Free The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) by Mark Dawson Page A

he was interested.
    Öztürk had been his first. That operation had been just as advertised. A bad man had been taken out. The fact that he had a lot of money was a useful side benefit.
    But now this.
    Isaacs.
    Fabian.
    It was not the job that had been advertised at all.
    The reality of becoming a member of the Feather Men was not what he had been sold.
    He was jolted out of his reverie by the ringing of his telephone.
    “What’s going on?” It was Alistair Woodward.
    “Fabian’s still inside. No sign that he’s awake. Where are you?”
    “London.”
    “What are we doing?”
    “Not we—you. The general wants you to break in and give him a warning.”
    “What kind of warning?”
    “He needs to know that it’s not a good idea to threaten people we’re looking after. Be persuasive.”
    “How persuasive?”
    “Use your imagination. But make it good.”

Chapter Twelve
     
    HICKS PUT the car into first and pulled out, driving down the road until he was completely out of sight of Fabian’s house. He had no desire to make it easy for the man to spot his registration plate after he had done what he was going to have to do. He waited until the only other car he had seen in the last hour had rolled past the window and then opened the glove box. He pulled a pair of latex gloves onto his hands and checked that his Browning was easily accessible in its shoulder holster. It was. He took off his jacket, slipped the holster on, and then replaced his jacket.
    He got out of the car, leaving the door unlocked, and quickly walked back to the house. The gate to the front garden was unoiled and it opened with a creak that seemed much louder than it actually was. He paused on the step for a moment, assured himself that all was well, and then crossed the garden in three paces. The front door was made of wood, thin and flimsy enough that it would have opened with a firm kick. That was not an option, though. Hicks had to be quiet. He knelt before it and flipped aside the hinged lid that obscured the keyhole. The lock was a simple mortice. He took out his lock pick, slipped it into the keyhole and then followed it with the long L-shaped tension wrench. He used the wrench to apply torque to the pins to prevent them from being pushed back down into place and, once he had found the correct alignment for the pins, he turned the handle and gently pushed the door open.
    He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.
    He stood there for thirty seconds and just listened. As far as he had been able to ascertain, there was no one else in the house. Hicks closed his eyes and acclimatised. He heard the tick of water falling into a metal basin from a leaking tap. He heard the creak of a pipe. He heard the sound of a cat mewling in the back garden and then the louder screech of a fox. He held his breath and strained his hearing, concentrating on the first floor, listening for anything that might suggest that Fabian was awake. He heard nothing until, after a moment, he heard the unmistakeable sound of snoring.
    Good.
    He opened his eyes and took a balaclava from his pocket. He put it on, settling the woollen garment so that only his eyes were visible. He took a pair of thin latex overshoes and slipped them over his boots. Finally, he took out a small shielded flashlight, switched it on and cast the light around so that he could survey his surroundings more thoroughly. The hall was a mess. There was a pile of mail on the floor just behind the door, surely several weeks’ worth, and another stack that had been precariously balanced on a small table that also held a telephone and a bunch of keys. He reached out and took an envelope from the pile, holding it between gloved thumb and forefinger. It was a bill, angry red showing through the envelope window, addressed to Edward Fabian. He put it down again.
    Hicks reached into his jacket, released the clip on his shoulder holster, and withdrew the pistol. It was a Hi-Power, the model favoured by