Spy for Hire by Dan Mayland

night-vision goggles, a body armor vest with spare plates, a SOG SEAL Team knife, a Sig Sauer Mosquito pistol with a threaded barrel, a suppressor that could be screwed onto the barrel of the Mosquito, a short version of an M4 rifle, a box of ammo for the M4, three yards of detonation cord along with a few blasting caps, a thousand dollars in cash, a Leatherman tool, an LED headlamp, a compass, a tin of Skoal Straight dip, and a first aid kit.
    Deck considered what to bring. He was just there to pick up a package; better to travel light, he thought.
    He strapped on a shoulder holster, glanced around for cops—except for the M4, all the guns were unlicensed—slotted the Sig Sauer P226 into it, put on a nylon jacket that had been on the floor of the cargo area, zipped it up so that his gun was hidden, and slipped two spare, fully loaded P226 magazines into each pocket of the jacket. Recalling that Mark and Daria’s condominium had appeared dark when he’d driven past it, he grabbed his night-vision goggles and slid them into an inside pocket.
    After packing the rest of his gear back up, he climbed out of the car, walked down a few alleys, and then ducked in and out of the hospital on the opposite side of the street. Finally, when he’d convinced himself that no one was following him on foot, he walked across the street to Mark and Daria’s condo.
    He let himself into the open stairwell, climbed one flight of steps, and knocked on a new metal door, expecting—with some trepidation—that Daria would answer.
    Before Daria had quit the spy business, he’d worked with her on a job. A couple weeks into it, he’d taken her out to dinner. His advances, he recalled, had gone nowhere. They weren’t right for each other, he knew, but he still found her distractingly attractive.
    Which, since she was with Mark, sometimes made him feel awkward around her.
    He knocked again. No one answered, so he tried the door. It was locked. The light in the hallway was dim, but it was even darker along the crack between the door and the floor—which told him that the lights were off inside.
    Well, damn, he thought. He knew Mark and Daria had a pretty sophisticated alarm system. Breaking down the door would set it off. If that was what it took, that was what it took, but Decker thought it couldn’t hurt to look for an open window. So he trudged back down to the street. That was when he noticed the loop of rope hanging off the balcony—and that the balcony door was cracked open an inch.
    Bingo.
    He waited a minute until the sidewalk was clear of pedestrians, and then ran at the exterior wall of Mark and Daria’s building. When he was close, he leaped several feet in the air, pushed up with his right foot when it hit the wall, and grabbed at the dangling rope with his left hand.
    Two seconds later, he was standing silently on the balcony, his hand on the grip of his pistol, listening for sounds inside. All the lights still appeared to be off. He heard nothing, so after a minute, he slipped on his night-vision goggles, gently eased the balcony door open, and ducked inside, drawing his gun as he did so.
    “Someone’s been having a party,” Decker said to himself.
    The cushions had been removed from the living room sofa. Crumpled pieces of paper, a vase, and narde pieces were scattered all over the floor. A glass of milk and an open box of butter cookies sat on the kitchen table. Then Decker noticed a big box of what looked like diapers—he couldn’t read the Cyrillic letters, so he couldn’t be sure—on the coffee table in front of the couch.
    Huh, he thought.
    Gun still drawn, he started looking for a package. Mark had said he’d know it when he saw it. And to be gentle. Which had made no sense to Decker at the time and made no sense to him now.
    He inspected the living room and kitchen, then ducked his head into Mark and Daria’s office. When he got to the bedroom, and saw that the sheets had been pulled from the bed onto what looked