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The lock settled in place as the pins of the internal tumbler lined up.
I glanced at the number, and an icy chill coiled up my spine.
Double zero.
Seven, eighteen, double zero.
Or, July 18th, 2000.
I stared at the combination.
My fucking birthdate.
Why was my birthday King fucking Julian’s combination?
My muscles froze as panic seized me.
Was this a goddamn setup?
How could he have known?
Get it the fuck together, Eden. Stay on mission and stop freaking the fuck out.
It had to be a coincidence. There are only so many three-digit combinations. Granted, the chances weren’t great that he’d randomly choose my birthday, but it was just as likely that was his mother’s birthday.
July 18th, 1900.
Or 1800, even.
I prized my arms free of the icy grip of adrenaline, tried to shake the willies out of my spine, and eased open the safe door.
“Motherfucker,” I hissed under my breath.
Sitting at the bottom of the Lola wannabe was another, smaller safe, like a fucking nesting doll.
Fortunately, I’d planned for that.
But that didn’t mean I was happy about it.
I mean, what kind of psycho puts a safe in his fucking safe?
I snatched an infrared pad reader from my bag and scanned the PIN pad on the front of the second safe. It, too, was the top of its line, with redundancies built into the pad and a pressure plate at the bottom of the safe.
I called this practice safe Billy because he was stubborn as a fucking goat.
Billy had to have his PIN entered exactly the first time or he would lock himself down and send a fucking wireless message to the safe company, which was contractually obligated to follow up with a phone call to the owner.
Billy was a fucking asshole.
But, with the right black market tech, he’d open for me just like Lola had.
I scanned the pad, willing the digital display to spit out the combination faster. Seconds ticked by, red numerals spinning on the display until finally it read.
00-14-7
My stomach hollowed out, and I broke out in a cold sweat.
What the fuck was going on?
