Chapter 1: Into the Lion’s Den

I originally planned to sneak into the Whitmore estate and lift a few treasures, but everything was going so smoothly, it felt like a setup. Yeah, right. Nothing’s ever this easy.

For a moment, the night air pressed thick against my skin—almost sticky with tension, not hope. Too easy. Like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for the hammer to drop. My gut twisted. I kept my senses razor-sharp, every instinct screaming: Stay sharp. Don’t trust it.

I’d been crouched in a maple tree outside the estate for three hours, my legs numb like they’d fallen asleep—pins and needles crawling up my calves. Didn’t matter. What mattered was I’d just confirmed the last security guard had finally left.

The maple’s bark dug into my jeans, sap sticking to my gloves and making my fingers itch, but I barely noticed. My phone buzzed softly—a motion sensor alert flashed across the screen. I watched the last guard’s SUV roll out of the long gravel drive, headlights sweeping the gate before vanishing into the night. I flexed my toes, trying to coax life back into them, but adrenaline had already chased the numbness away.

Harrison Whitmore, the estate’s owner, had a charity gala tonight—just another excuse to slap the “philanthropist” label on himself, as if that made him a saint. As usual, he’d drag all his security staff along.

The news wouldn’t shut up about the event, flashing white tents and crystal chandeliers on every channel. Whitmore loved the spotlight—anything to distract from the skeletons in his closet. I’d watched him shake hands with the mayor, all toothy grin and empty promises. What a joke. He had secrets the news would never touch.

I slipped down from the tree, landing almost silent, barely a whisper against the mulch. Years of experience had trained every muscle in my body to move just right.

The mulch gave a little under my boots, muffling the impact. I crouched low, scanning the yard—moonlight glinting off the security cameras, the faint buzz of the estate’s generator somewhere out back. Easy, now. Don’t screw this up. My heart thudded steady, practiced, like a drummer tapping out a beat before the show starts. I could feel the tension ratcheting up with every step.

A thin layer of sweat beaded beneath my black clothes—not from nerves, but anticipation. Tonight, I was finally going inside this estate. Just like I’d promised myself.

The air was cool but heavy, my breath fogging just a little as I exhaled. I could almost taste the adrenaline—hot and bitter, like sucking on a battery. I double-checked my gloves, making sure not a patch of skin showed. This was the night I’d been waiting for. Nothing was going to stop me now. Focus up.

The electrified fence atop the wall might as well not exist—I’d already killed the juice during my last scouting trip. Ha. Good luck, Whitmore.

I remembered the late-night recon, pretending to jog past the estate with a hidden toolkit tucked under my sweatshirt. Nobody gave me a second look. I’d cut the power to a small section, just enough to slip through undetected. The repair guys wouldn’t notice anything until the monthly check, and by then, I’d be long gone.

Keeping low, I vaulted over the wall in one smooth motion. Easy. The rough stone scraped my palms, but I barely felt it.

I landed in a crouch—knees bent, hands splayed for balance. The grass was cool and springy under my fingers. My pulse spiked. I paused, listening for any sign I’d tripped an alarm, but the only sound was the distant chirp of crickets and the buzz of streetlights from the next block over. Tense. Don’t mess up now.

"Perfect security system!" I muttered, eyeing the red-lit cameras. Yeah, right. They were definitely running, but wouldn’t record a thing—I’d shelled out big money for a jammer just for this job. My lips curled in a crooked grin.

I grinned, swagger rising, watching the little red lights blink uselessly. The jammer hummed quietly in my pocket, its signal strong enough to scramble any footage. I tapped my thigh, feeling the vibration. I’d tested it in my own apartment for weeks—no way was I leaving a trail tonight.

The main entrance required both a fingerprint and a code. I pulled a small device from my pocket and pressed it to the reader. Come on, come on. Ten seconds later, with a barely audible beep, the lock disengaged. Some billionaire’s idea of Fort Knox, cracked by a gadget I bought off a guy in a Waffle House parking lot. I wiped the reader for prints, stifling a laugh. Whitmore would never imagine his prized security could be cracked so easily. Not tonight.

Inside, the house was pitch black except for the faint green glow of the emergency exit signs. I didn’t turn on any lights. With my night-vision goggles on, the living room glowed an eerie green. The luxury furniture and priceless art—none of it was my target. My skin prickled in the darkness. This was Whitmore’s world, and I was the ghost.

The place smelled like lemon polish and old money. I moved slow, careful not to bump the glass coffee table or brush against the velvet drapes. The night-vision goggles painted everything in ghostly hues—marble busts, crystal vases, all the trappings of someone desperate to show off. I felt a flash of contempt. But I was here for something he’d never display.

I moved like I owned the place, heading straight for the study on the second floor. According to my intel, that’s where he kept his most valuable collection—not just the illegally obtained antiques, but the secrets he couldn’t let anyone see. My pulse hammered. One wrong step and it was over.

I’d memorized the floor plan, every squeaky board and camera blind spot. My boots barely made a sound on the Persian rug as I made my way to the grand staircase. The air felt heavier as I got closer—like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d make it. Don’t choke now.

The wooden stairs creaked underfoot. I flinched, freezing in place. My breath caught. For a second, I waited for alarms, footsteps—nothing. Silence. Move.

I pressed my back to the banister, listening. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked, echoing through the empty halls. When nothing happened—no alarm, no footsteps—I let my breath out slow, heart pounding in my ears.

When I was sure I hadn’t triggered any alarms, I moved on. Gotta trust the plan. The study door was locked, but compared to the main entrance, this was nothing. Thirty seconds, and I was in. The scent of old paper and cigar smoke hit me, thick and cloying.

My lockpicks worked fast and sure, muscle memory from years of practice. The tumblers clicked, and I eased the door open, stepping into the sanctum where Whitmore kept his real treasures. A rush of anticipation hit me hard. This was it.

The study was even bigger than I’d imagined. Who needs this much space for secrets? One wall was lined with bookshelves, another hung with oil paintings. My gaze was immediately drawn to the painting behind the desk—a landscape that looked ordinary enough, but the frame was clearly worth more than the painting itself. My nerves buzzed.

I ran my gloved fingers along the gold-leafed frame, feeling for seams or hidden latches. The desk was cluttered with fountain pens and leather-bound ledgers, but my gut told me the real secret was behind that painting. The hush of the room pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of the AC. Something was about to break.

"You’re the one," I whispered, moving toward it. My heartbeat thudded in my chest, sweat prickling at my temples. According to my info, Whitmore kept his most important things behind this.

I could almost hear my old partner’s voice in my head: "If you find a painting that ugly in a place this rich, it’s hiding something." I grinned at the memory, feeling the old rush. This was it—the moment everything could change. My pulse hammered, hope and dread mixing.