kick.
The more modern resort islands had all their power and cable and phone systems buried. But Lantern Island was too old for that. Wayne sighted on the telephone pole closest to the house. The night scope lit up the home’s transformer like a huge yellow target suspended at the top of a long grey pole. Wayne took a breath. A second. Then pulled the trigger.
The rifle huffed.
Wayne saw the streak of light through the scope and shut his eyes tight against what was to come.
The incendiary bullet hit the transformer dead on. There was a sharp crack and a palm tree of sparks.
From the azalea by the bulkhead, a bird chattered its protest over being awoken. A dog’s muffled bark sounded inside a house somewhere along the road. The sparks littered the street, fizzled quietly, then went out.
Wayne waited and listened through a full five minutes. He turned to the wide-eyed pair and softly explained, “House alarms have a back-up battery. Not motion sensors in the yard.”
He slipped over the side onto the sand, checked the night once more, then said, “When it happens, start the motor, untie the boat, and be ready. And don’t speak more than you have to. The guy might recognize your voices.”
Foster hissed, “When what happens?”
Wayne replied, “Now’s a good time to pull down your masks.”
SEVEN
W ayne loped across the yard. He was fairly certain nobody was going to bother him, especially not the guy inside that house, totally blinded as he was by steel shutters. The island estates were spaced well apart, a minimum two acres per, with all the extras any rich kid could come up with at Christmas. Stone walls. Borders of blooming trees. Wooden trellises rising ten feet above the walls, guaranteeing they would never have to glimpse another neighbor unless they hiked across their manicured lawns and rang the six-bong doorbell. High-impact glass and total soundproofing. As entombed as money could make them.
It was the high-impact glass that had him worried.
Up close the house looked fairly impregnable. Which was mostly bad and maybe a little good. Bad, because he was going to have just one chance to get this right. Even if blowing the transformer had also taken out the phone system as he hoped, the guy inside could not be given time to use his cell. Reach out and touch the local cops. Who would come swarming. With that one phone call, Wayne would become every security joe’s dream come true, the reason most of them deluged the real cops with multiple applications. So they could blow away the bad guys.
If he didn’t want to play one quick round of deer-in-the-headlights, he had to get it right the first time.
But it was also good. Maybe. A guy living inside a steel cell most likely lived alone. Wayne knew guys like that. These sorts of toys were definitely a guy thing.
The same sort of guy who trusted his own security more than a bank.
As in, the place to stow his illicit cash.
After all, this was the same guy who made a profession out of tweaking reality and taking money that basically wasn’t his. A guy who lived to abuse other people’s trust.
Of course, all this was assuming Wayne had the right house.
That line of thought kept him company as he danced his way across the moonlit lawn and inspected the corner of the house. Three stories, stone, high-pitched roof, sort of a pyramidal structure. The broad ground floor rose to a second story about half its width, and it to a third floor that was basically one large room wide.
Wayne was betting his life that top floor held the mother lode.
He unfurled his lanyard. The grappling hooks connected to the end were wrapped in foam rubber. Wayne began whirling, letting more rope slip through his hand until the circle reached almost the ground. Then on the upswing he lifted and tossed.
The hooks slid silently over the slate roof, then caught on something.
Wayne put his weight on the line, gripped hard, and put his foot on the stone wall. He pulled himself up
The more modern resort islands had all their power and cable and phone systems buried. But Lantern Island was too old for that. Wayne sighted on the telephone pole closest to the house. The night scope lit up the home’s transformer like a huge yellow target suspended at the top of a long grey pole. Wayne took a breath. A second. Then pulled the trigger.
The rifle huffed.
Wayne saw the streak of light through the scope and shut his eyes tight against what was to come.
The incendiary bullet hit the transformer dead on. There was a sharp crack and a palm tree of sparks.
From the azalea by the bulkhead, a bird chattered its protest over being awoken. A dog’s muffled bark sounded inside a house somewhere along the road. The sparks littered the street, fizzled quietly, then went out.
Wayne waited and listened through a full five minutes. He turned to the wide-eyed pair and softly explained, “House alarms have a back-up battery. Not motion sensors in the yard.”
He slipped over the side onto the sand, checked the night once more, then said, “When it happens, start the motor, untie the boat, and be ready. And don’t speak more than you have to. The guy might recognize your voices.”
Foster hissed, “When what happens?”
Wayne replied, “Now’s a good time to pull down your masks.”
SEVEN
W ayne loped across the yard. He was fairly certain nobody was going to bother him, especially not the guy inside that house, totally blinded as he was by steel shutters. The island estates were spaced well apart, a minimum two acres per, with all the extras any rich kid could come up with at Christmas. Stone walls. Borders of blooming trees. Wooden trellises rising ten feet above the walls, guaranteeing they would never have to glimpse another neighbor unless they hiked across their manicured lawns and rang the six-bong doorbell. High-impact glass and total soundproofing. As entombed as money could make them.
It was the high-impact glass that had him worried.
Up close the house looked fairly impregnable. Which was mostly bad and maybe a little good. Bad, because he was going to have just one chance to get this right. Even if blowing the transformer had also taken out the phone system as he hoped, the guy inside could not be given time to use his cell. Reach out and touch the local cops. Who would come swarming. With that one phone call, Wayne would become every security joe’s dream come true, the reason most of them deluged the real cops with multiple applications. So they could blow away the bad guys.
If he didn’t want to play one quick round of deer-in-the-headlights, he had to get it right the first time.
But it was also good. Maybe. A guy living inside a steel cell most likely lived alone. Wayne knew guys like that. These sorts of toys were definitely a guy thing.
The same sort of guy who trusted his own security more than a bank.
As in, the place to stow his illicit cash.
After all, this was the same guy who made a profession out of tweaking reality and taking money that basically wasn’t his. A guy who lived to abuse other people’s trust.
Of course, all this was assuming Wayne had the right house.
That line of thought kept him company as he danced his way across the moonlit lawn and inspected the corner of the house. Three stories, stone, high-pitched roof, sort of a pyramidal structure. The broad ground floor rose to a second story about half its width, and it to a third floor that was basically one large room wide.
Wayne was betting his life that top floor held the mother lode.
He unfurled his lanyard. The grappling hooks connected to the end were wrapped in foam rubber. Wayne began whirling, letting more rope slip through his hand until the circle reached almost the ground. Then on the upswing he lifted and tossed.
The hooks slid silently over the slate roof, then caught on something.
Wayne put his weight on the line, gripped hard, and put his foot on the stone wall. He pulled himself up
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