Chapter 10 - Driving Back Into the Trap
The digital clock on the dashboard flickered five-forty in the cold pre-dawn light as I wrenched the steering wheel, taking the highway off-ramp too fast. The tires hissed against the damp asphalt, the car protesting the sudden shift in momentum before settling into the long suburban approach. My fingers were locked so tight around the leather wheel that my knuckles ached beneath the stubble and grit of a sleepless night. The USB drive from the shell company's server hummed inside my jacket pocket, a cold piece of plastic carrying gigabytes of logs, routing tables, and authorization signatures. But the data didn't matter anymore. Not now.
My thumb worked the phone screen blindly, punching the number for our neighbor down the street while my eyes scanned the darkening silhouettes of oak trees lining the avenue. The phone rang once, twice, three times, the hollow electronic tone drilling straight through my temples.
"Hello?" a groggy voice answered, the rustle of bedsheets loud in the speaker.
"Mrs. Gable, it's me," I said, keeping my voice low and hard. "Is she still upstairs? Is the deadbolt thrown?"
A pause on the line, heavy with sudden, startled comprehension. "She's sleeping on the spare bed, dear. I checked ten minutes ago. The front door is locked twice. What's happening? Are you coming back?"
"Don't open the door for anyone," I said, accelerating down the final straightaway toward our cul-de-sac. "Not for police, not for utility workers, nobody. If you hear a car you don't recognize, call 911 immediately. I'm three minutes away."
"Wait—"
I ended the call before she could finish, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat as the familiar neighborhood hove into view. The streetlamps were clicking off one by one, yielding to the pale, bruised gray of early morning. I slowed the car, cutting my headlights a block away, letting the vehicle coast silently down the asphalt until our driveway came into focus through the windshield.
My foot pressed the brake pedal, the brake pads grinding a quiet protest.
Parked squarely in the middle of our driveway was an unfamiliar black luxury sedan, its engine off, windows tinted dark enough to swallow the morning light. The front license plate had been removed.
My breath hitched in my chest. The car wasn't there when I left hours ago. It wasn't registered to anyone on the street, and it certainly didn't belong to the corporate suits I'd dealt with downtown. This was something else—cleaner, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous.
I shifted the gear into park and killed the engine. The silence inside the cabin was absolute, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal exhaust beneath the chassis. I reached across the console, grabbed the heavy metal wrench I’d salvaged from the garage before leaving, and slipped it into the deep pocket of my dark blazer.
I pushed the door open. It clicked softly, a tiny sound that felt entirely too loud in the damp morning air. Stepping out onto the curb, I kept my eyes fixed on the house.
The front door of the residence stood ajar. Just an inch or two, enough to break the strict geometry of the white wainscoting and the dark teal walls of the hallway I knew by heart. From where I stood at the edge of the lawn, I could see the pale strip of light cutting across the wooden floorboards right where the white wooden crown molding hid the wiring cavity.
May you like
No sound came from inside. No voices, no scuffling, no television. Just the heavy, oppressive stillness of a trap that had already been sprung. I crossed the grass, keeping my footsteps light on the wet turf, and crept toward the front porch.
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