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But it only worked because he had an old, shoddy back door.
This house is state of the art. Probably monitored too. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching me right this very moment.
Still, that isn’t a reason to stop myself from sniffing around.
Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find a card I can use. Or a key. Who knows.
It’s better than sitting around and doing nothing, so I get up and comb through the house again. Too bad he’s locked the door to his bedroom, so I can’t search there. But what he hadn’t thought of was cleaning the insides of the pockets of his old coats.
And one of them contains a thin card…
Perfect.
Accompanying Song: “Immigrant Song” by Karen O with Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
Chase
My eyes glance over the drawn image of one of the men inside the auction. Now we have a name to go with it.
“You’re sure he lives here?” I ask as Brandon drives the car.
“Yep. Checked it twice.”
I raise my brow.
“My contacts at the bureau can be trusted,” he adds.
“If you say so.”
“Hey, you were the one who asked me to expedite this.”
“Yes. I needed something to do today.”
He gazes my way. “That’s the only reason?”
“No. I want to save the boy too. If he’s still there …” My hands ball into fists.
“And then what? Keep him in your house too?” he muses.
“No, of course not. We’re going to free him.”
“Right. Because boys aren’t your thing,” he taunts.
“Oh, fuck you,” I say, sighing.
He laughs. “It’s so easy to piss you off.”
He drives slowly, too slow, making my temper worse. “Can we go a bit quicker?”
“Why?” He frowns. “Got somewhere else to be?”
The way he looks at me is enough to know what he’s thinking.
He’s trying to steer this conversation back to the girl again, but I’m not having it.
“No, I’m just excited.” I tuck the drawing back into my pocket. “How much farther?”
“A couple of minutes.”
“How convenient that one of them lives so close.”
“You sure that’s convenient? We don’t want the cops to track it back to us.”
“They won’t,” I say with a smirk. “I always come prepared.” I gaze his way. “What about you? Figured out if you’re going to help me or not?”
He shrugs. “That depends.”
“On what?” I ask.
Now it’s his turn to smile wickedly. “If you let me do my thing.” He winks.
I grin and shake my head. “Great. It’s settled then.”
When we arrive, he parks the car somewhere far from the building, and I immediately jump out to grab the bag of gear from the back seat. I throw it over my shoulder while Brandon puts on his mask and helps me put on mine.
“Ready?” I ask, sliding on my gloves.
He nods as he slips on his gloves. “Let’s do this.”
With our weapons by our side, we march out of the alley and into the streets, crossing several blocks before we reach his home. Going in through the main lobby, we find one security guard and a single camera hanging from the top left corner. Child’s play.
While I walk up to the guard, Brandon disables the camera with spray paint. The moment the guard raises his voice, I sucker punch him in the face. He falls to the floor, knocked out instantly.
Brandon quickly ropes him to his chair and binds a piece of cloth around his face so he won’t scream. Then we close the window blinds and barricade the door with a chair. No one can come in now. No one will interrupt our game.
We move through the corridor quickly, hopping into the elevator and pushing the correct number. The ride up seems eternal, and the dinging sound that plays through the microphones only makes it seem more depraved.
It feels like my blood is curdling. That’s how excited I am as we approach his penthouse. The rich motherfucker thinks he’s safe up there in his perfect shrine. He has no idea we’re coming. No idea what’s going to happen to him in just a few seconds.
As we stand in front of the door, Brandon and I throw each other a quick glance before he works to open the door with a small explosive that barely makes any noise.
When I kick open the door, he goes inside first.
Time seems to slow down as the man in front of the television turns around and the popcorn drops from his wide-open mouth. In his bathrobe, he gets up from the couch and screams.
I rush toward him and jab him in the throat, which stops the sounds from coming out.
We don’t want to alert the neighbors.
With another punch to the gut, he’s buckled over, heaving heavily.
I grasp him by the hair and say calmly, “Where is the boy?”
“Boy? What boy?” he huffs and puffs.
I narrow my eyes as Brandon approaches him from behind with a sturdy rope he took out of the bag. “Tie him down.”
