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Hugo knew better. He really did.
Yet somehow, he still found himself crouching in the bushes in the dead of night. The target's house, with all of its dark windows and old red brick walls, stared back at him. The house had to be nearly two hundred years old, yet it was more sturdy and stubborn than most modern buildings.
Just like its owner, Hugo thought.
He lifted a hand to his earpiece. "Red-21 to Blue-16. I have eyes on the place. Over."
It only took a moment before he heard her sweet, gentle voice reply. "I hear you. Does everything look okay?"
He frowned at her lack of radio etiquette. He'd explained to her the proper terms to use, even had her repeat them back several times, but-
"It's fine," he grunted. "Perfectly fine. Red-21 to Blue-16. Looks dark. Quiet. I'm going to go in. Over."
"Roger that, sweetie! Be careful"
He, a six-foot-four bear of a man, cringed. This was a very serious, very dangerous mission, so much so that his good buddy refused to help him. Some friend that was. They'd gone through some of the worst firefights in Syria together, but his buddy drew the line at this house. Now Hugo had to rely on his girlfriend to act as his spotter.
Hugo left the safety of the bush. He crept forward on his elbows, his body low to the ground. The single plum tree sitting in the middle of the perfectly manicured lawn provided very little shelter, so he had to rely on the darkness of night.
It took an agonizing four minutes to reach the house. Sure, it would have been far easier to simply walk over like a normal person, but Hugo refused to take any chances. The owner of this house could have targeted laser sensors connected to automatic rifles. Or worse, flamethrowers. Who knew? With the kind of crazy the owner was, anything could happen.
Instead of trying to break through the front door—only amateurs would do something so idiotic, Hugo crept around the side of the house. He carefully passed beneath an open window, which he wasn't going to fall for.
He knew better than that.
"Are you inside yet?"
The sudden voice in his ear made him jump. His shoulder bumped against brick. It made the slightest of scuffing sounds. The crickets stopped. Hugo froze. He held his breath. Listened.
Something creaked inside the house. A footstep? Or just the groan of an old house settling?
He didn't move for an entire minute. It wasn't until the crickets resumed chattering that he moved on, following the wall until he reached the rear of the house. A garden greeted him in the backyard, and he gave it and the suspiciously large hills of dirt a wary glance. There was a shovel planted beside one of the hills, standing upright like a tombstone.
"Hugo, darling?"
"Shhh!" He hissed. He went to the back door, and took a brief moment to peer through its window. He glimpsed a shadowed hall. No signs of movement.
He let out a relieved breath. Then he crouched, and dug out his set of picks from the pack. With a few expert manipulations, he shifted the lock.
Hugo gently turned the knob and pushed the door open. It groaned, ever so slightly. He tensed, but heard nothing move inside. Perfect.
He executed a perfect roll forward, keeping low and in a crouch. After waiting a second, during which nothing happened, he finally stood up. Relief flooded him.
Hugo nudged the door shut with a foot. Then he took one shuffling step forward.
"You bastard!"
He dropped to the ground on pure instinct.
Thud thud thud!
Three knives hit the wall above him. He scrambled into the nearest room, the kitchen. Footsteps stomped towards him.
"Get out of my house!"
Hugo heard the whish of something flying at him, and ducked once more. A fork stabbed into drywall beside his head, even as a burst of pain struck his shoulder.
A gasp ripped from him. The crazed woman was throwing cutlery at him?
He grabbed a cookie tray from the counter and spun, holding it up like a shield. A mug smashed into it and burst apart. Pieces of glass rained down around him. Hugo lowered it a fraction and saw her: a towering figure almost as big as him, looming in the doorway.
She snatched up her next weapon: one of the kitchen chairs.
Hugo couldn't bear it any longer.
"Stop it!" He shouted.
"No!"
The chair flew at him. He blocked it with a forearm, grunting as pain speared across his arm.
"Come on," he exclaimed.
"Get out of my house, you bastard!"
"Mother, please!" he pleaded. "I just wanted to use the washing machine!"
