Page 92 of Brazen Deceits

I roll to the command center. “Clara incoming,” I say.

“Is there a plan?” Jansen asks.

“Maybe.”

She’s on the feeds, flying toward the place where the wagon is wedging the gate open. “Make the camera feeds live, RJ,” she pants. I switch all the feeds off cycle, watching as she slides over the hood of the station wagon and through the hole, the three men on motorcycles yelling at her. Only none of them can maneuver around their getaway vehicles and the totaled car to stop her charge.

I toggle to the office. Turkey Mask has the briefcase and is diving out the window as security makes it to the room, small muzzle flashes visible on the feed.

“She’s going to fucking kill herself,” Trips growls, his fingers digging into my shoulders as he watches over my head.

Walker slams the back door, Clara no longer visible from the street. “Trust her. She can do this.”

Clara’s pant comes across the radio. “Jansen, I’ll need you to be high. I need you to come out loud and belligerent.”

“Ugh, I hate this,” he says. “Tell me when.”

Turkey Mask is sprinting around the corner of the house, security clearing the room, then diving out the window after him. Clara runs right at the masked man, tackling him from the side before he notices her rocketing toward him. “Ten count, Jansen,” she grunts.

Turkey Mask does exactly what a trained grunt does, rolling with the tackle, pinning Clara on her back, the briefcase on the ground next to him.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Trips chants under his breath, his nails scratching my skin through my shirt.

There’s a pause, then Clara lets out one of the most excruciating screams I’ve ever heard.

Security races around the corner, guns raised, finding Turkey Mask with Clara pinned under him. She wiggles, a half-assed kind of struggle.

Turkey Mask realizes he’s in the open, pinning a young woman to the ground, with multiple armed men yelling at him to stand down. And he knows the drill. His hands slowly rise from Clara, and he inches to his feet, turning to the guards.

Clara scrambles to her feet, looking from Turkey Mask to the guards with guns and bursts into tears, her sobs so real I’m worried she’s falling apart. Trips storms to the door, but Walker blocks him. “Wait,” he says, eyes locked on the screen. “Just wait.”

We all watch as one guard slowly moves up to Clara, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her back behind the line of armed men. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” His comforting nothings are clear over her mic.

One of the other guards rushes up, zip-tying Turkey Mask’s hands behind his back. Turkey Mask must have gotten a message to his team. The roar of three Ducatis rumbles past us, his getaway gone without him.

Things are calmer on the screen. Clara’s weeping while Turkey Mask is unmasked, revealing an ugly bald man covered in acne scars and a glare that would give Trips a run for his money.

Then, crystalline through the speakers in the van, a fucking angel belts out, “A-a-amazing grace, how sweet the sound.”

Everyone freezes, both in the van and out.

Goddamn. How did I forget that Jansen cansing?

“What the fuck?” the guard holding Clara says, motioning the third guard to go check on the new threat.

“Tha-a-at saved a wretch like meeeeee—”

“Oh my God, oh thank God, he’s safe,” Clara mumbles, trying to break away from her keeper to follow the guard heading to Jansen.

“Stay. What are you talking about, sweetheart?” her guard says, holding her back.

“It’s all my idiot brother’s fault,” she weeps, shaking her head. “That’s my boyfriend. He’s in there, and he’s basically helpless right now. What if there’s another of these scary guys?” She points at Turkey Mask.

Jansen’s singing is broken up by giggles as he stumbles into the hallway outside of the office. The last guard catches sightof him, locking his wrists behind his back before hauling him through the mess of the office and out the window. Not a great bit of protocol there, but his fuck-up gets Jansen out of the house. One step closer to safety.

Once Jansen comes around the corner, Clara flings herself at him. “Oh thank God. You’re okay, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she weeps, holding onto his waist, the three guards looking entirely perplexed. They’re not alone, but I feel a grin pulling at my lips.

She’s going to do this. I don’t know how, not yet, not entirely, but she’s going to get them both out of there.

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