Page 2 of Captured Heart

They don’t have names. Not yet. They have to prove their loyalty to Victor and earn his respect to get a name. I got mine last year when I proved I’d sacrifice myself to protect his empire. Now I go by John Turner.

“There’s a vent on the north side of the building, just past the dumpster,” I explain, pointing to the blueprint. “That’s our way in. Bowman, you’re handling the security system. The store’srunning an old setup, infrared motion detectors and rotating cameras. Time it right, and you’re invisible. Screw up, and we’re lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Bowman nods, his confidence unshaken. I trust him to get it done. He’s ruthless but meticulous, one of the few people who shares my attention to detail. It’s obvious why he’s Victor’s righthand man.

“Smith, you’re on the safes.” I tap the spot marked in red. “There are two at the back, but don’t waste time on both. The necklace Victor wants is in the locked drawer in the manager’s office. Top right-hand corner of the desk. The key isn’t there. It’s in the back safe, third shelf on the left.”

Smith nods, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He loves a challenge, especially one that involves cracking locks.

“We’ll take out the feed and loop the footage before anyone knows we’re in.” I shift my focus to the rookies. “You’re the pack mules. Grab everything you can inthisarea, so you don’t get caught by the beams near the door.” I point to it on the map. “If you start getting greedy, we’re screwed. Just follow Bowman and Smith’s lead. No improvising. No heroics. This isn’t a game. If you trip an alarm or touch something you’re not supposed to, you’re dead weight. Got it?”

They nod, but I can see the fear in their eyes. I push down my frustration. I can’t believe any part of the plan is riding on these two. They’re fucking amateurs.

“Smith, when you get the key, take it to the manager’s desk,” I continue. “The drawer has a backup trigger alarm. It’s pressure-sensitive, so you’ll have to use the key. No brute force.”

“What about the cameras?” one of the rookies pipes up, his voice cracking.

I point to the blueprint again. “Cameras are positioned here, here, and here,” I say, tracing the spots. “They rotate every tenseconds. You’ll have a five-second blind spot to move, so you’ll need to time it perfectly.”

“And the beams?” Bowman asks.

“Infrared,” I reply. “They’re crisscrossed at ankle height and just below the waist. Bowman, once you’ve cut the alarm, you’ll need to disable the beam triggers near the safes and the manager’s office. They’re hardwired, so there’s no wireless signal to hack. You’ll have to work fast.”

I glance around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes. “We’re in and out in under five minutes. Bowman handles security. Smith cracks the safe and retrieves the necklace. The two of you grab what’s easy to carry. No overstuffing. When the clock hits four minutes, I don’t care if you didn’t get a damn thing, get out. Got it?”

A chorus of nods and mumbled agreements follows. I fold up the blueprint, the crinkling of the paper loud in the silence. The weight of the job presses down on me, heavier than usual. Maybe it’s the stakes, or maybe it’s the gnawing feeling that no matter how perfect the plan, something can always go wrong.

Twenty minutes later, I park our black van in the dark alley behind the jewelry store and exhale sharply. “Alright, let’s move.”

Bowman and Smith take the lead, hopping out of the van and slipping through the shadows toward the vent. Bowman unscrews the grate with practiced ease, and one by one, they crawl inside. The rookies fumble slightly, but they manage to keep up.

From the van, I listen through the earpiece. Bowman’s low voice comes through, calm and precise. “Security system bypassed. Cameras frozen. Moving to the safes.”

I grip the steering wheel tightly, my palms slick with sweat despite the cool night air. My heart pounds as I wait, every second stretching into an eternity.

“Safe’s open,” Smith reports. “Got the key. Heading to the desk.”

The seconds tick by, and I clench my jaw, silently willing them to hurry.

“Drawer’s unlocked. Got the necklace,” Bowman’s voice cuts through, and relief washes over me.

But then there’s a sharp beep in the background.

“What was that?” I snap.

“Fuck!” Bowman growls. “Rookie tripped a beam at the door. Alarm’s triggered. We’re coming out.”

The sound of chaos ensues, panicked voices and hurried footsteps. I hear the wail of a siren in the distance, and I curse under my breath. We’ve only got a minute or so before the cops get here.

“Get to the van!” I yell.

The first figures appear in the alley, sprinting toward me. Smith dives in first, then Bowman. One rookie stumbles, his bag spilling onto the ground, and Bowman curses, dragging him in.

“Go!” Bowman shouts, and I slam the gas pedal, tires screeching as we peel out of the alley.

The sound of sirens is deafening, and my pulse races as I swerve through the streets, trying to lose the cops. The rookies are yelling in the back, their fear palpable, but I block it out, focusing solely on the road.

“Take a hard right here, Johnny!” Bowman orders, and I obey, tires skidding as the van swerves.

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