Breakout Paul Herron (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

I stand up and survey the distance between the car and the wall. It’s about a foot. At least I didn’t screw that up. I check Kincaid’s yard. No one around this side of the house. Plenty of lights, but no people.

I push Devon’s legs over the wall. They drop down, almost pulling him out of my grasp. I just manage to grab him, then wonder what the hell I’m doing and let go. The body slithers noisily over the wall, hitting the ground on the other side with a heavy thud.

I jump down, grabbing the backpack of drugs from inside the Cadillac and shrugging it over my shoulders. Then I clamber back up onto the car and climb over the wall into Kincaid’s yard.

I drag Devon across the dew-wet grass, dumping him behind a gazebo close to the rear of the house. That’s phase one.

Next: the drugs. This is the part I’ve been stuck on. There were too many variables to plan it out in advance. But now I’m here, I need to just pick an approach and go with it.

So—what do I have? I have the alarm codes and floor plans. I have a major distraction already going on, with Kincaid having some kind of meeting or party or whatever the hell it is. And I have lots of drugs I need to plant.

I could just dump the bag next to his car. Or maybe hide it beneath a bush. But once again it doesn’t tie the drugs directly to Kincaid. He could just say it belongs to one of his guests. I want something definitive.

Which means I need to get inside the house.

Glass doors look out onto a stone veranda about fifteen feet to my right. I approach, finding a tiny gap in the floor-to-ceiling blinds. A dark dining room lies beyond. Thanks to the floor plan, I know there’s a hallway directly outside the dining room. Left leads toward the front of the house and the entertainment area, where I assume Kincaid will be. Right leads toward a set of stairs to the second floor. That’s the way I need to go.

I need a distraction, though. Separate from whatever is going on inside the house. Something that will cover the sound of me breaking the glass.

I move along the wall and check the front of the house. There are about ten expensive cars parked on the gravel driveway. Two guards lounge against a small building separate from the main house. They don’t look too alert. Why would they? Kincaid has the whole city under his thumb, and from what I’ve seen, most of the heavy hitters are here. Who would the guards be watching out for?

I came prepared for this. I shrug the backpack off my shoulders and unzip the pouch at the front. I take out a can of lighter fluid and move at a crouch toward the closest car. I spray the fluid all over the vehicle. Over the roof, the tires, the windshield. Once the can is empty, I stuff it in my pocket and take out a box of matches. I strike one and flick it toward the car, slipping back around the house and stopping once I get to the glass doors.

I wait until the shouting starts and slam my elbow into the glass. I clear the shards away and reach through to unlock the door, pulling it open and stepping into the dining room.

I pause, all my senses straining. I can’t hear the beeping of an alarm system that needs to be deactivated. That’s good. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think they’d put the alarm on with all those people here.

I hurry through the dining room and into the passage. No one around. I move quickly, heading to the rear of the house and up the back stairs. Another corridor. Spare rooms, bathrooms, and then the main bedroom. I head straight for the walk-in closet. It’s huge, about the size of my living room. I shrug off the backpack and push it high onto one of the shelves.

I take a deep breath. That’s it. My plan is nearly done. I head back into the bedroom, but freeze before I reach the door.

A brand-new Rolex Daytona sits on the nightstand next to the bed. I stare at it. It’s easily worth thirty-five grand. It would be so easy to just slip it into my pocket.

But I don’t. That’s the line I was thinking about. Nobody would know, especially not if my plan works out. But… I’m not a thief. I’m not a criminal. I’m a cop, and what I’m doing right now is getting justice, saving future lives.

I tear my eyes away from the watch and slip out of the bedroom. I can hear more shouting now. It’s louder, more frantic. My heart thuds heavily in my chest as I take the stairs and head back along the passage. Nearly there. Nearly out.

I turn into the dining room—

—and find myself standing face-to-face with a startled man. He’s young, barely out of his teens. Mediterranean looks, eyes wide with fear.

He raises his hands in the air. “I don’t want trouble,” he says.

“Bit late for that.”

“Seriously, I just want to leave.”

“I can’t let you do that. You step out that—”

He doesn’t let me finish. He rushes me, but it’s a clumsy attack. I step aside and grab his arm, using the kid’s own momentum to ram his face into the wall.

He drops to the floor and doesn’t move. I feel his neck. Pulse is strong. He’ll wake up with a killer headache, but that’s it.

I reach inside my jacket as I exit the house, taking out the old Beretta I confiscated from one of the drug dealers. I fire it into the air, emptying the magazine as I run toward the garden wall. Then I throw the gun aside and take the burner phone out, dialing 911.

“Hello? I can hear gunfire! 147 Plantation Boulevard. Please hurry. There are