Page 31

The door pops ajar with a satisfying click, and I hop back to my feet. Internal clock tells me the whole thing took upwards of forty-five seconds. Longer than I’d have liked, but not the end of the world.

I ease the door open slowly, because this is one of the sole spots in the house I didn’t vet. Don’t like that—don’t know where the cameras are, whether they’re active and battery operated, whether there’s a fucking trapdoor guarded by piranhas directly inside.

I set one foot carefully through the door. Pause.

The room sprawls past the open doorway, dimly lit by the hallway lighting, the flickering fireworks display beyond the windows. Makes for an eerie picture, but it’s enough to determine the office is some three times the size of my average-sized bedroom in my average-human apartment.

An aquarium—one of those massive built-in affairs—takes up the entire far wall, lit with a soft blue glow so there’s no mistaking the collection of colorful and freakishly dangerous-looking fish drifting aimlessly like they’re just waiting for some poor fool to stick their fingers in. Guess I wasn’t too far off with the piranhas theory.

Glossy, wide-plank floors crafted of something dark and elegant stretch to the massive bookshelf in the back, where it meets a sprawling three-pane window that occupies the rest of the rear wall.

The kaleidoscopic scatterplot of fireworks lights the glass for an instant, turning the room to an apocalyptic pinkish glow, illuminating the dark wood desk before the window in a rose-gold of faded color. Not so much as a paper out of place on that soft mahogany sea.

My eyes skate across a second bookshelf to the massive, gilded painting against the right-hand wall. Then up to the tiny dot of a black camera, positioned overhead and blatantly watching over said painting.

Except, the painting’s worth nothing. The frame’s scratched on the edge, and there’s no glass protecting the canvas beneath; the bottom corner’s faded where the sun’s slanted through the windows. Unprotected.

Painting’s not worth shit.

Which means it’s what’s underneath that’s got the goods. I’m betting in-wall safe, tucked under that painting for safekeeping—pardon my punning here. Well, that’s where I’m headed; my fingers are already shifting into my pocket.

Flashlight out. Chewing gum out and in my mouth. I crack through the tangy taste of strawberry bubblegum as I finally step fully into the room, leaving the door ajar behind me.

I keep my eyes up and on that camera. Waiting for it to shift, move, make any sign that my presence has been detected—but it stays fixed on that painting.

Good. Low tech or possibly programmed to one spot. Means I just stay out of its range, and nobody’s any the wiser to my presence. Nothing to see, no alarm raised. I slip close, keeping my eyes on that lens for any signs of movement.

Nothing.

Not a peep as I slide right up next to the wall under the camera. It stays fixed on target, so I pluck the chewing gum out of my mouth, lift my hand up. Up, up, up. Quiet.

Quick as a flash, I sweep in, fingers pressing chewed gum over the glass. Not a brilliant play by any means, one that will require a quick wipe down after to ensure no DNA gets left behind, but I only need two minutes. And with any luck, Nick’s valet hooligans have security distracted.

But now that the camera’s blocked, I’ve got a little space to work.

Fingers to frame, I shift the painting aside. The back of my brain counts down the seconds as I expose the small silvery vault set into the wall. Oh, good. It’s a Hollon 845C-JD, which means a nicely crackable block safe, thanks to the dial lock, which I’m already spinning.

The lock click-click-clicks.

The seconds tick-tick-tick in my head.

The first digit strikes, and I whirl the dial back the other way. Clicking again, counting down. Wondering how much longer Nick’s boys will have security distracted, how much longer he needs for his heist. Knowing I have to move faster, be faster.

Click-click-click. Tick-tick-tick.

Second hits.

Reverse. Click-click . . . click.

C’mon, Jax. Time’s a-hauling. My fingers slow, time slows, everything slows to another of those frozen-moment, pregnant pauses where all the world is potential energy, balanced on the precipice.

Ready.

Click . . . click . . .

Deep inhale.

Click.