Page 95 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“Probably on a timer.”

Benji frowned, unsure.

This was the problem with doing a rush job: no time to prep. By the time they’d arrived on-site yesterday, it had been one a.m. and the house had been dark. So they were winging it instead of taking their usual few days to discover any patterns.

Benji had even called Simon that morning to beg for extra time, but his brother had insisted, “You will get it tonight andcome back. There’s another job I need you for.” He hung up without letting Benji say anything else.

The house sat on ten acres of scattered groves of ponderosa pines and meadows of long brown grass. From the front stoop, Benji could see the glow of flames in the meadow from the fire Sticks had set off. It seemed larger than it should have been at this point, and he was getting nervous they might not have as much time as planned.

“Screw it,” Benji said as he stepped aside. “Open it.”

Devin swung a handheld battering ram into the door. The second the door swung open, the shrill of an alarm filled the air. It didn’t matter. By the time anyone showed up they’d be gone, and the house would be burning.

“I got this floor, you take upstairs,” Benji said.

He made a mad dash through the ground floor, searching for the Matilda Stone painting that was supposed to be there. It was the second Stone in a row they were snatching, which seemed kind of odd. But who was Benji to question his brother’s whims?

He found the painting in the library and was about to let Devin know over their walkie app when Devin’s voice came over his earbud. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Who the fuck are you?” The voice that came over the radio was not Devin’s.

Someone else was in the house.

“Shit,” Benji hissed.

He retrieved his pistol and ran up to the second level.

Devin was standing in the doorway to the master bedroom, while a few feet inside stood a man in his fifties or sixties. He wastall and wore only a pair of red-and-black-checked boxers, which left his significant paunch on full display.

“I said, who the fuck are you?” he slurred. His hair was disheveled, and he was weaving slightly.

“We’re with the sheriff’s department,” Devin said. “There’s a fire heading toward your house. We’re here to evacuate you.”

“Fire? Nobody told me about any fire.”

He started walking toward a window and within two steps tripped over his own feet. When he tried to right himself, he ended up backpedaling into a dresser and toppling onto the floor.

He lay there, unmoving.

“Is he dead?” Devin asked.

“I hope not,” Benji said. No one had suffered more than a few scrapes and bruises in connection with any of their previous heists. “Check him.”

Devin knelt next to the body, put a hand on the man’s neck, then gave Benji a thumbs-up. “Still alive.”

Benji grimaced. While that was a good sign, they still had a problem. “Help me get him downstairs.”

“We’re taking him with us?”

“We can’t leave him here.”

“Why not?”

“The fire?”

Devin’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit, right. The fire.”

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