Chapter 17
Dressed all in black, the intruder tried the front door first.
You never know—even in today’s world, some people still left their front doors unlocked.
Or forgot to lock them.
No luck.
The intruder hurried around the back of the bungalow, sticking close to the wall for cover. Tried every window. All locked.
This was supposed to be quick and easy. Get in, find the laptop, get out.
It was never quick and easy. All these years of searching but no luck. It was gone, destroyed in the fire.
But they had to keep trying.
The back door was also locked.
“Shit.”
The intruder produced a lock pick kit and dropped to one knee.
Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those digital ones. Those could also be picked—hacked, really—but that would take time.
Too much time.
The tension wrench—a thin, L-shaped piece of metal—slid into the base of the keyhole. It turned just a little.
Next, the pick. Looked like a cross between a screwdriver and the horrible thing that dentists used to scrape plaque from the gum line.
Into the lock with the wrench.
The intruder wiggled the pick back and forth, pressing it up against the pins. Moved it out when they heard the click.
One, two, three.
Easy.
Four was more difficult. Five was a bitch. It always was.
The mask was hot and sweat started to soak the fabric.
Why am I doing this again?
A sigh.
Tried the fifth pin again. Heard a satisfying clack. With all the pins raised, the tension wrench turned easily and the deadbolt opened.
The intruder was in.
The interior of the bungalow was dark. Quiet.
Good.
For the next hour, they searched the home from one end to the other.
It wasn’t there.
The figure in black quickly checked their phone.
It was getting late—early, actually—when they came across a pantry, tucked behind the fridge. The door was sealed with both a digital lock and a padlock.
Shit.
The padlock was smaller than the deadbolt on the rear door, which made it more difficult to pick. But it was the digital lock that was the real problem.
Sleek, black. Six digit pin. Fingerprint scanner. Not uncrackable, but time consuming. Not only that, but if unlocked, it might send a text alert to the owner’s cell phone.
That was a big no-no.
The intruder inspected the door frame. It wasn’t reinforced. A thousand-dollar digital lock that could be rendered useless by just a two-dollar crowbar. But that would leave evidence of the break-in. Another no-no.
Cursing again, the intruder wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Tried a few six digit combinations. Common codes—696969, 42069, 123456, 999999.
Nothing worked. If the laptop was in there, they weren’t getting it.
Not tonight.
The intruder performed one final look around the home, searching places that they might have overlooked on their first pass.
Nothing.
The pantry—it had to be in the pantry. Dejected, they finally gave up. Exited the way they’d come in. They’d only just closed the door when the silence of the night was broken by the unmistakable sound of a car approaching.
The intruder tried to will it to keep going. That never worked.
The car rolled into the driveway and stopped.
More sweat now, but not from the heat. Not from their own breath condensing on the thick fabric, but from stress.
The intruder worked quickly, lifting the pins again.
The front door opened just as the deadbolt on the back door slid into place, leaving it exactly the way they found it. No trace that anyone had ever been inside.
The intruder dissolved into shadow. Two streets over, one down, they slid behind the wheel of their car. A gloved finger clenched between teeth, tugged free.
Then a single text: I couldn’t find it.