Page 1 of Unlocked

CHAPTER ONE

The sound of snoring reached the assassin first.

Deep. Steady. Oblivious. Just the way quarries should be.

A button was flicked on the watch, the countdown beginning. The victim needed to be asleep but not so deeply he wouldn’t hear his phone. Timing was everything.

When the numbers hit zero, the killer slipped from the shadows and eased into the bedroom.

Richard North lay sprawled on his back across silk sheets, mouth open, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He smelled of whiskey and something expensive, cologne meant to announce money and power. His phone rested on the nightstand within easy reach.

Too easy.

The phone was lifted carefully, thumb hovering until the screen went dark. It wouldn’t do to have someone call at the wrong moment. That could throw off the timing, and digital records had a way of surviving even if people didn’t.

The killer stepped back. Watched. Waited.

The snoring continued.

Satisfied, the killer moved quietly from the room, carrying the phone downstairs. The penthouse unfolded in clean lines and empty spaces, too much square footage for one man. Richard liked it that way. Space to remind himself of what he owned.

In the living room, an identical phone was placed on the coffee table. Same model. Same ringtone. Richard’s phone, now silenced, was set beside it.

Perfect.

The killer retreated into the closet and leaned against the wall, breathing slowly and steadily. When the watch vibrated, the killer pressed the call button on the burner phone already in hand. The phone on the table rang.

Upstairs, Richard snored on.

Good.

The intruder slipped from the closet and crossed the room, movements economical, soundless. The plan was simple. However, simple didn’t translate to easy. It required patience. Precision. Qualities this assassin possessed in droves.

Halfway up the stairs, the killer pulled the skull mask with glowing eyes into place and then hit the call button again.

The phone rang.

The snoring stopped.

The killer stilled. “Come on,” came the whisper.

No movement.

Another call. The ringtone cut through the penthouse, sharp and insistent.

A snort. A groan. Then silence.

Yes.

Richard would assume he’d left his phone downstairs. He’d been drinking heavily, liquid courage for what was coming. An indictment by the Southern District of New York was not something to be taken lightly. Although Richard and his cronies were quite sure they would only get a slap on the wrist, the situation was stressful, and alcohol helped to dull his edges. It was also enough to blur memory. He wouldn’t remember placing the phone by the bed. He wouldn’t question the ringing below.

Alcohol hadn’t made him brave. It had made him careless.

The phone rang once more.

Heavy movement followed. The squeak of the mattress. Bare feet slapping on the floor.

The killer melted into the shadows at the top of the stairs.