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“Shh. So, quick question. Top left switch on the circuit board—”

“Third floor, back half.” He pulls his lower lip into his mouth, chews on it. “Did someone cut power to—”

“Thanks, buddy!” I pat a hand against his arm again. “You’ve been so helpful. Stay here, okay? Eyeballs out—”

And I’m running. Nick’s hitting the bedrooms, which means I gotta get my ass up there. Well, no. If I plan to make my own move before he makes his, I gotta get my ass to the second floor first.

Since I know, for a plain and simple fact, that I’m faster than that fool—I mean, it would be real fuckin’ sad if I wasn’t, right, ’cause this is my literal career—I also know that I got time for a quick pit stop.

And unlike Nick, I don’t need the power cut to make my grab.

Again, this is my career. I’m pretty damn good at it.

seven

Side Quest

Fireworks turn the sky to a firestorm of color just beyond the wide glass windows. Car alarms chirp softly in the background. A perfect duet of distraction, which might explain why this back hallway of the main floor stays empty. Nary a servant or staff member in sight. Nobody bobbling for the bathroom or meandering through the hall looking for a quiet corner to blow coke or hook up or make a shady phone call, none of that shit.

Good.

My internal clock ticks away, counting down the minutes, seconds, reminding me of how much time I’ve used, how much I have left. How much Nick’s got to work with too.

I’ve got less.

Time to roll.

First things first: don’t get fucking lost. Three stories, thousands of square feet, and more rooms than I’ve ever lived in in my meandering life. Almost need a map to fumble through this maze of fuckery.

My feet make no sound on the carpet as I pace down the hall. In the flickering light of the firestorm, I’m little more than a shadow in the wide, silent hall. How people live in places like this without getting lost—and why, that’s the big question—is and will ever be beyond me. It’s like, since you’re not struggling to make ends meet, why not instead be struggling to locate the bathroom in your massive maze of a house at three in the morning.

I reach the back staircase at the end of the hall. It’s a plain, narrow affair of plushy blue carpeting and white walls. Not lit up like the rest of the main floor, but enough of a glow. I take the stairs two at a time.

Clock’s ticking.

The second-story hallway greets me, also illuminated by an abundance of soft, moody nightlights. My dress shoes pad the soft carpet as I start down the hall. Eyes flickering on high alert for any sign of movement, ears peeling back the space between firework booms.

I’m at the rear of the house—thanks to the back-stair climb. Safer, but means I’m at the opposite end from where I need to be: the primary office at the front.

The map of my memory sprawls in my head, pinpointing the office. It was right up front, first door in the hall. Go, go, go!

Clock’s ticking, J.

I break into a light jog, thankful for this plushy-ass rich-person carpet. My feet make no sound. Which of course means anybody else in the hall is probably just as silent. Don’t think about that.

Close now, almost there.

The pale glow of the nightlights throw eerie shadows against the walls. Lucky there’s no clutter. Or, you know, I’m not a twitchy little chickenshit.

Five seconds to the front of the hall. Then the doorway looms up in front of me. It’s oddly bold and imposing in this otherwise lightened hallway of pale blues and eggshell whites. Like a double dark-wood blockage between me and my target.

But it’s just me an’ this door and its lovely little high-tech ultra mag lock.

“Hello, beautiful,” I murmur. My lock-breaking kit appears in my left hand as my right reaches out to stroke the knob, like I’m reuniting with a long-lost lover. Mag locks are high tech, high security. Less of a lockpick problem and more of a specialty thief puzzle.

A challenge I’m prepared for—thank you Thieving Mag-Lock Workshop 2019.

I drop to one knee. Flip the lock-breaking kit bag open. Get to work. Click here, twist there, don’t forget the hinge—