Page 63 of Captive

There are so many things that can go wrong. Even the best-laid plans can go up in flames, that I know better than most. But we aren’t the only ones on this team. Even though we might not see them, there are other people nearby, others who are doing their part to make this as smooth of a process as it can possibly be.

The houses on the street are huge, mansions decked out with lights shining brightly onto their exterior to show off their wealth, even in the dark. We pass a parked car that’s not near any house in particular, and no one’s inside it. I wonder if it belongs to the other team, the one who’s going to take care of the power in the area.

“When’s the power going to go out?” I ask, poking my head between the guys in the front seat. I haven’t seen any cameras near the street; I bet most of these people think they’re safe here, in their large, not-so-cozy homes. So comfortable with their money that they don’t think anyone would ever dare to break into them.

They’re wrong, of course. If you can count on rich people for one thing, it’s that their noses are always so far up their own asses that they can’t see the big picture in front of them. They’re too busy smelling their own shit and complimenting each other on the stench.

“Should be anytime now,” Ezra remarks, glancing all around us as we drive. We stopped a little ways away and put on our masks, got on our gloves; you know, the whole D.D.K. ensemble. We are ready to break in and do what we came here to do.

Royal starts to ask, “How will we know—”

It’s like a scene out of a comedy. As he’s asking that question, the outside lights that decorate each expansive house shut off all at once. Even the fancy streetlights go out. The whole street descends into darkness just like that, and the sky is thick with so many clouds that even the moon doesn’t illuminate the way.

“Guess that’s that,” he mutters.

We come upon Connor’s abode within a minute, and we pull up to the closed gate. Ezra hops out of the car after looking all around, and he pushes open the metal gate. Royal rolls the car through, and only then does Ezra let it go.

We park on the side of the house soon after that, and if I thought the anticipation was thick in my veins before, it’s even heavier now. We get out of the car and make our way to the door. Not the front door, but the side door that leads into the multi-car garage. As Royal picks the lock, I already know what we’ll find in that garage. We might not be able to see them, but I don’t doubt there will be sportscars and other vehicles most people could never dream of.

Ezra stands close, holding the bag with our weapons, and from where I stand in the darkness, I can see them both. Wearing all black, they blend into the shadows, even with those masks. The words rise up in my head: And they’re all mine.

I truly don’t know where we’ll go from here, but it doesn’t matter, because we’re going to do it together.

Royal makes short work of the lock, and once his tools are safely back in his pocket, we slip inside the garage. We know our path through the house, so we can traverse it even in the darkness. Our eyes are used to the shadows, so even though there are no light sources in the garage, avoiding the fancy, ridiculously expensive cars isn’t an issue.

Royal’s first, then me, then Ezra. Before we step into the house, we stop to get ready. Royal and Ezra each get their chloroformed cloths ready. When it’s time, I’ll give them a wide berth. It’s late enough that even night owls should be asleep, and way too early for any morning birds to be awake. Our window is small; we need to do what we came here for and get out so the cleaning crew can do their job.

You’d think I’d be envious once we start prowling through the mansion. Jealous of the house, the life I could’ve had—certainly, if my sister never would’ve killed herself, I probably would’ve stayed in the rich circles in life, gotten married and probably popped out a baby or two by now for some guy who’s at least ten or fifteen years older than me.

Rich guys tend to like ‘em young. Trophy wives are a stereotype, but they’re a stereotype for a reason.

I’m not, though. The last thing I am is green with envy. Who needs a house this obscene? Who needs enough rooms to house an entire football team? Life isn’t about the size of your house or the expensive paintings inside it; it’s about the people you’re with and whether you’re happy.

And, for the first time in a long, long time, I am genuinely happy.

We go upstairs. There are a few rooms we check, rooms that could possibly be Connor’s bedroom. He has a flight out of the country tomorrow at noon, which means he should be in bed rather than out at a party, living it up like he never left high school. The blueprints did not label which room was his; each and every bedroom was labeled for property tax purposes, but beyond that, it’s up to us to find out where he is.

Deep into the second floor, in one of the rooms overlooking the backyard, we find him.

Fast asleep in his oversized bed, I spot him the moment I poke my head into the room, and as Royal and Ezra surround him on either side of the bed, preparing to chloroform him, I remain rooted right where I am near the door, watching.

It’s really happening. I admit, a part of me still doubted, even now, but here I am, staring right at him through the darkness. There’s no doubt left in me now.

Royal has the honors. He leans over the bed, practically crawling on top of it since Connor is sleeping in the center, and sets the cloth on his face. Connor wakes and reacts, but only for a few seconds before his movements become slow and ultimately fade back into unconsciousness.

When Royal says, “He’s out,” I move across the room and pull the curtains closed over what I assume are elegant windows with nice, gilded trim, and Ezra pulls out a battery-operated spotlight from our bag.

The harsh light flickers on, momentarily blinding us all, strong enough to illuminate the entire room. I squint like a madwoman as I approach the bed, and only when my eyes adjust do I see Connor laying limp in the center. Soft, plush sheets adorn his bed, and Royal works to yank them down as Ezra sets the bag on the floor and pulls out the ropes.

Connor is exposed shortly. He wears nothing but silky pajama bottoms, his body completely unmarred by any scars or tattoos. He might not be overly muscled—rich assholes hardly ever are—but he still takes care of himself. He doesn’t look like he gorges himself on food or extra calories. No, someone like him prefers to gorge himself in other ways.

You know, doing things that scar women for life and make them commit suicide.

I stand back and watch as Royal and Ezra tie him up. His bed has a huge frame, which means it’s easy for them to attach him and spread him out limb after limb. His mouth hangs open, his body jostling with the movement.

“He looks like a normal guy,” I say. “A rich asshole, but a normal one. That’s the thing. They always look normal. It’s their secret weapon, and they know how to use it to get whatever the hell they want.”

“It’s a shame we don’t have time to have a little chat with him, first,” Royal speaks with a hard frown. He finishes tying up his left wrist, and then he moves to his left ankle. He’s right; we don’t have time to fall down that particular rabbit hole. Not tonight, not here. We are under a time crunch. This will be the Downtown Dismemberer’s highest-profile kill yet.