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“I’ll be back,” I tell them. Then I head out, making my way down to the first floor and heading for the modified garage.
One of the benefits of our chop shop is we have room for all the vehicles we like. Where Ransom and Malice tend to like theirs showy and full of power, I have something more efficient. My Supra is dark and sleek, and the leather seats are just the right texture when I slide into the car, slinging my case onto the passenger seat.
I type the girl’s address into the GPS and make the drive to her apartment.
It’s late enough that the lights are out in all but a couple of the units in the building, but I move quietly anyway, gripping my small case in one hand. When I reach the front of the run down building, I snort softly at the fact that someone has propped the main door open with a rock.
Saves me having to pick that lock to get in, I guess.
The elevator is out of order, but I wouldn’t have taken it anyway. Instead, I move for the stairwell, keeping my footsteps light as I climb toward her apartment.
The hallway is silent except for the muffled sounds of someone’s TV a little farther down the corridor. It’s late, so that makes sense, and there shouldn’t be any unexpected surprises.
Letting out a soft breath, I squat down in front of Willow’s apartment door, taking out a lock pick and jimmying it into the lock. A shitty place like this won’t have a delicate or sophisticated system for keeping people out of apartments, and I’ve done this enough times that I know the movements by heart.
I slide the pick in and up, jiggle it twice, and then one more time. Then I press down and…
The lock opens with no sound at all, but I feel it when the handle gives under my hand.
I allow myself a little smile at that, pleased.
Lock picking is a precise thing, and when it works out the way I played it out in my head, it’s very satisfying. There’s a logical order to it, and it should work the same way, every time.
In an otherwise chaotic world, having those little things that work like constant rituals makes me feel calm in a way I can’t quite describe.
I ease the door to Willow’s apartment open, pleased when it doesn’t creak, despite the shitty rusted hinges it’s on. I slip inside like a shadow, closing the door just as silently as I opened it.
My brothers and I run a chop shop now, but we’ve done plenty of breaking and entering too—especially with some of the jobs we’ve had to do for X. No job for him is too small or petty, so all of us have a well-rounded collection of skills to break out when we need them.
Creeping through Willow’s apartment is easy, and practice has me instinctively stepping over places where floorboards usually creak and give intruders away. I skirt her furniture and put the case on the couch before flipping the lid open, going right for the compartment where I put the tiny cameras I’ll need for this.
It’s dark in the apartment, but I use a little flashlight to pick the best spots for the cameras to go. One gets placed near the door, to better watch her coming and going in and out of the apartment and see who she has coming over.
If the cops ever stop by to pay her a visit, I’ll be able to see it.
Another camera goes in the kitchen, tucked into a corner that will let me get the best angle to see most of the space. Another goes in the living room, and then I hold the last two in my hand, debating for a second.
It’s a tiny apartment with just one bedroom, and I creep closer to the bedroom door and stand still, listening.
All I hear inside is soft, even breathing, so I put my hand flat on the door and push it open. It creaks just a little, and I scowl at the noise, my gaze darting over to the bed.
There’s no movement, so I let out a breath and move in, keeping to the shadows.
The girl—Willow—is on the bed, curled up beneath the covers. She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, from what I can tell, and she’s still buried under the blankets tucked around her.
It’s warm in the room, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, so clearly she’s too warm.
What’s the point of wearing so much to bed, then?
The streetlight outside her window throws just enough light into the room that I can see her clearly. It glints off of her blonde hair, catching my eye and holding my attention for longer than it usually would.
I don’t know why, but it almost mesmerizes me, and I can’t look away.
I step a little closer, looking down at her in the bed. Her breathing is soft, and every so often her forehead scrunches up and then smooths out, like she’s having a dream about something perplexing.
My fingers itch, and I give in to the urge to reach down and pull out the switchblade I keep on me pretty much all the time. The blade flips open with a soft sound, barely audible in the room.
The silver of the blade shines in the light from outside as I bring the blade closer to Willow’s throat, the movement slow and deliberate.
