This job should be easy.
Brock walked toward the study, the one room he’d been told to search. He was to leave no trace—no drawers left open; no items disturbed. The Coulters were old. If they ever noticed the contract was gone, they’d just assume they’d misplaced it. That was the idea. No alarms. No questions. They’d ask for a copy and be given therightcopy—the one they were supposed to have been given in the first place.
Brock didn’t know how the contracts had been screwed up; he’d simply been hired to retrieve them. He only worked for Mitchell Robinson on occasion, whenever Mitchell needed a light hand and no trace back to him.
He should never have brought Rena and Sam along this time. They’d joined him only infrequently, when the job wasn’t dangerous. And he thought this job would be a piece of cake. Four houses, four days, two hundred thousand bucks. And, sure, he had needed Sam’s electronics skill in two of the homes. But he could have done it differently, without putting the two people he loved in this world at risk.
It had been anything but easy, anything but safe. And now his brother-in-law had buckshot in his gut and if he died, Brock might just kill Mitchell Robinson. Not because it was his fault, but because Brock loved his brother-in-law, he loved his wife, and life wouldn’t be the same without Sam.
He pushed his growing grief aside. Sam wasn’t dead; he would make it. They had a doctor back home in Louisiana who, for the right price, would fix Sam and look the other way, no gunshot reported to the authorities.
Brock carefully, discreetly searched the small den. This was all business. A rolltop desk, a three-drawer filing cabinet, a bookshelf filled with farm manuals and old copies of theFarmers’ Almanac. The Coulters were orderly people: he opened the filing cabinet as the best bet for the contract. In the top drawer were records for their two bulls: breeding contracts, folders on every cow sired, health records, and more. He glanced at the bottom line—he had no idea studs could make this much money. It might be something to think about, because he wasn’t going to work for Mitchell Robinson anymore.
The second drawer had insurance papers, bills, and right there in the front, a folder labeledVerdacorp.
Brock took it out, laid it on the desk, and opened it, careful not to let the paper crinkle too loudly. He knew no one was home, but… habit.
Because sometimes he robbed people quietly while they slept.
He studied the contract and frowned.
This wasn’t the original.
Text, letterhead, that was right. But it was a cheap copy with an odd faint gray line running down the middle. The paper felt different, too. Too smooth. Like it came out of a home copier.
He glanced at a low table to the left of the desk, where a copier sat, the steady orange light telling him the device was asleep.
Well, shit.
Brock pulled out his phone and hit the last number who’d called him.
“Robinson.”
“It’s me,” Brock said. “We’ve got a problem. The original isn’t here.”
A pause on the other end. Rain pelted against the windows.
“Are you sure?” Mitchell’s voice was sharp, almost accusatory. “They only signed it last week. They have the original.”
“I’m looking at it. Signatures are a copy. Paper doesn’t even feel right.”
Another pause. Then: “Tear the place apart.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Mitchell said. “There’s a safe. Has to be. They probably put it away after signing. Find it. If that paper ends up in the wrong hands, my business is done. I’ll lose everything. Do you understand? I don’t care if you rip out the goddamn floorboards. Because remember: if I don’t have all four original contracts in my hands before fivePMtomorrow, you get paid nothing.”
The call ended.
Brock stared at the phone for a moment. That fucking asshole.
Fueled partly by anger, Brock methodically took apart the house. Fast but careful, so he didn’t miss any possible hiding place. Pulled books from shelves, overturned drawers, peeled back rugs. He searched closets, cabinets, the pantry. Looked behind picture frames, under mattresses, inside the crocheted piano bench. In the master bedroom he pulled every drawer and checked the backs for false panels.
Nothing.
The house began to feel tighter around him. The storm outside screamed louder. He realized how much noise he was making. How, despite the thunder, each clatter of a drawer echoed like a gunshot.
No safe. No hiding place. No contract.
