Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
“Come on man, hurry up! You said you’d done this before.”
Ciaran rolled his eyes and removed the pen light from between clenched teeth. “For the tenth time, I have done this before.” His voice slightly muffled by the motorcycle cowl covering the bottom half of his face. “I would rather not trip off any alarms. If that’s all right with you?”
Andy’s beady hazel eyes shot daggers through the gap in his own mask, but he closed his mouth. From where he leaned against the thick white granite of the perimeter fence, he wouldn’t be seen from the house. Unlike Ciaran, who had to stand partially exposed to work the keypad embedded in the wall.
Who knew what cameras Luna had on this behemoth property, and which, if any, were still functioning. For all he knew, all of them were on for “insurance” should something go wrong, or he hoped—he really, really hoped—that turning the cameras off was part of the arrangement.
Luna had taken it to heart when Ciaran had said that he needed to make the job look convincing. He hadn’t shared any of the security codes, only the brands and models of the equipment.
Ciaran had been equal parts relieved and very concerned since much if it was state of the art.
Still, it was completely doable as long as he had enough time, and he didn’t lock anything up with too many attempts.
And Andy didn’t goad him into doing anything idiotic, like smash his face into the keypad, if he didn’t stop asking stupid questions.
A film of dirt coated the keys, telling Ciaran that this particular keypad wasn't used very often.
It made sense given most of the system had to run on remote control, but delivery drivers and the cleaning crew still needed a way onto the property, he supposed.
Some keys showed more wear than there would be if Luna had installed them only recently, though he seriously doubted the current code still used any of those digits.
Ciaran had brought what tools he had, and what he’d been able to borrow on short notice, but he still felt rushed.
That was all Andy’s fault. It had been less than forty-eight hours since they had made their deal.
He’d been Upstate touring the country club site when his phone had pinged with a series of rapid-fire texts, an address, a time, and details of when the house would be empty.
Where he got that information, Ciaran didn’t want to begin to guess.
Andy had insisted that Ciaran meet him no later than six p.m. at the train station across from Manhattan College—an ironic name given they were in the Bronx—or their deal was off. It was a short walk from there, arriving right around dusk.
As soon as the walkthrough had ended, Ciaran had jumped in his car and raced back into the city only to load up the same trusty, slightly frayed messenger bag that had seen him through many a job back in Scotland with everything he had that could possibly be useful, and high-tailed it for the train.
There were many things that Ciaran had envisioned waiting for him at the station, top of the list being a group of Andy’s overly muscular coworkers ready to beat him to a pulp to extract Jal’s whereabouts before they dumped him in the East River.
Even finding no one at all had ranked higher than actually finding Jal’s ex standing at the top of the stairs dressed in black, carrying a small bag that emitted a rhythmic metal on metal clink as he walked.
Speaking of walks… The one from the station to Luna’s house had been the longest 12 minutes of Ciaran’s life, what with Andy alternating at random between rapid fire questions and oppressive brooding.
That was until they got to the house, a sprawling four-story Tudor perched on a rise so it could rule over the surrounding mansions in the upscale neighborhood.
The gates were surrounded by trees, which mostly hid them from nosy neighbors while Ciaran worked.
Now, the bastard’s impatience seemed to rachet up a notch with each passing minute, though Ciaran expected that he would probably be the one to snap first.
“Should I start pressing buttons?”
Ciaran tapped at the screen of his tablet with a little more force than was necessary. It was connected wirelessly to a device attached to the side of the keypad with a magnet. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t,” he grumbled through clenched teeth, jabbing a few more buttons.
The device made a soft ding modeled by some programmer to sound like an old kitchen timer, and the red “processing” message changed to display a code. He made a satisfied sound, but still held his breath as he keyed the six digits into the keypad, only two of which matched the worn keys.
The red light in the corner turned green and there was a rattle as the gates started to move. Ciaran blew out his breath and stashed the equipment away.
He checked that his mask was still fully in place and slipped between the gates, ducking behind the first of several clusters of evergreen trees that lined the driveway.
The tarmac stretched out at least a hundred feet before circling around to the V-shaped rear of the house and its array of garage doors.
Andy followed close behind, crouching when Ciaran crouched, sprinting when he sprinted, until they were only a dozen feet from the garage doors. This time, there were no visible keypads.
Ciaran scratched his temple. This would be so much easier if he didn’t have to also get inside the house itself.
The system Luna had running to guard his art and antiques needed much more prep time than Andy had given him.
Their only saving grace was that a part for the upgraded system for the garage was still on back order. Lucky us.
After making sure there was no direct door access to the garage that wasn’t big enough to fit a car, he withdrew his tablet again along with a small wireless transmitter. He keyed in the make and model for the garage door opener Luna had given him and pointed the transmitter toward the house.
Unlike with the keypad, a garage door opener didn’t lock out or set off an alarm after even a dozen or a hundred pings. No, the alarm was what came next.
After what felt like ten minutes, but was probably only two, the door farthest to the left, which of course was the furthest from where they were hiding, slowly began to lift. A rhythmic two note beeping began to chime from inside.
Ciaran hurried across the driveway and ducked under the door before it had risen too high. Andy shuffled behind him, freezing just inside with an audible gasp.
There wasn’t time for Ciaran to stop. They had maybe thirty seconds before the alarm went off. He reached the keypad on the wall, its blue lights flashing in time with the chimes which, if he wasn’t mistaken, were speeding up.
He lifted the cover over the keypad and grinned, the fabric of the mask stretching tight over his mouth. He punched in a four-digit code, one that should work on all the units of this brand.
The beeping continued, and if anything, sped up even more. The grin faded. He tried the code from the main gates, but it only made the beeping faster. A counter on the screen hit single digits.
“Come on, man.” Had his mouth not been covered, Andy would have been breathing on his neck.
The timer ticked down to five, then four and Ciaran threw caution to the wind and punched in the only other code he could think of.
Three.
Two.
The warning message on the screen changed to “not ready” and the beeping stopped. Ciaran blew out a breath and braced a gloved hand against the wall, his legs suddenly shaky.
Andy whooped, the sound echoing through the surprisingly cavernous space, which had to extend at least fifty feet under the back lawn.
At the front was an open space that was set up as a maintenance area, with cabinets and tool carts lining the walls.
Further on, at least a dozen cars were parked on each side facing a central aisle.
Some were raised on lifts, particularly those at the rear of the garage.
Jal’s ex stood in the middle, his eyes bright, his slack jaw revealing incongruously white teeth, the only remaining glimpse of the polished man Jal said he used to be. His hands rubbed together as he studied the millions of dollars’ worth of vehicles.
Ciaran didn’t know much about American cars, but there were a few he recognized. Closer to home, an early ’60s Jaguar and an Aston Martin of an only slightly newer vintage sat side-by-side about halfway down. To his dismay, Andy was making a beeline toward the latter.
He cursed as Andy peered under the open hood for a long moment and let out a low whistle. “What a honey,” he murmured as he bent down to look inside the passenger area.
“It’s a right-hand drive,” Ciaran informed him, hoping that would dissuade him.
Andy threw a look over his shoulder. “So?”
“And a manual.”
Andy snorted as if shifting gears with his left hand wasn't a problem and reached for the handle.
“And probably the only one like it on the whole East Coast. It would be quite the trick to fence that without drawing much notice. And it’s far too beautiful to chop up.”
The door only opened a few inches before Ciaran’s words sunk in. Andy pushed the door closed with more force than was necessary, the sound echoing off the concrete. “Whatever, man.”
What did Jal ever see in this guy? Ciaran blew a silent breath of relief and followed as Andy moved down the row.
He passed half of the collection by, including a black convertible with a large “SS” in the grill, and an almost new yellow Corvette with a thick black racing stripe, before pausing at a creamy white two-door car with a blue racing stripe deliberately applied off-center.
Just like me for getting talked into this. Ciaran thought to himself as Andy ran a hand along the hood, which had a pair of large air scoops and pins to hold it down.
“Now, this is more like it.”