Page 184 of The Devil's Thorn
Get closer without being seen.
It was like second nature now, moving in the dark.
One of the guys muttered something, low and clipped. I held my breath. “He said 2:45. If he’s not here, we’re out.”
That voice—it was the shaky one. The kid who was too green to be standing guard for anything more than a warehouse full of fruit. But here he was, sweating bullets while waiting forDamyen.
They were talking about Rafael again. About the ambush. About something that happened that wasn’t supposed to.
“You think he’ll show?” the one leaning asked.
“Of course he’ll show,” the second snapped. “He’s not done with this place yet. He has one more job before they pull him out.”
Pull him out.
My fingers curled against the brick. So he was being relocated. Transferred. Hidden. Because someone higher than him knew what he’d done.
I didn’t know if that someone was Viktor or someone even worse—but it didn’t matter. They weren’t just covering up the ambush. They were making sure Rafael wouldn’t live long enough to retaliate.
He saved my life that night,my brain whispered.But that’s not why you care.
No. That wasn’t why at all.
The sound of boots scraping stone made me freeze. The door to the building creaked open, and the men disappeared inside—except one. Of course. One stayed behind.
He stood right in front of the door, arms crossed, a gun holstered openly at his side. His gaze swept the street, bored and half-lidded, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think he wasn’t alert. I swore under my breath and dropped lower behind the crates.
Think. Think. You’ve been in worse situations than this. You didn’t survive all these years to get caught slipping now.
There was no going through the front. Not unless I wanted to see if I was faster than a bullet.
Spoiler: I wasn’t.
I slipped out of the alley and stayed to the shadows, circling the building carefully, boots light and silent. The back was darker. No lights. No guards. No sound except for the night around me.
I crept toward the rear entrance. A rusted metal door stood crooked in its frame, chained and padlocked like it hadn’t been opened in years. I reached out, testing the handle. Locked. Of course.
I pulled back and exhaled slowly. Then I reached down to my boot. A small, thin case rested inside—matte black and flat as a credit card. I flipped it open. Inside were a few basic picks. I wasn’t a master, but I’d learned from the best.
My father taught me when I was barely ten. A game, he said.Figure out how to get in without a key, and I’ll give you your own set.
I never lost that game.
I knelt in front of the door and slipped the pick into the lock, wiggling it gently until I found the tension point.
One click. Then another. My heart pounded. Sweat clung to the back of my neck, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or the risk. Probably both.
Come on… come on…
A third click.
I twisted the pick slowly, felt the last pin shift—and then the lock gave. My breath hitched. I stood up and slowly unwound the chain, careful not to make a sound, metal links sliding against each other like a whisper.
The door creaked open an inch. I slipped my tools back into the case and tucked it into my boot. And then I stepped into the dark.
The door closed behind me with a soft snick that still echoed louder in my ears than it should have. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and something metallic that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I moved slowly, one step at a time, careful not to let my boots make a sound on the cracked concrete floor.
No one was in sight. Not yet.
