An alarm system wouldn’t do him any good when he’s disconnected this estate from the rest of society.
His mistake was assuming no one could possibly reach the place except by air.
The door isn’t even locked. I stifle a laugh at the arrogance of that decision and ease inside.
Mr. Rich Dude also keeps the heat running even when he’s not home. But I won’t mock him too much for that, even in my head, because I appreciate the warmer air closing in around me and taking the edge off the clamminess of my damp clothes.
I take in the huge modern living room with its vaulted ceiling and leather furniture, every surface gleaming in the moonlight that seeps through the windows like it’s all been recently polished—including the leather. A faintly smoky herbal scent lingers in the air, suggesting that the guy’s been burning incense to set the mood.
Forget hackers and former facility bosses and all that. Why couldn’t the five of us have a place like this away from the rest of the world?
Other than the fact that we don’t have a billion dollars lying around, I mean. But I’d be happy with something several steps down on the fancy scale.
There’s no way to argue with the guys about that right now, so I slink on through the expansive, airy rooms until I find the office.
At least, I assume it’s the owner’s office because there’s a glass desk with two computer monitors and various other technological paraphernalia set up at one end. The rest of the space looks like a toy museum.
This is the only room I’ve encountered with no windows other than a couple of large skylights overhead. In the moonlight that seeps through the glass, dolls, action figures, and character statues stand poised along the built-in shelves that fill three of the four walls. Behind the desk, the one shelf-less wall holds several framed cards from what I assume must be specialized games, colorful art on the upper half and playing instructions on the lower.
This is where I need to be. But I’m looking for one item in particular…
I step closer to scan the shelves in the dim light. My gaze snags on a figure about eight inches tall, dressed in a purple suit with a black cape and gold detailing, still in its retail box.
Apparently this toy is super rare. Our hacker and Mr. Rich Dude used to be roommates once upon a time, and Rich Dude stole the collectable when he moved out.
And our hacker decided it was perfectly reasonable to send a bunch of strangers on a nearly impossible stealth mission to retrieve it.
I roll my eyes at the absurdity of the situation and pull out the watertight bags I kept under my shirt for the climb up. The action figure box slides into one well enough that I can seal the opening without a problem.
I tuck it inside the second bag for good measure, and then jam all that into a nylon backpack that’s probably not at all waterproof. All it needs to do is make sure my cargo comes with me down the cliff.
Once I’ve slung the backpack over my shoulders, I tug the straps tight and secure the clip between them over my chest to make it extra secure. Then I hustle back to the front door, soaking up a little more warmth before I have to face the unpleasant scramble down.
I open the door—and halt in my tracks at the growl of an engine that’s suddenly audible from overhead.
A helicopter is descending fast, the rhythmic whir of its blades already reaching my ears. Its lights cast thin but widening streaks across the landing platform just a few steps from where I’m frozen.
Fucking rich pricks and their way-too-insulated walls. Fucking hacker who was way too confident about the rich prick’s schedule.
Every second I hesitate is another second closer to getting caught. I don’t think I want to find out how Mr. Rich Dude would handle an intruder.
Hugging the outer walls, I dash around the house until I’m on the opposite side from the helicopter. I plunge into the rushing water beneath the deck and rush with it to the edge of the cliff.
Eleven
Riva
The current catches me and hurries me toward the waterfall—a little too fast. A twinge of Jacob’s poison rattles my muscles at just the wrong moment, and my foot stumbles.
I careen forward, arms wheeling, and nearly tumble right down to the pond in a fatal swan dive.
My heart lurches. I try to throw myself backwards, teeter in the rushing water, and feel my shoes lose their grip.
As they slip right over the edge, I whip around and snatch out with my hands.
My arms smack into the water elbows first. One scrapes across a jagged piece of stone with a flare of pain through my forearm.
I gasp, and my other hand manages to snag on a knob of rock. My shoulder jars, the flow of the waterfall still battering me, but my body jolts to a stop.