Thirty-Nine
Kaiden
Iquickly scope out the neighborhood again, to make sure I didn’t miss anything earlier, noting which houses have lights on timers, which have dogs, which have the kind of security systems that’ll cause me problems. The target property is dark, just like I expected.
No motion sensors that I can detect from the street, which either means they don’t have any or whoever used this place already disabled them.
My money’s on the latter.
I approach from the tree-lined path at the back, keeping to the shadows. The house looms above me, all dark windows and suburban respectability. A perfect mask for whatever the fuck happened to Tina inside.
The back door has a basic deadbolt that takes me less than thirty seconds to pick. I slip inside, closing the door behind me with barely a whisper of sound. The jammer goes active in my pocket, killing any wireless signals that might alert someone I’m here.
The kitchen is exactly what you’d expect from a retired couple. Floral curtains, outdated appliances, a collection of ceramic roosters on the windowsill. Everything neat and tidy, the way people leave things when they’re going to be gone for a while.
There’s no dust, so the cleaning service is doing their job. They were scheduled for the day before yesterday and won’t be back for another five days.
I move through the ground floor methodically, scanning each room. Living room - undisturbed. The bathroom - spotless. Guest bedroom - pristine, bed made with hospital corners.
It’s upstairs where I find what I’m looking for.
The master bedroom looks normal enough at first glance - queen bed, matching nightstands, more dated floral patterns.
But there’s something off about the closet.
The door sits slightly ajar, and when I pull it open fully, I see there’s a false back panel that has been left open.
Behind it is a narrow staircase leading up.
My hand instinctively moves to the gun in my chest holster as I climb. The stairs are steep, cramped, leading to what should be attic space. At the top, I find a door. This one’s newer than anything else in the house, reinforced steel disguised with a wood veneer. It’s been left unlocked.
I push it open.
The smell hits me first - blood, sweat, fear. The kind of stench that soaks into walls and never quite leaves. My jaw clenches as I step inside and flip on the small LED flashlight I keep clipped to my belt.
The space has been converted into something out of a nightmare. Soundproofing panels line every surface. As far as I can see, that’s always been here.
In one corner is an epic drum kit and a very modern sound panel. The rest of the house might be stuck in the past, but this space is altogether different. A modern, designated space for the music teacher so he doesn’t disturb his neighbors.
But it’s the rest that doesn’t belong.
Brand new chains hang from the exposed ceiling beams, and between them hangs a man while the floor beneath him is stained dark with substances I don’t want to identify.
The dark slacks, white shirt now stained red, and sports coat fit the description Tina gave. As does the hair and build. His face is beaten beyond recognition, but I have no doubt this is the perp who hurt her.
Looks like Karma took a bite out of him.
A very purposeful bite. This guy was a dead man walking as soon as he accepted the job.
I don’t doubt that he’s a nobody. Some nasty asshole who was happy to hurt a woman for money but will ultimately turn out to be a no one of interest. Still, I press his bloody fingertips against the pad in my pocket.
It’s a crude way of taking fingerprints, but it might help identify him.
And it doesn’t stop me wishing he was still alive so I could beat the bastard to death myself.
Along one wall, implements are arranged with disturbing precision - whips, knives, brands.
I photograph everything methodically, my hands steady even as rage builds in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow.
This isn’t some opportunistic assault. This is premeditated, organized.
Someone went to considerable effort to find the perfect location and create this torture chamber in the heart of suburban America.
The branding iron catches my eye. I move closer, examining the Red Scorpion symbol etched into the metal.
It’s still sitting on a portable propane burner, like whoever used it last couldn’t be bothered to put it away properly.
I switch to video and record everything.
Every nook and cranny. Every item and implement. And him. Up close and personal.
Everything about this set-up bothers me. It’s arrogant. Sloppy. Or maybe they wanted it found.
I’m processing this thought when my scanner crackles to life. Police dispatch, reporting a possible break-in at this exact address. My blood goes cold as I register the timestamp - they were called three minutes ago.
Three fucking minutes. I’ve been inside for maybe eight minutes total, and someone already called the cops?
This is a setup. Has to be. What the fuck did I miss?
I move fast, killing my flashlight and heading for the stairs. My mind races through possibilities as I descend - cameras I missed, a silent alarm I didn’t detect, or more likely, given all the tech I’m toting, someone watching this place, specifically waiting for whoever took the bait.
The scanner crackles again. Two units responding, ETA four minutes.
I spend precious time closing up the hidden door to the attic, rearranging the clothing so it’s further disguised, and closing the closet door, hoping it will buy me some time before what’s behind it is discovered.
I take off again, hit the ground floor, and make for the back door, but freeze when I catch the flash of headlights sweeping across the front windows. Too early. They’re already here.
Fuck.
I pivot toward the basement door I passed earlier, yanking it open and slipping inside just as I hear car doors slamming outside. The basement stairs creak under my weight no matter how carefully I move, and I curse whoever built this house for using the cheapest materials possible.
The basement is unfinished - concrete floor, exposed pipes, boxes of storage scattered around. There’s a small window near the ceiling, the kind that’s barely big enough for a ten-year-old to squeeze through, let alone a grown man.
Above me, I hear the front door open. Heavy footsteps, multiple sets. Radio chatter echoes through the house above me.
“Clear the first floor,” a voice calls out. “Henderson, check upstairs.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as I scan the basement for options.
The window is too small and too exposed - I’d be spotted immediately trying to squeeze through it.
There’s a furnace in the corner, some old furniture covered with tarps, stacks of boxes that look like they haven’t been touched in years.
I move quickly but quietly, positioning myself behind the furnace where the shadows are deepest. From here, I have a line of sight to the basement door and the window, and I’m hidden from anyone coming down the stairs unless they specifically search back here.
The footsteps continue overhead, methodical and thorough. These aren’t beat cops responding to a routine call - they’re moving with purpose, clearing the house like they expect to find someone dangerous.
Like they were told exactly what to expect.
My scanner crackles softly in my pocket, and I silence it with a quick press, but not before catching fragments of their communication. “...no sign of forced entry... ground floor clear… one unit upstairs. One unit down...”
I press myself flatter against the furnace, the metal cold through my shirt. The beam of a flashlight cuts through the darkness at the top of the basement stairs.
“Basement’s next,” someone calls down.
My options are narrowing by the second. I could try to take them - I’m armed and trained - but shooting cops is a line I won’t cross.
It would bring heat down on everyone, not just me.
The girls, Mika, the entire organization.
And more importantly, it would give Aspen every reason to believe her worst fears about me are justified.
The footsteps start down the stairs, slow and cautious. Two sets, maybe three. I gauge the distance to the window again, calculating whether I could make it before they clear the stairs and get a line of sight.
Too risky.
The flashlight beams sweep across the basement floor, methodical and thorough. I can hear their breathing now, controlled and professional. These aren’t rookies.
“Lots of places to hide down here,” one of them mutters.
“Start with the obvious spots. Behind the water heater, storage areas.”
My mind races through scenarios. If they find me, what’s my play?
I could claim I was investigating a break-in myself, that I got a tip about suspicious activity.
But that doesn’t explain the lockpicks in my pocket, the jammer, or why I’m hiding in a basement instead of identifying myself as law enforcement adjacent.
I could try to bullshit my way through; claim I’m working a case for the syndicate that overlaps with whatever they’re investigating. Some cops on the LCN payroll might buy it, but I have no way of knowing if these are on the take or straight arrows.
The beams sweep closer. I hear one of them kick at a box, the sound of cardboard scraping across concrete.
“Check behind that furnace,” a voice orders.
My muscles coil, ready to move. I’m not going down without a fight, but I need to make it look like I’m trying to escape, not engage.
That gives me plausible deniability - caught fleeing the scene, not assaulting officers.
Although the fucking dead body will be hard to explain.
But there’s no blood on me, so there’s that, at least.
The footsteps approach my position. I can see the edge of a uniform now, dark fabric against the beam of the flashlight.
Then salvation comes from the most unexpected source.
“All units, we have a 10-34 in progress two blocks over. Armed robbery, shots fired. We need backup.”
The radio crackles with urgency, and I feel the shift in the officers’ attention immediately. The one approaching my position hesitates, his flashlight beam wavering.
“Shit,” someone mutters. “That’s the convenience store on Maple.”
“We need to respond,” another voice says, already moving back toward the stairs. “This is probably nothing anyway. Neighbor probably saw a cat or something.”
“We should clear the basement first…”
“Now, Henderson. That’s an active shooter situation right around the corner. We’re the closest units. There’s nothing out of place here, so we’ll swing by again afterwards.”
The footsteps retreat rapidly up the stairs.
I hear them arguing briefly at the top. “Lock the door if you really think there’s someone down there.
Then they won’t be going anywhere. There’s no other way out.
” Then the basement door slams shut, and I hear the old-fashioned key turn and clunk.
More footsteps overhead, moving fast toward the front of the house.
Car doors, engines starting, sirens wailing as they peel out.
I stay frozen behind the furnace for a full minute, barely breathing, listening to make sure they’re really gone. The house falls silent except for the settling sounds of old wood and the hum of the furnace kicking in beside me.
When I’m sure the coast is clear, I emerge from my hiding spot and move quickly to the basement window.
I can just make out the flashing lights disappearing down the street through the grimy glass.
The robbery call was perfectly timed - too perfect.
Either I just caught the luckiest break of my life, or someone orchestrated that distraction.
Life has taught me not to believe in luck.
Moving fast but carefully, I make my way back upstairs.
It only takes me seconds to tear a piece of cardboard off a box and push the key out of the lock onto it before pulling it under the ill-fitting door so I can unlock it from the inside.
I slip out and then relock the door, leaving it seemingly undisturbed.
If I’m lucky and they decide this was a false alarm, perhaps they won’t find the body currently concealed in the attic, and we can get back here with a disposal team.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief once I make it out of the building, taking the time and care to lock up behind me. The lockpicks go back in my pocket, the jammer stays active until I’m clear of the property. I stick to the tree line, moving through shadows like I was born to them.
Which, in a way, I was.
My mind churns through the implications as I make my way back to where I left the vehicle three blocks away.
Someone knew I’d come here. Someone set up Tina’s attack, not just to send a message, but specifically to draw me - or someone like me - to this location.
The torture chamber, the brand, the conveniently retired couple with a soundproof attic away on vacation. All of it was bait.
But for what purpose? To get me arrested? To expose LCN operations? Or something else entirely?
I reach the car and slide behind the wheel, my hands finally showing the tremor I kept suppressed while hiding in that basement. Not fear, but fury. Pure, distilled rage at whoever’s playing these games with our people, with our territory.
I pull out my phone and check through the photos I took of that nightmare room to make sure I caught everything.
The perp. The branding iron. The restraints.
The implements arranged like surgical tools.
This wasn’t random violence - this was theatre.
Someone staging a performance specifically for me to witness and take the fall for, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be clues.
The question is, why?
I’m tempted to go back, see if I missed something, but it’s too dangerous now, and I’m certain I captured everything on film.
Starting the engine, I pull away from the curb, keeping my speed casual, unremarkable. Just another car on a quiet suburban street in the early morning hours. Nothing to see here.
My phone buzzes. Dominic.
“Yeah?” I answer, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror for any tail.
“Where are you?” His voice is tight, and I know it was him who had my back.
“On my way to the compound,” I tell him, not about to give anything away over a call that might be picked up. “Meet you there.”