Page 23 of ’Til You Break

“Once the item reaches its new owner, Frank sends in a crew to retrieve it. He delivers his message, pockets the insurance money, and then keeps the item himself.”

“What about the secrets?” If I understand this correctly, my father must have received one of these items for Shadow’s theory to make sense. Could whatever it contained have been worth my mother’s life?

“Can’t say. Until I see one for myself, that part of the puzzle remains a mystery.”

“Send me his address. I’ll pay him a visit after work.”

I end the call and hand my phone back to Duke.

“Who’s next?” I ask the brave men standing around the ring.

I am invigorated by the knowledge that I’m finally inching closer to the truth.

***

Although I have a team who assist with my business dealings, I work alone when it comes to my more unholy acts. That isn’t because I don’t trust them. If we were working together in the field, I’d trust the men and women I employ with my life.

The problem is that I don’t like having to use them in the first place. They’re the best at what they do, but so am I. What I don’t want is conflicting opinions about how my revenge should unfold. I want to savor every moment of it and claim what’s mine in whatever manner I see fit. Besides, having anyone else present would dilute the experience.

I’ve grown to enjoy these quiet, private encounters with my victims. Discovering what makes them tick. Watching them squirm once they realize it’s over.

And so, I arrive at Frank Coleman’s home alone. With an almost clear mind.

Frank Coleman lives alone, divorced from his wife and estranged from his children. It’s close to midnight, and there’s no moon in the sky. Apart from a row of streetlights, the neighborhood is cloaked in darkness. The perfect cover for a covert operation.

The blueprints Shadow sent, alongside the address, mean I could find my way through Frank’s house blindfolded.

It’s a modest home in the middle of suburbia. Downstairs, an open-plan living room and kitchen extend from the entryway and staircase, while a separate reception room occupies the opposite side of the house. Three bedrooms, a gym, and a home office make up the upper floor.

A network of cameras surrounds the property. Fortunately for me, every one of them was manufactured by my home-security division. Given enough time, I could have breached another system, but it’s considerably easier when I already know which weaknesses to exploit in my own software.

Even so, I don’t approach the house from the front.

The doorbell camera may be disabled, but no walls separate his property from the other houses along the street. The last thing I need is a nosy neighbor peering through the blinds while I break in. So, I stick to the shadows as I circle the house, careful to avoid bushes and flower beds so I leave as little evidence of my presence as possible.

A white picket fence separates the front garden from the back. It must be a rule of the homeowners’ association guidelines because every neighboring property has the same design. The fence barely reaches my waist, and I clear it with ease.

I test each window and door as I move around the property, checking whether any are unlocked or offer enough give for me to slide in my pry bar.

When I find no easy point of entry, I return to a window overlooking the living room. It’s the largest one I inspected and should give me enough space to climb through.

My size has its advantages. I’m tall, broad, and intimidating. However, when a job requires finesse, it becomes a disadvantage.

I force the pry bar as far as it will go into the wooden frame and wrench it backward until the metal bolts securing the window snap. The frame gives with a dull thud, but the sound shouldn’t travel far enough to wake the neighbors.

Alerting Frank is a risk, but I have no other way inside. Lock-picking has never been a skill I cared to learn. It belongs to thieves and conmen. The same kind of men who broke into our home all those years ago.

I draw my pistol and clear the ground floor, listening for any movement above me.

Once I’m satisfied the lower level is empty, I head upstairs and search each room on my way to Frank’s bedroom. I open every door slowly, the barrel of my gun trained on any potential threat before I go forward.

When I finally reach Frank’s room, I find him asleep in bed.

He has a white-noise machine on his bedside table, which probably prevented him from hearing me force the window downstairs.

“Wake up, Frank,” I say, my voice muffled by the mask I am wearing.

He grumbles as he’s dragged from sleep. Then his eyes focus on me, and he jolts upright with an ear-piercing scream. It’s music to my ears.