caretaker! I have told him how you—”

“Kop houden!” Mr. Alpers stepped forward and seized Dijkstra’s sleeve, glaring so hard it shriveled his face. “Laat mij dit regelen!”

Dijkstra adjusted the belt on his robe with a jerk, which bounced the hundreds of sequin reflections dotting the ground.

Mr. Alpers swiveled back to Ethan. “As for your recent conduct, we will neither tolerate nor exonerate such behavior. Therefore, we have come to arrest—”

“Then you’ve wasted a trip.”

Off to the side, both Nicolo and Angelo straightened and slid off the Boxer’s hood. Morgan had already drawn his pistol and stood with it held at his side. The movements of all Ethan’s men were not lost on Mr. Alpers or the others accompanying him.

Ethan gave an upward nod to indicate the driver standing behind the mayor’s advisor. “This your constable?”

Mr. Alpers stiffened his back and tugged briskly on his suit vest. “Yes. Our hoofdagent—senior constable—of the Achterwaartsstad regiokorps politie.”

The mustached driver sauntered forward. He was almost as tall as the captain and tried to emphasize that point by standing much closer than was necessary. He was a walking dump truck of a man with a broad forehead who—just like the leather merchant—looked about as sharp as a bowl of shit.

Ethan eyed the officer in his faded navy-blue shirt that sported two yellow bands across the chest, complete with four dark-gold bars on his shoulders to designate his rank. The constable overshadowed the others within the small retinue like a beady-eyed bouncer, but the bully image was diminished by the short sword at his side. There was a long scar that ran halfway around the constable’s neck. He had probably inflicted that injury upon himself to exaggerate his tough-guy look.

And this was the man Vanessa said had taken no interest in finding her parents’ killer.

Ethan flexed his left hand.

That alone was worth snapping the asshole’s neck.

Ethan looked back at Mr. Alpers. “I don’t have time for this.”

Behind him, there came a chorus of safeties disengaging and gun hammers being cocked. He could sense that all his men had leveled their muzzles at the entourage.

Mr. Alpers blanched and took a step back. But the constable held his ground. Ethan slowly rotated his head like a tank turret and shot a glare straight into the man’s eyes. He reached across his chest, pulled the SIG from its holster, and fully extended his left arm to aim the gun at the officer’s forehead. The constable’s eyes widened, though he immediately tried to hide the look of unease that crossed his face.

Ethan cocked the spurred hammer with his thumb. “Ready to try your sword skills?”

The corner of the constable’s mouth twitched, and he pressed his lips together. The response was one Ethan had seen a hundred times: a precursor to retreat.

The constable’s face reddened until his mustache looked like it would melt into the skin. Then he backed away.

Ethan eased the hammer back into place and was about to return the gun to its holster when the leather merchant lurched forward. It took only the barest movement of Ethan’s index finger to make his soldiers hold their fire.

The merchant seized him by the shirt, but in a blur of motion, Ethan had already passed the SIG to his right hand and had his H&K drawn before the man knew what was happening. Ethan shoved both guns at opposing angles against the merchant’s heart and spoke through his teeth.

“Now we’re finished.”

He pulled the triggers.

The double shots were loud but muffled. Red spray misted the face of Mr. Alpers beyond. The caretaker jumped backward, his feet tangling in his bathrobe, and stared.

The merchant’s eyes—frozen wide—glazed over. He dropped to his knees and fell to the ground face-first like a bag of dumbbells.

Ethan raised his head and looked at the constable, who clutched the handle of his sword and panted, a hand covering his cheek. He pulled his fingers away, and there was an oozing gash where one of the bullets had grazed his face as it had exited the back of the merchant’s body.

Ethan slid his P8 into the holster at his hip and passed the SIG back into his left hand. He looked directly at Mr. Alpers. “Anything else?”

Mr. Alpers looked like he may have soiled himself. “Mr. Evans—” He wiped a trembling hand over his face—smearing the red speckles down his cheeks—and then swallowed. “I mean, Captain Evans…” His eyes fastened to the gun that now lay loosely on Ethan’s palm. “You must understand, we—we cannot let this pass. Especially now that you have—have committed—” His eyes fell to the merchant’s mountainous cadaver, where its blood pushed through the dirt in snakelike rivulets. “There will be a reckoning!”

Ethan turned away and started walking. “Put it on my tab.”