Chapter 58
RJ
Ithought the cold would be the worst part of winter diving.
It turns out it’s the dark.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark. It has always felt a bit like a blanket to me, especially late at night, with only the light from my monitors casting shadows as I track information like a nighttime predator.
But this darkness is different.
It has weight and sound and weeds that snatch at my ankles, threatening to pull me deeper into the icy water. My headlamp does little to change the eeriness, the ping of my GPS a constant surprise as I propel myself farther from safety.
I’d placed a pin where we cut through the ice by the park. There’s more than enough air for us to return and break out of the slowly reforming barrier. But the darkness whispers lies; the circle from Jansen’s headlight barely reaches my chest.
I distract myself with memories of learning to dive off the coast of La Pieta, schools of colorful fish flitting through brilliant blue waters and the easy-to-deal-with wetsuit so different from this gloom and balloon situation.
There was freedom under those waves. Trading an updated scuba website for lessons for Jansen, Walker, and me was one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made.
I won’t ever dive on a winter night again, though. This is closer to exploring a tomb than the freedom I felt amongst those ocean waves.
My GPS chimes again, the pin of our destination close enough that I dim my headlamp, the distance I can see ahead of me now barely farther than my reach.
Jansen swims closer to my side, the darkness nearly swallowing him.
We swim closer yet, and I flick the light off entirely, the dark devouring everything except the faint light of my digital map, and the glow of the moon through the ice. Then, we’re there.
Pulling out a giant ring screw, Jansen and I take turns painstakingly anchoring us to the ice so we won’t drift from where I need to come out. The gentle slope to the shore keeps snagging my flippers, not helping, only increasing the uncomfortable sensation of being dragged to the depths below.
Once we have a handhold, I take out the battery-operated auger meant for fishing and start cutting a hole in the ice.
The device does the best it can, but it wasn’t meant to make human-sized holes, let alone from below.
So it takes forever, Jansen and I switching spots when we need a rest from the awkward position.
But finally, we make a hole large enough for me to squeeze my head through.
I double-check that we’re in the right place, the hole we’re making hidden by the shadows beside the boathouse. Trips picked a good spot. Then we keep working, the wind biting every time my skin leaves the water.
Eventually, we have a hole large enough that I won’t snag anything or damage my suit, and I haul myself from the hole like a seal, wiggling free as the wind steals my breath, having spit out my mouthpiece at the first opportunity. Fuck. Step one complete.
I sit perched on the ice, listening for the alarm, for anyone alerting security that I’ve snuck in. Instead, I hear the faint murmur of music from the house, accompanied by the clack of tree branches above as the wind grows stronger.
Safe enough, I pull off my flippers and shove my feet into the water shoes I had strapped on my belt.
Ice forms against my toes as I sink into the snow, handing Jansen my flippers, the headlamp, my regulator and tanks, the auger, and the GPS.
He throws me a thumbs up once he’s shoved all my gear into a bag, then he sinks back under the water.
I know he thinks I’ve got the dangerous job tonight. But his is worse.
There’s a reason you aren’t supposed to dive alone, and it’s a damn good one. If there’s a problem, nobody is around to help you. If there’s a problem, you’re as good as dead.
Our instructor Roque would have both of our heads right now.
I mumble one of my rare prayers to whoever might be listening, then peer at the mansion. It’s time for the next step.
I dart from tree to tree up the gentle hill toward the house.
I’d verified Trips’ assumptions about camera placements before we left, not risking tapping into the security any sooner than today for fear of being found out and putting Clara and Trips in further danger.
It was what I’d expected—they covered the boundaries but left the middle of the estate bare.
And with the wind, I’m less worried about my footprints than I was when we concocted this ridiculous plan.
Finding my way to the rose garden, I duck behind a tree and strip out of my drysuit, pulling my dress shoes out of the dry bag and shoving my icy toes into them.
Then, I straighten the lapels of my unusually heavy suit jacket, plop the fake glasses onto my face, and smooth a hand over my newly shorn head.
Thin black leather gloves provide little protection from the cold but keep me from mourning my short hair.
Looking down at myself, I can’t help my nervous chuckle over Roque’s comment that while one could dive in a drysuit wearing a full-blown tuxedo, there’d be no reason for anyone to be that stupid.
It turns out we’re that stupid.
Piling all my gear in one arm like it’s a misshapen greatcoat, I follow the path through the dead roses to the skeleton of the willow tree.
Throwing the stuff over, I hold my breath until there’s a soft thud in the snow—no collision with my bike—then continue down the garden path while pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
I push on the left side inside the pack, the filters glued together to hide the button which activates the worm I’ve tunneled into their system for months.
It will shut down cameras and recording devices randomly, one by one, all across the mansion, until every device is out of commission.
I’m pretty proud of this attack. But the only person I’d admit that to is inside right now. Telling her will have to wait.
I note the time, counting down to when the entire system dies and it’ll be safe to leave. Then, to make this all look more real, I light one of the loose cigarettes, dangling it between my lips without inhaling, the acrid scent disgusting.
By the time the shoveled path points me toward the door, the cigarette is half scattered ashes, and a guard is glaring at me with confusion. “Where’d you come from?” he asks, shifting his weight like he’s ready to attack.
“I came out of another door, got a little lost, and ended up here,” I say, stepping forward like I have a right to be here.
God, this is hard. Sweat prickles at the back of my exposed neck despite the frigid air, whatever damp that clung to me from the lake now turned to ice.
“I’m not a fan of crowds,” I add, remembering that truths make the best lies.
The guy goes to call it in while Trips’ voice in my memory explains that intimidation works just as well as a lie.
Especially with the not-so-legal company his father keeps.
So I take his advice and lean forward, snubbing my cigarette against the stones of the house, right next to his cheek.
I’m taller by a few inches, and I use my height to make the man feel small and vulnerable.
I stare him down as I pull the carton from my pocket and slide the half-smoked cigarette in. “Waste not, want not,” I say, immediately wondering where the hell that random aphorism came from.
The man glares at me, but simultaneously gulps like I voiced a threat instead of something a grandmother would say while she folds used wrapping paper for later, his face turning a little green. He opens the door beside him. “Enjoy the party, sir,” he says, gagging a bit as I pass.
Against all odds, I’m in. Step two complete.
The heat burns my ice-cold skin, equal parts pain and comfort, but I keep my face locked in a frown.
I don’t want anyone to chat with me. No one should remember me.
A ghost in the crowd, echoes in my mind.
It’s Jansen’s pickpocketing catchphrase, something he repeated as he taught us all to do lifts off the drunk revelers on their way back to their cruise ships.
I remember one competition he made up where we each would pick a wallet, take a single bill, then pass it back to him to drop back into the mark’s pocket. Whoever had the most bills won.
Of course that was Clara, but I’d been a solid second.
We made enough to buy our first motorbike that day.
Following the sound of the party, I find a ballroom gilded in opulence, crowds of men with expensive cologne and women drenched in jewels. I might not be as white as the average guest, but I’m not the only melanated person dressed to the nines, so that’s one worry mostly off my plate.
Trips promised if anything happened, at least half of the guests would feel weird about saying a black man was the problem, even if the other half would be the first to point a finger in my direction.
In the end, we’d have to let the cops sort it out, but I don’t want to think about that possibility. Nothing can go wrong.
Not tonight.
So I weave between groups, nodding at anyone who makes eye contact, like maybe we know each other. I’m almost across the ballroom when a warm hand wraps around my arm, halting my movement. Oh no.
I immediately think about a particular piece of code that’s been troubling me, as Clara tells me my vacant stare when I’m stuck in my head is my most intimidating face, then shift my eyes to whoever’s caught me.
Only to find Summer Jones.
“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” she says, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Walk with me.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time. One of those girls you’re abandoning to rich pedophiles is my sister’s best friend.”
Bile collects at the back of my throat.
“Exactly. So, you’re going to tell me how likely it is that the cops will come sweeping in to rescue them before they vanish forever.”
We pass a couple, the man lifting a questioning brow at Summer, before glancing at me like he can’t believe she’s with me.
We’re drawing attention. I tug her along a little faster.
“First off, choose your words with care. Someone is always listening here.” I keep us moving, hoping that our conversation will be more difficult to weave together if it’s not all caught by a single microphone.
“We’ve done the best we can, but we’ve only recently figured out what was going on.
The cops have access to all the information I’ve found, and we’ve got a pet pig parked outside, but I can’t make guarantees. ”
“Then save them.”
I shake my head, hating the motion even as I make it. “That’s not what we do, and you know that, Summer.”
She stops near one of the picture windows, the wind sending waves of scattered white across the yard. “But you could. If you really wanted to.”
I drop my voice to a whisper, anger threaded through with the unintended delay.
“What we want, Summer, is to have Clara safe from this sparkling prison. We want to set up our legitimate businesses. We want to become stellar, unimpeachable assholes, and only then will we consider doing anything like what you’re suggesting.
What you’re asking for is more than the five of us can give.
We don’t even have comms, Summer. It was too big of a risk if one of us got caught.
We can’t do more than we already have. Not tonight. ”
She stands there, fuming, staring across the crowd without seeing anyone. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so much at once.”
Not my problem. “The danger here is bigger and deadlier than you could imagine. But we’re doing what we can. Even if it feels like too little to you.”
She closes her eyes, and I can almost feel her pain. “I understand. But if she gets caught up in this?”
“After we’re clear, I’ll help you find her. If the pigs fail them.”
She nods, then sweeps away from me into the crowd as a bell rings, calling the guests to dinner.
I check my coat one more time, then stride back across the ballroom, the hallway I’m aiming for hardly visible from where I stand. I’ve got to get in before the ballroom empties.
It’s time for step three.