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  DECEIT

  (Part 1)

  Quick Copyright Notice

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 L.A.Shorter

  All right reserved.

  First edition: November 2014

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  Chapter One

  Lily

  I stand in the cool night air, facing the house in front of me. No, house isn't accurate. This place is a mansion. One of the biggest I've seen.

  The street is littered with them. They stretch both ways on both sides of the road down Plainview Drive. All of them sit like bastions against the black night, behind high gates and intimidating walls. Some even have a guard keeping watch outside. All have security cameras and alarms.

  It's cold this evening, and I feel a chill running up my spine. Once I might have misconstrued that as nerves. Not any more. I've done this more than a dozen times and each time it gets easier. In, out, and a pat on the back for a job well done.

  Having Kent by my side helps. If only to offer a bit of muscle should things get physical. He's handy with a gun and a knife. More than handy actually, if I'm to believe the rumors. Years in the special forces will lend a man certain skills that are uniquely transferable. Being good at taking orders is one of them, even if they're coming from a petite girl of 23.

  We step forward, our bodies smothered in black, fog rising from our breath and swirling into the heavens. It's dead of night, and the streets are silent. No lights gleam from inside houses. No cars pass behind us on the road. Perfect conditions for a score.

  I slip a balaclava from my back pocket and pull it over my head, the fabric giving my face some protection against the early winter chill. Kent does the same, his dark brown eyes gleaming from behind two evenly cut holes. The gate ahead of us stands tall, but offers little in the way of deterence. No barbed wire or razor tape at the top. No metal thorns built into the bars. This gate is more a pretty feature of the property than an effective security measure. After tonight, perhaps he'll consider an upgrade.

  With the grace of a gazelle Kent quickly scales the gate, dropping silently down onto the other side. I follow, clutching the metal bars tightly in my gloved hands and propelling myself over. I land next to him, give him a quick nod, and together we begin pacing forward.

  I know the layout. I've been here before. There's a hidden camera on the wall to our right, but it has no alarm function. Before we leave, we'll wipe the footage anyway, so I don't care if it sees us. The front door is fitted with a sensor activated alarm, however, and is heavily bolted on the other side. It's the entry point with the most resistance, so needs to be avoided.

  We move around the mansion, which is garish and modern. Imbued with a mixture of gothic and contemporary architecture as if to make a point. I'm rich and I can build a house in whatever style I want. I suppose he must have been going for 'tasteless' when he briefed his architect.

  We reach a large window on the ground floor. Beyond it lies a downstairs bedroom, unoccupied. Kent quickly withdraws a glass cutter from his bag. On one end is a padded sucker cup, which he fixes to the window. On the other, extending from a short bar, is a circular metal contraption. Kent taps a button on the end of it and a blue light begins shining on the glass, accompanied by the sound of buzzing. Slowly, he twists the cutter around in a clockwise motion until he reaches the other side. With a quiet pop of air, Kent pulls the device off the window, bringing a perfect glass sphere with it.

  He sticks his hand in through the opening, clicks the lock, and pushes the entire window open. He steps inside first, and I follow. No alarm. No real security. It's as if he's asking to be robbed.

  “Where's the main bedroom?” Kent asks, slipping the circle of glass and cutter back into his bag. Through his mask, I can still see that knowing look in his eye. I get it often. It's my job to know just where the bedroom is.

  “Up the main staircase, down the left hand side of the gallery. Second door on the right.”

  He nods, but we've been through it all a hundred times already. It's his military training. He needs to be drilled over and over until he's satisfied.

  We move towards the door and Kent clicks it open. Beyond is a short corridor leading into a large hallway. It's filled with gaudy furniture and strange sculptures; the walls drizzled in odd paintings and photographs. We turn on our flashlights and I see once more the odd mixture of colors in the house. Reds and blues and greens and yellows shine out from pieces of art and ornaments decoratively placed on tables and high shelving.

  “Jesus,” whispers Kent, staring out at the crude furnishings, “this guy is really going to deserve what he gets. I kinda feel sorry for you having to come back here.”

  “Well, this time I don't mind. It was the last time that I wasn't so fond of.”

  We pace towards the stairs, refocusing. The man who owns the house, James Wheaton, I know isn't responsible for its appearance. He was keen to point that out when he took me back here several nights ago.

  “Ignore all of this,” he'd told me, waving his hands at every last piece of crap in there. “It's all my wife's doing. She has to keep herself busy with something, I suppose.”

  He hadn't hesitated to lead me straight up into the master bedroom after that. And that's when I'd set to work. On him, first, and then on another function of my job. Scouting.

  We continue up the stairs, reach the landing at the top, and move to the left. I know that it's just James in the house this evening. His wife's away on a shopping spree in Paris, and his two kids are at boarding school. At the back of the house is accommodation for his staff – maids, cooks, cleaners. But they're all tucked up in bed and out of sight. They won't be of any concern to us.

  I slip a silenced pistol from my belt and grip it tight in my right hand. My left falls to the circular door handle leading to the master bedroom.

  “OK, ready?” I whisper, staring at the two holes in Kent's balaclava.

  He nods, the whites of his eyes shining bright behind his black veil.

  “One, two, three,” I say, and then quickly click the door open.

  This is the one moment I can't prepare for. It's always the case, because there's never any way of knowing whether the mark will be awake, asleep, or jerking off into a cloth. So, we always assume that our opening the door is going to alert them, and so we have to be ready. That's what the taser gun in Kent's hand is for.

  We glide into the dark room in silence, Kent first with his taser pointed at the grand four poster bed in the center of the room. I'm right behind, like his shadow, my own pistol pointed at the target to intimidate. Just intimidate. I'm not intending on using it.

  But, like most nights, we're greeted with no surprise. There are no shouts and screams. No muffled grunts of confusion as the mark wakes from a dream. Just the quiet sound of breathing, of a man sleeping peacefully under a pile of blankets.

  Kent looks at me and I give him a nod. It's time to wake him up.

  He steps towards the bed, his footsteps lightly clicking against the wooden floor, and points the taser right at the mound of flesh in the middle of the mattress. James Wheaton isn't the youngest, or the most slender man I've ever met, so there's plenty to aim for.

  There's a spark as the two darts fire off the end of the gun, trailing thin wires behind them. They lodge themselves into James Wheaton's ample shoulder, sending a shock of electricity through him. His eyes light up immediately, bursting wide open in the dim light. Despite the terror he must be feeling, I can't help but
stifle a laugh at his appearance. I mean, we're not here to kill him. Just rob him. So I don't feel too guilty about enjoying his torment, especially after having to endure his corpulent body writhing on top of me a few nights ago.

  He shakes for a few moments before going limp, a short paralysis setting in. A couple of grunts fall from his mouth, but they're insufficient to wake a mouse, let along the staff in the buildings at the other end of the compound.

  Kent sets to work, spinning Wheaton over, binding his hands behind his back, tying his ankles, and putting a muzzle over his mouth. The end result is a bound and gagged multi-millionaire who is so terrified that he's wet the bed. It could be a side effect of the taser, but I like to think that he's just a pussy.

  It doesn't take long for the effects of the electric shock to begin to wear off, his faculties returning. Kent picks him up and drops him into a chair in the corner of the room.

  “Stinks of piss,” he grunts, as Wheaton mumbles frantically beneath his gag.

  Now I step forward, the stench of urine wafting up my nose, and point my pistol straight at his head. “Look at me,” I growl in my 'batman voice', lowing my tone and trying to sound as much like a man as possible. Of course, my frame would make it obvious to anyone that I'm a woman, but that's not a problem. The aim is to confuse, confound, and just generally hide my voice. If I spoke in my regular tone, he might just recognize me.

  His eyes dart to mine, clear blue behind my black balaclava. That's another deceit, provided by the use of colored contact lenses. My eyes are actually green.

  “Now I'm going to remove your muzzle in a moment,” I say. “But you have to promise me you won't make a noise, and that you'll answer my questions immediately, and truthfully.”

  Wheaton just stares at me, giving no indication that he's even understanding what I'm saying.

  “If you don't comply, I will shoot you in the head,” I say, completely matter-of-factly. “Nod if you understand.”

  He nods, shakingly. At least I think it's a nod. He's trembling so much I can't tell, his head jumping all over the place.

  “OK Mr Wheaton,” I say. “Don't make a sound.”

  I reach forward and pull the muzzle off him, revealing his chubby, red face. His lips quiver, as if trying to subdue the instinct to call out.

  “What...are you...here for?” he asks, his voice trembling.

  “We're here for money Mr Wheaton,” I say calmly. That's so obvious that it hardly bares mentioning.

  “But...there's no money here.”

  I grip my pistol tight and push it against his forehead. “I told you to speak truthfully, Mr Wheaton. And I told you what I'd do if you didn't.”

  His eyes close and he flinches, turning his head to the side. “OK, OK,” he says frantically. “I'll give you whatever you want. Just...don't hurt me.”

  I pull the pistol back and clip it to my belt. Then I turn to Kent, who's standing, arms crossed a few feet behind me and slightly to the side, oozing menace. In this routine, he's the bad cop. If Wheaton doesn't comply, Kent will step in. I don't think it will come to that tonight.

  I nod at Kent and move towards the door. He walks to Wheaton, who shrinks further into his seat, and bends down to cut his ankle ties. Then he lifts him to his feet and begins chaperoning him towards the door where I wait.

  “Your safe is located in your study, is it not?”

  Wheaton nods.

  “Good. Thank you for your honesty. This will all go very easily if you keep up that trend.”

  I step out onto the gallery and towards the stairs. Then down into the excessively loud main hall and along a short corridor to the left. At the end is what I know to be James Wheaton's study room. I found that out the other night when I came here. When Wheaton lay sleeping in his bed, unknowingly drugged and out until morning. That gave me plenty of time to scout the house and discover its secrets. Plenty of time to get to know the layout, it's security features, and what treasures might lie within.

  I twist the handle when I reach the entrance to the study, the door falling open with a light creak. Inside it's far more tasteful than the rest of the house. Fine pieces of art hang on the walls, comfortable velvet armchairs nestle in the corners. Ahead of us, in front of a wall covered in books and shelving, is a large antique table, dark brown and frugally adorned with nothing but a Mac PC and green glass banker lamp.

  When I was last here, it took me a while to find the safe. Longer than usual, actually. Often you'll find safes hidden behind pictures hanging on the wall, just like in the movies. So, that's where I'd always start. No luck here.

  Of course, after a little more searching I discovered that the safe was hidden in the bookshelf, located behind a stuffy set of old history books. So that's where I am now. Standing in front of volumes 1-4 of some historian's take on the American Civil War. I pluck them from the shelf one by one and, like a puzzle in reverse, slowly reveal the prize behind.

  When I turn around to look at Wheaton his head has dropped to his chin. I suppose he thought we were amateurs. That we'd never find his o-so-well-concealed safe. What his resignation does tell me is that there's a valuable score inside. More than just the jewelry we'll pick up from his wife's dressing room, and the few antique pieces around the house that will be worth taking. We'll get those later, but for now let's find out what's behind prize door number 1.

  “Bring him here,” I say to Kent. Me giving the orders hopefully will present me to Wheaton as a serious threat, if I haven't already made that clear.

  Kent shoves Wheaton forward aggressively, almost causing him to topple over. He stumbles instead, his bound hands landing on his desk for support. Then I see Kent pull a pistol from his belt and probe at Wheaton's back. He knows my next question needs a straight answer, and a quick one too.

  “You're going to open this safe,” I growl, making sure to open my blue eyes as wide as I can for an added dose of intensity and intimidation. I know what wide, white, eyes look like behind a balaclava. It's a scary sight.

  “If you don't open it, my colleague here will put a slug in your back.” I'm layering it on thick now. He gets the message. He got it straight away upstairs. But I want to make sure.

  I step to one side and allow him access to the safe. With hands shaking, he begins pressing at the buttons on the little numbered panel on the front. I watch as his chubby, trembling, fingers move from button to button, before finally there's an electronic click and the safe door cracks open.

  Now I drag him backwards to Kent and pull the door open. My heart rate begins to increase a touch, as it always does at this point. Not knowing quite what you're going to find is always something of a peculiar turn on for me, and I can already feel my breathing beginning to rise.

  Behind the door I see the usual sight. Money, stacks of it, piled neatly to one side. I grab one bundle and flick through it. Hundred dollar bills in hundred bill bundles. That's ten grand in each. Inside I see at least a dozen of them, perhaps a couple more.

  I take each out and pass them back to Kent, who drops them into his sack. “You got insurance?” he growls at Wheaton. Wheaton nods, which gets him a slap on the back in reply. “Well, what's the problem then! Let the insurance company handle this, then we can all go home happy.”

  I smile behind my mask as I turn back to the safe. It's true that Wheaton really isn't going to lose out on much here. Perhaps we'll take a few sentimental items that have some personal meaning, but that's not the end of the world. There's no point in him resisting or trying to act the hero, and he knows that. They never do, these rich folk. In reality, what we're taking here is just a drop in the ocean to him. Nothing worth getting shot over.

  My hand reaches a box inside the safe and I pull it out. When I open it I'm almost blinded by the shining silver and diamond necklace staring back at me. My heart rate jumps just a little higher at the sight of it. This is why Wheaton's dropped his neck to his chin. It must be worth a fortune.

  Kent takes a look in the box, his
own eyes lighting up like a lion who's just spotted its prey. “I hope that's insured too Mr Wheaton,” he says.

  “It's not about the insurance money,” says Wheaton, deflated. “It was supposed to be a gift for my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Kent scoffs. “Or maybe your girlfriend...”

  I lift my eyes quickly to Kent, who appears to enjoy antagonizing the man. Without saying a word I tell him to shut the hell up with a stare. My identity is at stake here. Wheaton's smart. He might just put two and two together.

  Thankfully, Wheaton says nothing. Yet I can see him eying me differently now. Does he know who I am? If not my voice or my eyes, perhaps the shape of my body is familiar to him. The way I walk. The way I move. The inflection, if not the tone, of my words.

  I shut the box and pass it to Kent, who adds it to the money in his bag. Nothing else remains inside the safe, so I shut it tight and look back to Kent. “Tie him up again, make sure he can't move,” I say.

  I begin walking towards the door, ready to collect the rest of our spoils from the house, but am stopped in my tracks.

  “Sarah...” comes the whisper. I freeze immediately.

  It's another deceit. The name I gave Wheaton when I met him before. Sarah Dunlop. It was part of my cover.

  As soon as I've heard the name I feel my heart sink. Wheaton speaks again, not understanding where his words will take him. “Sarah...is that you?”

  Shut up. Please shut up.

  For a few moments I don't move. I just stand, staring out of the open door, wishing he could take his words back. But he's said it now. He's signed his own death warrant. He says it one more time. Foolish, foolish man.

  Eventually I twist on the spot and see Wheaton staring at me hopefully. As if calling out the name I gave him will help. As if the fact that he knows me will cause all of this to go away. Cause us to apologize and give him his money back. To leave the house and forget it all ever happened.

  No. that's not how it's going to go down. Kent knows this already. By his side, his right hand is already gripping his pistol. All he's waiting for is the order.

  My entire body feels like it's sinking, dropping through the floor. Why couldn't he have just shut up and let us get on with it? Why did he have to work out who I was?

  I have no choice. I drop my chin, the tiniest of movements, and Kent reacts immediately. His gun slides from his belt, points straight up to Wheaton's head, and sends a bullet through his brain. With a heavy thud his body drops to the floor, eyes still bright with hope and fear and sadness all muddled into one. Dead.