“How many canisters?” Darnell demanded.
“Four.”
“You mean to tell me that four canisters...”
Vaughn didn’t hear the rest of his partner’s admonishment. The word “four” kept repeating in his head, drowning everything else out.
Four...
Four missing canisters.
Four potential crime scenes. ?
?Chapter 17
Dressed all inblack, the intruder tried the front door first.
You never know—even in today’s world, some people still left their front doors unlocked.
Or forgot to lock them.
No luck.
The intruder hurried around the back of the bungalow, sticking close to the wall for cover. Tried every window. All locked.
This was supposed to be quick and easy. Get in, find the laptop, get out.
It was never quick and easy. All these years of searching but no luck. It was gone, destroyed in the fire.
But they had to keep trying.
The back door was also locked.
“Shit.”
The intruder produced a lock pick kit and dropped to one knee.
Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those digital ones. Those could also be picked—hacked, really—but that would take time.
Too much time.
The tension wrench—a thin, L-shaped piece of metal—slid into the base of the keyhole. It turned just a little.
Next, the pick. Looked like a cross between a screwdriver and the horrible thing that dentists used to scrape plaque from the gum line.
Into the lock with the wrench.
The intruder wiggled the pick back and forth, pressing it up against the pins. Moved it out when they heard the click.
One, two, three.
Easy.
Four was more difficult. Five was a bitch. It always was.
The mask was hot and sweat started to soak the fabric.
Why am I doing this again?
