Unlocked (The Lock and Key Society #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The sound of snoring reached the assassin first.

Deep. Steady. Oblivious. Just the way quarries should be.

A button was flicked on the watch, the countdown beginning. The victim needed to be asleep but not so deeply he wouldn’t hear his phone. Timing was everything.

When the numbers hit zero, the killer slipped from the shadows and eased into the bedroom.

Richard North lay sprawled on his back across silk sheets, mouth open, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He smelled of whiskey and something expensive, cologne meant to announce money and power. His phone rested on the nightstand within easy reach.

Too easy.

The phone was lifted carefully, thumb hovering until the screen went dark. It wouldn’t do to have someone call at the wrong moment. That could throw off the timing, and digital records had a way of surviving even if people didn’t.

The killer stepped back. Watched. Waited.

The snoring continued.

Satisfied, the killer moved quietly from the room, carrying the phone downstairs. The penthouse unfolded in clean lines and empty spaces, too much square footage for one man. Richard liked it that way. Space to remind himself of what he owned.

In the living room, an identical phone was placed on the coffee table. Same model. Same ringtone. Richard’s phone, now silenced, was set beside it.

Perfect.

The killer retreated into the closet and leaned against the wall, breathing slowly and steadily. When the watch vibrated, the killer pressed the call button on the burner phone already in hand. The phone on the table rang.

Upstairs, Richard snored on.

Good.

The intruder slipped from the closet and crossed the room, movements economical, soundless. The plan was simple. However, simple didn’t translate to easy. It required patience. Precision. Qualities this assassin possessed in droves.

Halfway up the stairs, the killer pulled the skull mask with glowing eyes into place and then hit the call button again.

The phone rang.

The snoring stopped.

The killer stilled. “Come on,” came the whisper.

No movement.

Another call. The ringtone cut through the penthouse, sharp and insistent.

A snort. A groan. Then silence.

Yes.

Richard would assume he’d left his phone downstairs.

He’d been drinking heavily, liquid courage for what was coming.

An indictment by the Southern District of New York was not something to be taken lightly.

Although Richard and his cronies were quite sure they would only get a slap on the wrist, the situation was stressful, and alcohol helped to dull his edges.

It was also enough to blur memory. He wouldn’t remember placing the phone by the bed. He wouldn’t question the ringing below.

Alcohol hadn’t made him brave. It had made him careless.

The phone rang once more.

Heavy movement followed. The squeak of the mattress. Bare feet slapping on the floor.

The killer melted into the shadows at the top of the stairs.

Richard North appeared, rubbing his face, irritation visible on his features, despite the darkened landing.

He wanted the best of everything. The world needed to see how much money he had.

Extravagance was proof. Power was performance.

He didn’t care that he’d ripped thousands of people off to get where he was.

He’d done it successfully, and that was the most important thing.

The money was his; no one could take it from him.

The penthouse was obscene, five bedrooms, five bathrooms, two floors overlooking Central Park. A monument to excess. Empty now. His family had left three years earlier, leaving Richard to rattle around alone.

The staircase was his favorite feature. Curved. Floating. Marble steps that gleamed during the day and betrayed you at night.

Richard reached for the handrail.

“Richard.”

The assassin stepped out behind him, voice calm. Certain. Loud enough to startle.

Richard spun.

Screamed.

Missed the step.

His body tumbled down the staircase, limbs flailing, skull cracking against marble. The sound echoed, the crunch of each hit. He landed in a twisted heap at the bottom, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

The killer waited.

Nothing.

There was no need to check for a pulse. Richard’s eyes stared, glassy and unseeing. A smile came easily.

The killer descended the stairs, stepped over the body, and retrieved the burner phone from the coffee table, slipping it into a pocket. Evidence traveled too easily these days. Richard’s phone was left behind. After all, it explained why he’d come downstairs in the middle of the night.

The back staircase awaited, another luxury of buildings like this. Service exits. Invisible paths, rarely monitored, the security cameras there hadn’t worked for at least six months, in accordance with the master plan.

In the garage, the mask was removed and tucked away. A hat went on, brim pulled low. Black clothes. Anonymous.

Just another Manhattanite dressed in black, disappearing into the night.