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“Are you sure this is where we ought to be?” Booker asks for the third time. He stands behind me with his arms crossed over his chest in a way that highlights the massive muscles he sports, which can only be achieved with heavy lifting. I’d once thought all the pomp and circumstance was for show, until I’d seen the fucker crack a guy’s skull. I stopped teasing the American after that. I’m rather fond of my skull being in one piece.
“Of course I’m sure, you twat.” I grunt, kneeling down in front of the high-tech security knob on the front door. “We double-checked the address a hundred times.”
“Just checking.” Booker keeps his gaze trained on the hallway, keeping an eye out for trouble. He and Gage make up the muscle in our team. They are both so large, they are intimidating simply from appearance alone. Pair that with the masks we all currently wear to keep our identities anonymous, and anyone who happens upon us will run screaming like a bunch of pansies. Rightly so. The four of us make up a strange group.
Booker is ex-military. I once asked him what his job had been back in the States, but he refused to tell me, which meant it was either really fucked up or really stupid. The way he carries himself tells me it’s the former. Booker is from Oklahoma, or so he once said. He’s the kind of man who drops facts once and then they never come up again. I am inclined to believe him because of the Southern accent that tinges all his words. The fucker gets all sorts of pussy here in London with a mouth like that. If he goes out with his cowboy hat, it’s damn near impossible to keep the broads off him. At forty years old, I’ve heard far too many women call him Daddy. I can’t say I’m not jealous of that kind of charisma though. That accent is how we got past the receptionist downstairs, after all.
Gage falls on the opposite side of the spectrum from Booker. Quiet and imposing, the massive wanker prefers to keep to himself most of the time. If he weren’t one hell of a weapons expert, I might have dismissed him once upon a time. Now, I know him for the asset he is. I’ve once seen him break down and reassemble a gun in ten seconds, almost too fast to follow. Where Booker got his knowledge from the US military, Gage’s experience comes from the streets. He was always in trouble with the law one way or the other as a kid, so Gage spent a few years in juvie and a few more in prison. I wouldn’t have liked that kind of heat on our operation, but Gage has gotten clever over the years. He’s not much better now, he’s just better at not getting caught.
With the two meatheads hovering behind me, it takes everything in me to focus on the keypad and my attempt at unlocking it. My instincts want the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. It doesn’t matter that Gage and Booker are on my side, because some ingrained, ancient instinct still perceives them as a threat.
“How long is this going to take?” Eric asks as he leans against the wall like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The fucker has no sense of urgency, but he’s as impatient as they come. He doesn’t have a sense for most things.
The youngest of our squad, Eric is the tall, blond, cocky motherfucker every crime ring needs. Where Booker is a daddy, Eric is definitely the panty melting bad boy. Hell, if I liked dick, I might even be interested. Even as straight as they come, I can admit that Eric is the epitome of what females appreciate. If not for his piss-poor attitude and the fact that he’s crazy, he’d almost be perfect. As it is, it’s not unusual to find some sex drunk woman stumbling from his room in the early hours of the morning. He never lets them stay—a rule we made long ago—but if someone could write a book on picking up women, it would be that asshole.
Personally, I can’t see working so hard to impress women. They are nothing but trouble, though their pussies are nice enough. I prefer my computers to any of the rich bitches we come into contact with.
The panel before me emits a soft beep, and the lock clicks. With a grin, I turn the knob and gently push the door open, waiting to see if there are any extra security measures. Once, we found our way inside a house where they had a guard dog. We couldn’t shoot the damned thing without setting off alarms. Luckily, we hadn’t needed to. Eric, with his insanity, tackled the dog and had the beast eating out of his hand by the time the hit was over.
This time, there’s no barking or growling. There’s nothing at all except for the security panel that came with the building. It’s high-end, but in places like this, people usually add their own security measures on top of it.
“That’s strange,” I comment, getting to my feet. “There’s usually more than this.”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Booker mutters, pushing past me and stepping inside, his pistol raised in case of trouble. Once he and Gage look around, he turns back to Eric and me. “We’re clear. I don’t see any cameras.”
My brow furrows harder. “No cameras?”
“Maybe she likes her privacy?” Eric shrugs. “The rich don’t like others seeing their debauchery.” His brows wiggle, implying he’s the exact debauchery that gets recorded on rich bitches’ security cameras. He probably is.
“Yeah, maybe.”
I glance around the apartment, taking in the décor. It’s classier than some of the places we’ve hit. There’s a wide variety of rich pigs. Some of them like things so sleek and modern, nothing has handles. I hate those places. It can take five minutes to figure out how to open a damned drawer because there are no handles or knobs. It’s like a massive fucking puzzle.
Some of them fill their residences with all sorts of gaudy shit—paintings worth more than most people make in their entire lifetime, sculptures of naked men and women, and gold leaf on everything. I swear those ones are just so accustomed to having money that they don’t even realise they shit gold. It fucking disgusts me that people can have so much money, they have no concept of what it’s like for the rest of us. Just once, I’d like to know that what we do hurts the motherfuckers. It never does. They write it off on their insurance and losses like it’s just another Tuesday.
Pigs.
Right away, I know this woman isn’t the same as either of those options. The apartment is decorated just like the elite do—the appliances and TVs are top-notch—but there’s something different. The sofa is a little worn, as if she spends her time there in front of the TV rather than at the large wooden dining table. It’s clearly for comfort rather than appearances. The cushions are indented in the exact spot she must like to sit. There are pictures hanging on the walls, but not the pompous, formal pictures that usually fill rich homes. These are pictures like the ones I might have had.
As Booker, Gage, and Eric set about finding anything of worth in the apartment, I move closer to the images, studying them. If I didn’t know exactly whose apartment we were in, I wouldn’t have recognised her. Despite the paparazzi always catching Genevieve Dalton with pristine hair and makeup, these pictures show her looking far more normal. Her smile is wide as she poses with friends on the street, at a pub, at some sort of street party, or making funny faces. There are so many memories here that look nothing like they should. Where are the pictures of her on yachts and at charity parties? Supposedly, she’s hosting one right this very minute.
If we weren’t here to rob her blind, I might have been more curious about her. Instead, I make a mental note to look deeper into her history later. Right now, the only history I care about is her engagement to Chaz Dandridge III. Now there’s a fucking asshole.
“Hey, boss,” Booker calls from the bedroom. All the apartments are the same, the blueprints readily available online, showing the layout of each one.
“Yeah?” I answer, turning towards the doorway. “What is it?”
“You might want to come see this.”
“Christ’s sake, what now?” I rumble, following Booker into the bedroom and towards the jewellery chest against the wall. It’s small by most standards. A lot of the rich have whole rooms dedicated to their jewellery, but this chest looks like something my mother might have bought, God rest her soul. “What’s that?”
“The only jewellery box in the whole apartment,” Booker answers solemnly.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“Wish I was.” Booker shakes his head. “That’s not the worst of it. Come have a look inside.”
Moving to the chest and lifting the lid, I blink in surprise. “What the bloody hell is this?”
Eric leans over and plucks out a plastic-looking ring before sliding it onto his finger and posing with it. “Looks like costume jewellery to me. Our lady likes to have a good time at pub crawls, it seems.” The ring is pink with a shiny heart on top of it. Who keeps cheap pub crawl prizes?
“No.” I slam the lid down and pull open a drawer. There are a few empty velvet boxes that look like they normally hold something of value. They do us no good now though. Slamming the drawer closed, I open another, finding necklaces that hold no value. If there are any jewels in them, they are cheap ones, the gold looking plated and useless. “No, no, no. Where are the diamonds? The rubies? The emeralds?”
“The bottom drawer had a few trinkets that could be worth something,” Booker comments. “But it doesn’t look like our girl has much of a taste for the gaudy stuff.”
Gage comes around the corner, his hands empty. “Looks like she doesn’t have anything worth stealing, boss. That is, unless you want to take her TV. There’s a small safe behind the picture in the living room, but that’s about it.”
A scowl stretches across my face as I rip off my mask. “What the actual fuck?”
