We ascend the staircase in perfect silence. The carpet is white, plush, absorbs every footfall. The master suite is at the end. Door closed, not locked.
Bam goes right, I go left. He listens at the door, then signals two fingers. I count to three, then twist the knob.
The man is asleep on the bed, back to the door, breathing slow and even. There is a woman next to him—trophy wife, early forties, face frozen by too many needles, eyelids jittering in REM sleep. Bam moves to her first, hand over her mouth, other hand clamping her wrists behind her. She wakes with a start, tries to scream, but only chokes.
I go for Harrington. I roll him onto his back, pinning his arms to the sheets. His eyes open, and for a second there is no recognition. Then he sees the balaclava, the gloves, the line of Bam’s knuckles raised in the light.
He tries to speak, but I press my hand over his mouth, fingers tight enough to crush his lips to his teeth.
"Don’t bother," I whisper. "You’ll be done soon."
I reach into my jacket and pull out the sack. It’s coarse burlap, reeks of fertilizer. I jam it over his head, cinch the drawstring, then yank him up by the collar of his robe. Bam has already zip-tied the wife and set her gently on the floor.
Harrington struggles, but there’s no leverage. I twist his arm behind his back, force him to his knees, and bind his wrists. The zip tie bites into skin, blooming purple almost instantly.
Bam leans in, voice like a dare: "You make a sound, I break your jaw."
Harrington shakes.
Bam hustles the wife back onto the bed, tucks her in, and tells her not to bother with 911.
"Phones don’t work tonight," he says, and winks.
We move fast—down the stairs, out the door, past the dogs who watch, mute and judging. The garden path is slick. I let Harrington stumble, his knees scraping the flagstones.
I haul the man to the car, prop him against the rear tire while I open the hatch. Harrington whimpers. I crouch and put my mouth to the sack, letting my voice sink into him.
"Tonight it all ends."
He pisses himself, hot ammonia seeping through the silk of his pajamas.
I load Harrington in, rolling him onto the floor mat, hands still tied, the sack covering his sight.
“Next up, good ole dad.” Bam says.
Mr. Ellis lives on a street where the driveways are heated and the mailboxes cost more than a freshman’s tuition. The house is three stories of colonial pretension, every window aglow, not a curtain drawn.
The driver drops us two houses down. Bam cracks his neck left, then right, and wipes a speck of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"You want point?" he asks.
I shake my head. "He’ll expect you."
Bam grins. "Good. I love a challenge."
We move quick—over the fence, through a privet hedge, onto the rear deck. No dogs this time, just a cold slab of brick and a locked French door. Bam unlocks the door with his key, then lets me step through first.
Inside, the place is a ridiculous array of luxury and wealth. There’s a piano in the foyer, a bar in the parlor, and a long run of stairs leading to the master suite.
We move up in silence. The carpet is a Persian red, dense enough to swallow the sound of our boots. There are photos along the wall—Ellis in the Bahamas, Ellis with the Governor, Ellis in a football uniform, cleats digging into the neck of a rival. Ellis, Colt and Bam.
I hear snoring, low and rhythmic, behind the door at the top.
Bam raises a fist, then counts down from three.
We kick in the door.
Ellis is out of bed before we cross the threshold. He’s bigger than I thought—six-three, maybe, all shoulders and fists. He’s in boxers and a wife-beater, white hair wild around his head, eyes bleary with sleep but full of violence.
