TOO EASY
Chris
I’m running out of time.
Three nights, and the tension’s been building around that house. Sara’s pacing has changed. Her lights stay on longer. Something is brewing, and tonight the pot boils over.
Her bedroom darkens, and except for distant traffic noise from the city and the occasional dog bark, the neighborhood has gone quiet. The driver has left the estate. Nothing suggests Whitmore’s awake.
I wait. Patience is the only weapon that doesn’t dull.
There—movement.
Whitmore’s little trainwreck of a daughter sneaks out and awkwardly climbs over the fence.
Her hair’s tied up, and a backpack hangs over one shoulder.
With a black hoodie and dark jeans, she’s dressed for concealment.
Her clumsy landing, and her shoes scraping on the pavement are anything but stealthy, though.
I stay low in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on her silhouette in the dim gap between two low-glowing streetlamps as she unlocks the old bike she stole. Smart, how she stays in the shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach. She glances around, cautious but lacking the training to spot me.
I wait until she’s half a block down before I start the car, rolling behind her, keeping distance. I kill the headlights when she takes the back roads. We zigzag through the sleeping town, a hunter and his mark.
She’s heading toward the venue. The rally’s tomorrow. Or rather today; it’s already way past midnight. What the hell are you up to, princess?
I park far enough away to stay off the radar, but close enough to observe her, melting into the night. The darkness is damp. My boots barely make a sound on the worn pavement.
After leaving the bike by a tree, she squeezes through a break in the fence, moving swiftly. No doubt, she knows exactly where she’s going.
Where the hell is security? Amateurs.
I find a good spot behind the row of vendor tents and keep watch through a slit in the canvas.
It takes me a sec to register what she’s doing.
It’s spray paint. The red slashes across the stage wall speak louder than her voice ever could.
LIAR! MURDERER! GOVERNOR? This isn’t teenage vandalism.
This is a declaration, and it reads like a slogan.
A laugh tumbles out before I can swallow it. Brave little princess, throwing stones at giants.
After taking a moment to admire her work, she rushes over to the tech booth without making a sound.
Something small and metallic glints in her hand.
She plugs it into the mixing console. A USB drive, perhaps.
The pale light from the monitor illuminates her features, giving her face a ghostlike glow as she messes with the equipment.
Maybe she’s trying to plant a video. That girl has ideas.
How did she gain access? I’m almost impressed by her focus as I imagine how the scenario would play out if she succeeded with her plan.
But that’s not going to happen. A flashlight beam cuts through the dark when a lone cop does his rounds. Bad luck for both of them.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
She abandons her task, eases out of the booth, and strides straight toward him. He keeps his eyes on her, not the blood-red truth dripping across the wall behind him.
I can’t make out her words, but I see his face. He’s not buying it. A minute later, the cuffs click shut. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t argue. She lets it happen, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t a hint of satisfaction flashing across her face as they pass.
Doesn’t he recognize her?
I return to my car, observing the scene from the rearview mirror. She’s handing herself to me on a silver platter.
I tap out a message: All set.
Then I turn the key.
“Walk into my grasp, princess,” I murmur. “Couldn’t have planned it better myself.”
◆◆◆
The police station hasn’t changed since the last time I stepped through these doors: washed-out brick, the faint smell of burnt coffee, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone appear guilty.
A sleepy officer yawns at the front desk, trying hard to stay awake. He stiffens when I ask for the chief.
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Call him.” I don’t raise my voice. “You wanna keep your job? You call him.” I lean against the counter and scan the back for red hair. I don’t see any. The guy hesitates, not sure what to do. I gesture toward the phone. “Tell him, Stix is here,” I say, fixing my gaze on him, waiting.
Eventually, he picks it up, handling it like it might bite.
It rings, and rings. Then, a few clipped words, and his face hardens. He nods and hangs up. “You can wait in his office.”
Funny how convenient it is to have people owing you.
When Ed finally shows up, he greets me with a sour expression. “So, you’ve finally come to collect.”
He hovers in the threshold, cautious, waiting for me to speak. Not wasting time on small talk, I tell him who his rookie cop managed to arrest. The blood drains from his face. He stares at me like I tossed a live grenade on his desk.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already fumbling for his cell.
His knuckles whiten around the device as he paces the room.
Leaning back, I watch him sweat, almost amused by the way his composure unravels.
I’ve seen war prisoners break with more dignity.
Someone should tell him it’s just a job.
No need to fuss like that. Power does that to weak men.
The more they gain, the harder they cling to it.
The mayor gave him that badge as easily as he could take it away.
Arresting his daughter mid-campaign without informing him instantly? Reason enough. Works in my favor.
The call’s short. Harder than necessary, he sets his phone down on the desk in front of me. His hand lingers on it as thoughts race behind his eyes. “She’s in the interrogation room, cuffed like some shoplifting teen.” His voice grits out the last word, barely keeping it together.
“I’ll take care of it. She’ll be gone before anyone notices she was ever here. One hundred percent she gave you a fake name. Go with it. Play dumb and keep your paperwork clean.”
He’s pacing again, fingers raking through what’s left of his hair.
It’s all in vain. He already knows there’s no other option but to accept my offer.
Just one more little push. “I’ll deal with the mayor,” I add.
“Every minute she stays here is another chance the story leaks. Headlines about police incompetence or abuse of power. A scandal. That what you want?”
He mutters a curse, forehead buried in his hand. “This is gonna come back to bite me.”
“Let’s make sure it doesn’t.”
That shuts him up. He points me down the hall without another word. On my way out, I pause in the doorway. “You should clean up the mess she left at the convention center before the rally crew shows up. Thank me later.” Another debt tucked neatly into my pocket.
I stride to the interrogation room unhurried, knowing exactly who waits behind that door. She isn’t a shoplifting teen or some small-town delinquent, but the girl who’s been rewriting my expectations from the moment she slipped out of her house with a backpack full of chaos.
The hinges groan as I enter the windowless room, shutting the door behind me with a click. She doesn’t bother lifting her head. Just sits there, slouched in the metal chair, radiating rebellion with her wrists restrained in her lap and her fingers picking at the cuff of her sleeve.
Taking my time, I study her.
There she is. My target.
I reach up, switching off the camera hanging in the corner, and watch the red LED fade.
That gets her attention.
Her gaze is sharp, annoyance simmering beneath the surface. What could have possibly carved that edge into her? I push the thought away. It’s none of my business, not why I’m here.
I crouch beside her and unlock the cuffs. She rubs her wrists, not thanking me. Doesn’t even spare me a glance.
Sarcasm laces her voice. “You the bad cop? Or the good one?”
I let out a quiet laugh, the kind that never reaches my eyes. “No, Sara.”
Her head jerks up and her eyes narrow. “So you know who I am now. Took you long enough.”
She meets my stare longer than I’d counted on, but in the end, she’s the one who breaks it. The way her knee bounces tells me everything. Behind her defiance, realization is creeping in. She gives me a once-over. I instantly know what she’s searching for and won’t find: a badge, a gun, a name tag.
Her chin tilts, a half-smile carving its way across her face.
“Obviously not a cop. So what are you? The big scary guy they send to rough up little girls?”
What a lame attempt to hide the nerves working their way through her.
I don’t answer, letting the lack of response do the talking.
She rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “What do you want?”
The cold in my tone makes it clear obedience is the only option.
“You’re going to stand up now. Then you’re going to leave with me calmly. Or not.” I shrug. “Your choice.”
She tilts her head, eyes locking on mine, defiance hardening.
“Make me.”
If my tone won’t make her listen, my hands surely will.
The metal chair topples behind her with a ringing crash. She gasps, the flicker of surprise breaking across her face right before it hits the steel surface as I push her onto the table and hold her there. This should teach her how quickly things can turn if she refuses to comply.
“Careful,” I murmur near her ear, leaning over her and pinning her down. “You don’t want to test me.”
She goes rigid. A soundless tremor runs through her. She’s not used to this kind of treatment, not supposed to be. However, she needs to learn. If I go easy on her now, it’ll only take her longer to understand her place.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t fight when I let go, doesn’t get loud. That’s good.
“Tuck in your hair and pull up your hood.”
The chances of running into someone are low at this hour, but I can’t risk street cam footage or suspicion. That color stands out. She’d better hide it.
Unimpressed by her murderous glare and annoyed by her insolence, I shout, “Now!”
The command makes her flinch. She doesn’t stall again. The touch of violence did the trick. Intimidation at its best.
I grip her arm and pull her down the stairs, rushing her through the dim hallway. The stale reek of cigarette smoke thickens as we near the back exit. No one’s there.
We vanish into the morning.