16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Griffin’s Beach Brock
T he night of the fundraiser finally arrives, and Brock drives the stolen minivan he snagged the night before from Riverview. Beckett sits beside him as they park down the street from Donald Ramsey’s house. Estate would be a better term for it. The man clearly has money.
Something in Brock’s gut tells him this is nothing other than a bad idea.
He knows Colt’s noticed the side conversations he and Beckett have been having, but he’s successfully sidestepped and avoided the confrontation.
Now, though, he wishes Colt had confronted them. Made them tell him what they’re doing.
They should have come up with a stealthier plan. This one they have is going to end terribly. He just knows it, but Beckett won’t be deterred.
I can’t really blame him. I basically did the same thing for Summer.
When his wife was engaged to another man, Brock stepped in. She was being used and abused as a ploy to take over her father’s company, and he would have done anything to save her. And he did.
Additional conversations with Sebastian play in Brock’s head.
Donald Ramsey is a mean son of a bitch who is beyond paranoid.
He’s the type to have multiple plans in place to protect himself, especially if he has dirt on so many high-powered people.
There’s going to be multiple levels of security they need to get around.
“You don’t have to come in with me,” Beckett says when Brock makes no movement to exit the van.
He stares at the large, brick building at the end of the street. “You don’t know how to get into his computer.”
“I’ll just steal the whole fucking thing.”
My God, we’ve already talked about this, dickhead.
“Won’t work, remember? He’s most likely got a home network, and taking his computer won’t grant us access to his files.”
“What’s the problem? You were all about this when we last talked.”
No, he really wasn’t. The idea of doing something like this got him revved up to a point because he hasn’t done much outside of the technical aspects in a long time. The excitement surprised him, and he wanted to do this. A little. Even though he wants to prove himself, he knows it’s a mistake.
“It feels like something terrible is going to happen, and it’s wrong to do without the club knowing,” Brock says.
“They’ll want to come in with guns blazing, and we both know that will only end in destruction. Besides, we saw this asshole leave for this shindig. The house is dark. No one’s home, and we can just slip in, get what we need, and slip back out.”
The man was part of some Special Ops he refuses to talk about, so Brock knows he should trust him. Should. Something screams at him that this won’t go as smoothly as Beckett believes it will.
Is it my gut, or am I just a fucking pussy now? Others have run into burning buildings, jumped off cliffs to save a woman, and worked with various enemies-turned-friends to strike a deal. Breaking in and getting information from a computer should be child’s play.
“Let’s go.”
Smirking, Beckett slips out of the passenger side with Brock hurrying behind him. The van is far enough away from the house that it shouldn’t have been detected by any cameras on the property.
They wear gloves, and they both have on hats and are covered from head to toe. Beckett gave him something to put on his cheeks under his eyes to create a glare on cameras to obscure their identities. If all goes according to plan, there should be zero traces of them left behind.
Pressing himself against the fence like Beckett does, Brock says a silent prayer that it’s not electric. They’ll be shot yards away and die pretty painfully if it is.
They manage to avoid any sensors that trigger spotlights on the house, and they reach the back gate without incident. The ease in which Beckett jumps over the fence and opens the gate to let Brock in is rather impressive. Something he looks to have done a thousand times before.
Hell, he probably has done shit like this a thousand times before. Why I am doubting him?
Stealth. Most of the men in the club don’t possess any type of skill that can be described as such. They’re more of a bull in a china shop sort of group, but not Beckett. Hell, the Army Five and Gunner can probably all do what Beckett did. Even Undertaker.
Once inside the gate, Brock closes it and hears a double latch as it shuts. His heart rate kicks up, and he turns, trying to open the gate again. It doesn’t budge. The gate is locked tight, and he can’t release it.
“Beckett,” Brock hisses. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’ll give you a boost on our way out,” he whispers back. “Come on.”
They walk about five hundred yards until they reach a window that leads into the kitchen. It’s large and low to the ground. Something a paranoid man shouldn’t leave unlocked, but he did.
As much as he wants to believe Donald Ramsey thinks the spotlights are sufficient protection, and locking windows is unnecessary, Brock doesn’t know if he believes it. It’s all too easy.
They slip inside, staying low to the ground. Again, a man as paranoid as Ramsey should have sensors everywhere. Just because he left the window unlocked doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an alarm system to warn him of intruders.
“Okay,” Beckett whispers,” I was able to get the blueprints to his house from the city. His office should be upstairs, first door on the right.”
“How the fuck did you get that without questions or getting caught?”
“I have connections.” He smirks and winks. “Stay low to the ground and against the walls. Once we’re upstairs, we should be in the clear. Most systems only have sensors on the main level and upstairs windows. Easy access points.”
Then why wasn’t there a sensor on the open window? Is this guy asking someone to break in? And if so, why would he want that? To see how far they get?
They find the staircase off of the kitchen, and they keep their backs against the walls as they walk up, each taking a side and facing each other. Vigilance is key right now.
Stopping at the top, they listen for signs of anyone in the house. Footsteps. Breathing, coughing, anything.
Nothing happens, and Beckett sighs in relief. “That was easier than I expected.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little too easy?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s supposed to be paranoid, right? Why would the place not require Mission Impossible level skills to get around? Something about this seems fishy.”
“Or maybe he’s not as good as everyone assumes.”
No, that doesn’t sound right, and Brock pauses. His instincts that shout something is wrong hits so hard he nearly vomits. “Beckett, wait—”
“I’ll open the door and wait out here while you do your computer stuff. How long do you think it’ll take you?”
“Depends on his system, but I don’t think…Wait!”
The moment Beckett pushes the door open, lights and sirens blare around them, blinding them and threatening to add deafen them.
Covering his ears, Brock hurries downstairs with Beckett hot on his heels. The window they snuck in through remains open, but every spotlight on the outside of the house shines brightly, giving no areas of darkness for them to take cover in.
“Now what?” Brock shouts at Beckett.
He scans the room and clenches his teeth. “Motherfucker knew we were coming. There are bars over every window and door except this one. He’s forcing us where he wants us.”
Brock hadn’t noticed the windows and doors until now thanks to the blaring alarm. “What for? Does he have a machine gun trained to shoot moving targets?”
“I have no idea. Who would’ve thought that motherfucker would have an alarm on his office door?”
“Me!”
Waving him off, Beckett dives out the window, and Brock has the choice of following or risk losing his hearing. They race to the gate, and Becket turns. “We gotta head the other way. Cops are coming from the front.”
“Like he doesn’t have cameras that already caught our faces,” he mutters.
The gate doesn’t open, and Brock knew something wasn’t right. That double click meant to lock them in.
“Fuck,” he growls and tosses his pack over the fence. “We gotta hop it.”
“It’s a nine-foot fence. You were gonna toss me over, remember?”
“I’ll jump and throw a rope over for you to climb up. I was kidding before. Thought you just didn’t know how the latch worked.”
I’m smart enough to hack into computers, but you thought I was too stupid to figure out a fucking gate latch? Fuck off.
He climbs over the fence, and as soon as he lands with a thud on the other side, the alarm stops. The lights stay on, but the gate clicks.
“Beckett? What the hell happened?”
No response. Brock opens the gate and lifts his hands to find the entire GBPD waiting for him on the other side with guns aimed.
“Turn around and get on your knees. Now!”
He shoots Beckett a death glare but does as he’s told. It’s not the first time he’s been told to assume the position, and it likely won’t be the last. Placing his hands on his head, he realizes Beckett watches him and mirrors his movements.
This asshole has never been arrested before. Not on US soil, I’m guessing, at least.
“What are you doing in this house?” a familiar voice asks, but Brock can’t see her to know exactly who she is.
“We want to talk to our lawyer. We’ll remain silent.”
“Cuff them.”
The cold metal closes over his wrists, finding the spot between his jacket and gloves, and he’s lifted to stand. That’s when he sees her. Alex McKenzie. She’s not an ally to the club, per se, but she’s more like Grayson Tate was before he was kicked off the force.
They haven’t saved her life, so she owes them nothing. She’s older than he is, but not by much, and she knows exactly who he is. But her question still catches him off guard when she asks, “Seriously, Brock, what the fuck were you thinking?”
Not anger. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Concern. Concern in the eyes of the officer arresting him does not bode well. Yes, this is bad. This is very, very bad.
“Lily Hankinson,” he says as a male cop he’s never seen before pushes him towards the squad car. “I’m sure you have her number on file.”
“You’re both under arrest for breaking and entering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”