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We take ten minutes to circle the area and identify where Henry’s guards are positioned: two in the front and two in the back. There’s a third one in a black SUV parked across the street from the house, but we only need to get past the two in the back to enter.
“Let’s hope Henry hasn’t changed the locks or the alarm code,” I whisper as we cautiously approach the back gate.
Sky pats his backpack. “We have options for that, too.”
Blessed be our IT crew. Hell, we should’ve invested in a black ops company instead of a motorcycle club. Given the amount of talent under our roof, we could’ve easily made millions doing covert operations for our government and overseas allies if we wanted to. But no. We had to be righteous instead. I make a mental note to bring this up when it’s all over, hoping they won’t shoot the idea down again. I’d love to get back in the action, albeit under different circumstances.
“One at three o’clock,” Sky says. “The other is on the northeast corner.”
Carefully, I unlock the back gate.
I give it a second, then dart behind a large sycamore tree. It’s old, with a trunk thick enough to keep us both out of sight while we wait for the security guards to complete their round of the backyard.
Once they’re back together by the northeast corner of the house, we bolt past the hydrangea bushes and the stone sculptures and hide behind the opposite corner of the back porch. My heart is racing, my blood rushing with adrenaline as my eyes scan everywhere.
The guards are big, burly types, clad in black suits and definitely packing heat. They’re wearing earpieces, and they seem to be in constant communication with one another. Every five minutes, one of them confirms something to the others. They’re standing still now, looking somewhere toward the east.
We’ve got a distraction ready for them, however.
I texted one of our IT kids to initiate the conversation. A split second later, several car alarms went off on the street.
The guards are on alert and update one another through their earpieces as they make their way over to the fence.
It’s the perfect opportunity for us to get in while they scope out the situation on the street. Low visibility of any kind could be a problem.
Sky takes a key we retrieved from Ariana’s apartment out of his pocket. “We’re in,” he murmurs as the door unlocks with a single click.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Once we’re inside, Sky relocks the back door, and we stay clear of any windows, no matter how small. The street remains very noisy. We have about five minutes before the car alarms shut off.
We’ll have another distraction for our departure. I just hope it works as seamlessly as the first one.
We move through the house quickly and quietly.
“There it is,” Sky points to one of the paintings mounted on the living room wall, just above the fireplace. “The first safe.”
We continue to steer clear of the windows, ducking when needed in order not to draw the security detail’s attention from the outside. Careful and light-footed, we cross the room and reach the fireplace.
The painting itself looks expensive. It is an original Impressionist-inspired work in shades of blue and green depicting Chesapeake Bay. Sky takes it down, gingerly holding it by its blackwood frame, revealing a small safe door.
“You have the codes, right?” he asks me.
I nod and go through the notes on my phone. “Fourteen, six, one, nine, nine, one,” I say.
“That’s Ariana’s birthday,” he smiles and punches the code into the keyboard. The tiny, blinking red light above the latch turns green, promptly followed by a clicking sound. “Attagirl.”
He opens the safe, and we’re both breathless at the sight before us. My core feels tight as I realize what we’re looking at. Stacked on top of one another, at least a dozen manila folders are occupying more than half of the safe space.
Sky glances over his shoulder, instinctively checking to see where the guards might be outside, then looks at his watch again. “Four minutes,” he whispers.
“We’ve got time,” I reply and pull the folders out. There’s also money in the safe, thick wads tied with elastic bands, along with two handguns and their appropriate ammo magazines. Henry David doesn’t strike me as a gun aficionado, but as a lackey for the Black Hand, I can definitely imagine him paranoid enough to keep at least a few pieces throughout the house, just in case he might need them.
“What are these?” Sky asks.
“Case files,” I say, briefly browsing through a couple of the folders. “Originals, it looks like. Not department-issued copies. Actual case files, including … oh, wow,” I exhale sharply upon recognizing one of the victims in a photograph. “Including his wife’s so-called accident. This is Rose Parker’s case file.”
“Why does Henry David have the original?”
“Good question. We’ll ask him,” I say and shove Rose’s folder in my duffel bag. I’d take them all, but we need the cops to come in, search the place, and find all the originals here. Otherwise, it’s considered evidence tampering. Besides, we only need Rose’s case file for what comes next.
