Page 91 of Brazen Deceits

10:51 a.m.

10:54 a.m. Jansen throws open the back doors of the van, fresh, icy air flooding the stagnant van. He leaps out, jogging at a healthy clip toward the mansion, Walker yanking the doors closed behind him, blotting him from my view.

It’s on.

I crowd with Walker and Trips behind RJ, watching for Jansen to show up on our screens. Walker’s hand slips into mine.

Jansen’s tenor hums out of the speakers. “Approaching the end of the safe zone.”

“Cycling video now. And…go,” RJ says. One of his screens suddenly splits, a view of a boring gate on one side, Jansen trotting into view on the other. He scales the gate like he’s a kid at a playground, throwing himself over with an ease I can hardly imagine.

“Guard northbound in ten, nine, eight,” RJ chants, Jansen sprinting around the circumference of the property, scrambling up a tree moments before a guard steps into view on the monitor. The guard marches by, unaware of Jansen perched above him.

After the guard is far enough away, Jansen jumps down, racing the rest of the way to the back of the mansion, ducking from well-groomed shrub to well-groomed shrub, before taking a running leap at the side of the house, snatching a drainpipe and shutter to hike himself up, making it onto the roof before I remember to breathe.

“Room’s empty. Entering now.” Jansen disappears, and I squeeze Walker’s hand, waiting for him to show back up on the interior cameras. Finally, he’s in the hallway, RJ letting him know when to take cover, when to move, guiding him across the house and down the stairs, all the way to the back office.

Every room that isn’t a bedroom or bathroom has security cameras, so once Jansen’s in the office, we can see him open the briefcase. He carefully lifts and lowers folders until he finds a small piece of paper, tucking it into a zippered pocket he stitched to the inside of his pants.

With the documents back in place and the briefcase closed and left right where it belongs, RJ gives Jansen directions back out. My breath huffs out, relief making my limbs wobbly.

Trips sees it first.

“Shit, Jansen, incoming.”

RJ toggles between different cameras, his own curses muted as a brawler in black, his face covered in a turkey mask, runs up to the office window, chucking a rock through the glass, as the scream of the alarm system startles the silence in the van.

Well shit.

Chapter 39

RJ

As soon as I see the same thing Trips does, I’m toggling through camera feeds, cursing at an old station wagon puffing smoke at the front gate, the fence bent on impact. Three motorcycles idle in front, waiting for Turkey Mask to snatch the case and make it back to them.

Jansen’s off camera, and I have no idea what that means. “Jansen, status,” I yelp, sweaty with panic.

“Locked, interior bathroom, no egress. I hear security yelling, and with the alarm, exterior doors and windows are on lockdown, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What happened?” Jansen asks.

“The other team,” I answer, as Turkey Mask clears glass from the window, pulling a thick blanket from his backpack, tossing it over the frame to get in and out. No cuts, no DNA. Damn it. They’re professionals.

“RJ, I need a mic.” Clara squeezes my shoulder, dropping to her knees next to me.

I yank the case open, carefully slipping the piece into her ear. “You have a plan?”

“I have an inkling of a plan.”

Trips gets between her and the back doors. “Clara, what the hell are you doing?”

“You asked for a face. I’m doing my job,” she says, shaking her head once to make sure the earpiece is stuck.

He looks like he’s ready to stand his ground, but Walker pushes him out of the way, shoving the back of the van open for Clara to leap out.

“What the fuck!” Trips roars, but we all just watch as Clara sprints toward the mansion.

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