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“Yes, let them through,” Wyatt said, deepening his voice and leaning away from the guard tower, hand covering his face.
“Got it, will do.”
Wyatt hung up and sat back in the van, a relieved breath hissing out of his lungs. Roman reached behind him and squeezed Wyatt’s leg, winking at him in the rearview mirror.
“You’re all set, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Mimic said, brushing aside a brunette curl that fell across her eyes. The gates swung open, and the guard closed the window, leaving the three of them giddy as Mimic drove forward. Wyatt’s body was already flooded with adrenaline, but he had to keep it cool, calm, and collected. They were about to waltz right into the headquarters of a monstrous group led by a twisted man driven only by pain and greed. Old Wyatt would have been mid-panic attack right then, but instead, he was smiling, glad at being able to perform under pressure and excited to do it again.
He was changing, and he liked it. Now they just had to get through the next couple of hours so he could enjoy this newfound self, hopefully with tome in hand and bank account bursting at the seams, a beaming (and hopefully naked) Roman at his side.
Easier said than done, of course.
Chapter 17
Roman Ashford
Mimic drove through the wide streets, past massive mansions hugging up against the bay, palm trees swaying in a gentle ocean breeze. Most of the homes appeared to have been made by the same architect, a mix of modern and classic Miami, with arching windows and mosaic murals that called back to the Art Deco days. Some homes bucked trend completely and went toward the post-modern side of things, with hard angles and a white-and-black color scheme, completely absent of the pops of playful color that Miami was known for. Maseratis and Lamborghinis and Ferraris all littered the paved driveways, security cameras hanging from every gate and fence they passed.
“Not a bad place for a hideout,” Roman commented. “These rich people probably have their heads so far up their own assholes that they don’t even realize what’s going on a few houses down from them.”
“They’ve also got a couple options for a quick escape if they need to. Not many places let you hop on a boat and zoom away.”
“Very true,” Roman said. “This the one?”
Mimic nodded as she pulled the cleaning van up to another set of gates. There was a pair of iron lions sitting on the top of the gate, facing out toward the car with emeralds set in for their eyes. She leaned out of the car and pressed the call box.
“Hello?” It was Leonidas. He was there, inside the house. Roman had hoped he’d be somewhere else but trusted in Mimic’s chameleon-like abilities. The disguises would hold up.
They had to.
“Hi, yes, this is Hazel with Sunshine Cleaning.”
“Sunshine what?”
“Cleaning. We’re a cleaning service hired to take care of the home.”
“I never hired a cleaning crew.”
They were prepared for this. Mimic sucked in a deep breath, sounding frustrated. Leonidas was not the kind of guy who responded to weakness. They had to push back for him to listen. “Please, check your emails, sir. I assure you there’s a receipt in there.”
The line went silent. Roman thought Leonidas had hung up on them. It would derail their plans but not completely. If they couldn’t just drive on through the gates, then Roman would simply have to jump them. It would be a much more dangerous endeavor and would require the same ghostly stealth Phantom possessed, but Roman would try it.
They were too close to turn away now. Roman could practically smell the pages from the tome locked up somewhere inside the colossal home towering ahead of them.
“Fine,” Leonidas finally said. “Wait for me at the front door.”
Roman let his head drop back on the seat. Wyatt hissed out a relieved breath behind him.
“Alright, guys, remember the plan. We get in there and fan out. Find the tome, grab it, and go. Don’t do anything stupid or risky. We’re on their turf now.”
Roman looked at our unrecognizable team. Mimic had swapped her inky-black hair for auburn-brown curls, her face changed by a larger nose and a field of freckles on both cheeks, contacts in her eyes changing them from brown to blue as the final touch. Wyatt was just as much a stranger as Mimic was, with a bushy unibrow and nose that appeared to have been broken once or twice.
“Let me do the talking with Leonidas,” Roman said as Mimic pulled into the circular driveway. She parked the van, and they got out, grabbing their supplies from the back and immediately being greeted by the man of the hellish hour: Leonidas himself.
Roman saw a flash of red, crimson bright and lava hot. This man had put them through hell, and if given the chance, he’d do it again and again. He was a ruthless son of a bitch, and he was standing only a couple of feet away from Roman, a shit-eating grin plastered on his cunning face. All Roman had to do was lurch forward, hands outstretched. He could clamp them around the man’s neck and squeeze—harder and harder. It’d take moments, but he’d watch the life flicker out from Leonidas’ eyes, and it would all be over.
