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“Dennis . . . Doo . . .” The guard scrunches his face into an impossibly scrunchier grumpy furrow as he peers down at the—admittedly fake, thanks Tony—ID in his hand. Can practically hear the two rusty gears in his noggin grinding together as he stares so hard I swear steam’s about to start coming out of those giant Dumbo ears.

He’s white, mid-thirties, black hair buzzed close and a neck roughly the size of my thigh. I’d guess he has about as many brain cells in his melon-shaped head as I’ve got in my pinkie finger too.

Betting the criteria for landing the job playing First Guard Dog at the front gates of the personal home of Mr. Edward Morton had more to do with neck size than brain size.

“DuBois, right.” I offer him a toothy smile and all the innocence in my arsenal. My eyes dart past his thick shoulder. Dense hedges, stone arch, hidden motion sensors tucked into the greenery—check, check, check.

Beyond that, the acre or so of green grounds surrounding the house sprawls in an oasis of manicured perfection. All of it enclosed in wrought-iron gates and protected by—

“You’re clear.” Mr. Neck tips his head back toward the massive brick manor rising up through the trees, visible only in part behind a wall of dense foliage. “But late. They’ve been expecting you up at the house.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Had to stop for gas.”

“Sure, kid,” he grunts, handing back the badge. “Better hurry; they’re waiting.”

Of course they are. Well, they’re technically waiting for one Shawn Miller, actual pest control specialist for Pests R Us—terrible name, by the way. But two hundred bucks to the real pest guy for a long lunch, and boom—Dennis DuBois is on the clock instead.

“Go up the driveway to the front door,” Neck says, his voice gruff like he’s trying to intimidate me. Fat chance, dude. “Driveway only. No grass.”

“Roger that, boss.” I slip through the iron gates as they swing open in front of me, my steel-toed boots squeaking against the slate-grey flagstones of the horseshoe-arched driveway. Ready to tackle the first and only fact-finding mission of my not-quite-heist with the good Nick Saborn.

Planning and preparation, right? The abridged version anyway.

Planning, preparation, and trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to be stealing.

Not the usual order.

Unnaturally tall hedges line the driveway, obscuring my view of the manor until I round the bend. Then, the Morton estate hits me. The fucker looks like something plucked out of a turn of the century romance novel and dropped into the Boston ’burbs thanks to its imposing, blocky brick construction, its sprawling windows sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight, and literal volley of chimneys.

Seriously, who the fuck needs that many fireplaces?

It’s definitely eye-catching, in a very big, bold, badass kinda way.

I adjust my cap, my gaze tracing the wiring around the window frames before panning up to the dark wood double doors. Two domes. Dual-lens cameras, high angle. Absently, my fingers tap against the deck of cards hidden at my hip, and my brain naturally falls into camera-blind-spot calc mode.

The fucking parade of chimneys is cute, sure, but this is me shit. The reason I’m really here. Like that little winky face tucked up in that magnolia thinking nobody’s gonna see it. Tsk!

This place is alarmed to hell and back.

I crest a set of sleek marble stairs onto a wide, also marble, landing that sweeps out from the front door in a wash of potted plants and elegant statuettes. So classy. Just like the camera hiding out in that mermaid statue’s boob. Max class right there.

I pause at the top of the stairs, fingers drumming the official-looking clipboard I’ve brought along to maximize legitimacy. I’m missing something. Magnolia camera’s got the stairs covered. Boob camera takes the stoop. The door—

Ah. The potted fern on the left.

My shoulders settle an inch or so down from my ears, and I close the last few strides to the door. Not relaxed in the least, but better.

’Cause frankly, the thing about prepping for a heist is . . . you gotta know everything. Every detail. Every tiniest element. A single stone left unturned could be the difference between victory and defeat.

If this were my heist, I’d spend a solid few weeks casing the place, sweet-talking servants, rubbing elbows with Mr. Neck, planning a break-in to the office of the security company, see exactly what kind of hardware they’re packing.

But it’s not my heist.

And I don’t have weeks. I have one week.

So.

I jab my finger against the bell and instantly pivot my back to the potted fern on the left, masking my face from the hidden lens tucked in its leaves. A cacophony of dings and chimes far more alarming than the cluster of cowbells over the entry of Billow Bar sounds from inside. Not sure why I’m bing-bonging the doorbell; didn’t Neck mention I’m here?