Baptism by Fire
JACKSON
I wasn’t exactly blending in.
I was six-two (six-four, if you counted the costume) and I was roaming the upstairs hallways with padded shoulders wider than a doorway.
Jeff was nowhere to be found.
I wandered into half-opened bedrooms, sneaked my way into bathrooms, and the only things I found were lines of coke and various forms of f*****g happening within ear-shot of each ill-concealed doorway.
The lighting on the second level of the mansion was even dimmer than that of the floor below. I squinted through the eye-slits of my black rubber mask. I hadn’t exactly thought my costume all the way through.
It was bulky. I had virtually no peripheral vision, and my weapons were tucked within a layer of lining so thick that it could probably withstand a hollow-tipped
