A False Dawn

SEVENTY-FOUR

Miguel Santana avoided a security camera at the gatepost by slipping under the fence. He blended with the long shadows as he approached the Brennen estate. He remembered the layout of the house. Little had changed. Except now, Josh Brennen had security cameras hidden discreetly inside the home.

Santana tried a side door. Unlocked. A very stupid thing to do. But the old man did stupid things. That was his way. Let the chips fall. Somebody else could sweep them away.

Santana closed the door softly and started toward the center of the house, more hidden cameras recording his movements. He could hear the television playing, the noise sounding like a war movie.

The old man was alone. He slouched in his leather recliner, feet up, a bottle of expensive scotch half gone. He watched a Bruce Willis movie, his eyes barely open.

Santana entered the room and stood there, observing. He could easily walk over and snap the bastard’s neck, look him in the eye, and watch him die. Or he could make it more spectacular. Maybe burn the mansion down. Let the ashes fall where they will.

Santana lifted the empty glass out of Brennen’s hand and stood there as Brennen’s eyes batted a few times before he was fully awake. He looked up. His mouth opened but there were no words, only a gurgling sound coming through vocal cords thick with mucus and sleep. He cleared his throat. “Who the hell are you? This some kind of robbery?”

Brennen started to stand but Santana pushed him hard on the chest. Santana laughed. He lifted the bottle, poured some scotch into the glass, and handed it to Brennen. He then stepped to the bar, got a second glass, and poured scotch into it. He walked back in front of Brennen’s chair.

Santana said, “Shall we toast?”

“Get the fuck outta my house!”

Santana smiled. He lifted his glass and said, “To you…and everything you are…Father.”