Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
I finished the rest on foot.
The fence along the back slope wasn’t meant for defense. It was decorative steel meant to look intimidating without actually stopping anyone who knew what they were doing. Cameras focused on the front gate and the manicured approach meant to be seen. The rear was an afterthought.
Men like him believed danger announced itself.
I waited, counting the camera sweeps from memory, then moved when the angle rotated away. Bolt cutters bit cleanly through a rust-weakened section of fence. I slipped through, reshaped the metal behind me, and stayed low as I crossed the grass.
Inside the perimeter, I moved through blind spots I’d already mapped. The guard booth sat quiet near the front drive, glass dark, the man inside slouched forward in his chair. Late shift. Warm and distracted.
I didn’t approach from the front. I came up behind the booth, silent and invisible. The door wasn’t locked, and I reached in and wrapped my arm around his throat, pressure precise, cutting off air without crushing his windpipe. He kicked once, twice, then sagged as he lost consciousness.
I lowered him carefully and checked his pulse. It was slow and steady, which was good. Unnecessary bodies complicated things.
I stripped his keycard and radio and dragged him into the blind corner behind the booth, positioning him so passersby couldn’t see him. When I bypassed the control box inside the booth, I triggered a manual release. The iron spears slid open with a quiet mechanical hum.
He thought he could buy cameras and guards and thick doors and be untouchable. He’d spent money on fear instead of competence. Fucking piece of shit.
I didn’t go back to the car. Vehicles left trails.
I stayed inside the perimeter and moved on foot, keeping to the dark seams between properties where fences met hedges and cameras overlapped just enough to create blind spots. The neighborhood was designed for privacy, not defense. Wealth assumed immunity.
The house came into view through a break in the trees. Calling it a house was generous. It was a concrete palace, all sharp lines and glass, perched high enough to look down on the city as if it believed itself above consequence.
All that glass. All that arrogance.
I stopped well short of the property line and watched. I counted one camera on the front gate, two under the eaves. One was angled toward the driveway, and motion sensors buried at the corners, calibrated for vehicles and large movements.
If I’d been anyone else, it might have looked impressive. Instead, it was a pattern.
I pulled my knit cap lower and slid my gloves on, breath steady as I moved through the back lots. Snow and frost-covered manicured grass gave way to stone paths. It was clear this bastard’s money was spent for show, not survival.
The junction box was half-hidden behind landscaping meant to soften the lines of the building. I crouched, popped the panel, and studied the wiring. You learn certain things if you live long enough in the streets in this world. How to shoot, stab, and break a man without killing him.
I clipped the feed and looped it cleanly. The cameras froze on their last image, and motion sensors went dark. I had sixty seconds to get where I needed to with no one knowing. I moved to the side. The wall wasn’t smooth if you knew where to look. My fingers found the seams, the imperfections left by rushed construction. I climbed, flattened myself along the edge, and listened.
No dogs, or footsteps, or alarms. Just the distant whine of traffic and the steady hum of a house that believed itself safe filled the dead air. I dropped onto the inner lawn and crouched. The back of the house was all glass and steel. A terraced patio and a winterized pool with landscape lighting reflecting the area. He liked flaunting his wealth even when he slept.
I moved along the back of the house, staying close to the glass until I reached the service corridor tucked beside the kitchen wing. Builders loved hiding functionality behind luxury. The door wasn’t meant for guests. It was just a reinforced frame and a standard mechanical lock.
I applied steady pressure and felt the mechanism give with a soft pop. The door opened just enough for me to slip inside. Warmth hit me immediately; the air heavy with the scent of fresh floor wax, leather, and expensive cologne barely masking the cigar smoke.
I shut the door and stood still, letting the house speak to me as I breathed in deeply. Then I heard it. Snoring. It was low and rhythmic. The sound of a television upstairs filtered to where I stood.
I moved through the space without a sound. There was an open living area with art that cost more than most people made in a year decorating the grossly extravagant space. I kept moving and made my way upstairs.