Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

Nothing suspicious here, ma’am. Just checking the meter . The side yard was neatly kept, the grass sparse from the shade of a maple that had to be sixty years old. The garage windows had gauzy curtains, but Danny could tell it was empty. Perfect. When they reached the back corner, he stopped and peered around.

Everything seemed quiet. The backyard was smaller than the front, with a line of evergreens marking the rear. A large deck jutted off the second story, and Danny had a sudden pang, remembering the company party last year, everybody on the deck, Richard playing Papa at the grill. Then he remembered that none of the yard staff had been invited. Besides, the man had asked everyone to bring their own beer. “Come on. Keep low.”

Danny went first, fast now that they were out of sight of the neighbors, staying bent over so that hedges screened his movement from the house. He could hear Evan behind him, the crack of sticks as he stomped along. Thirty feet brought them under the wooden deck to a single door beside the air-conditioning unit, a big Trane that came up to Danny’s waist. He ducked to look at the lock. Evan came up and squatted beside the air conditioner.

When Danny had left his old life, he’d dumped all traces of it. Except his tools. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to throw them away. In the movies, the bad guys always had a little leather pouch of lock picks, the kind locksmiths used, but he liked the ones he’d made. He kept them in the drawstring bag from a bottle of Crown Royal, hidden in a box of old junk in their basement. For the first time in seven years he unknotted the string.

He’d gotten rusty. The deadbolt held for almost two minutes.

“Jesus.” Evan’s coffee and cigarette breath came hard over his shoulder. “Took you long enough, Danny-boy.”

Danny gave him the finger, then turned the handle gently, praying the door didn’t squeak. It was always the little things that got you caught.

It slid open with only a whisper from the hinges, revealing what Richard called his mudroom, a slim, chilly space with a washer and dryer, laundry piles on the floor. He could hear the sound of the television turned up loud in another room. Heart pounding and mouth dry, he stepped inside. Evan followed, closing the door behind them.

They stood in silence for a moment, Danny listening to the sounds of the house. Waiting for any semblance of alarm. When nothing came, he opened the duffel and took out two plain black domino masks, like the one Zorro wore. They limited peripheral vision, but tolerably. Danny had to stop himself from laughing when he saw Evan; his square jaw and evident muscles paired with the mask and jeans to give him the look of an underdressed pro wrestler. His partner adjusted the strap, nodded, and then took a step forward. Danny caught his arm and leaned in close to whisper. “Wait.”

Evan looked at him quizzically, bounced on his toes, but didn’t move. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty, Danny staring at his boss’s dirty underwear, his palms sweaty. Evan gave him a what the fuck ? look, his lips turned in a sneer, the waiting killing him. Danny shook his head, held a finger to his lips, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake.

Then the phone rang, and he unclenched. Debbie had come through. They stood still and listened, two rings, the trudge of footsteps, three rings, four, and then from the kitchen, the sound of a sullen twelve-year-old voice.

“Hullo.” The word dragged out, offered grudgingly. There was a pause, then the voice again, only different, excited now. “Really? I won?”

Danny nodded his head toward the door, and Evan moved forward, kicking at a pile of laundry in his way, sending jeans flying across the floor. A button on one pinged against the hot water heater, and Danny fought an urge to shush him. Goddamn it. He picked his way over to the open doorway to stand by Evan, digging the plastic rectangle out of the bag by feel before he set the duffel down. The molded grip fit his knuckles neatly. His thumb caressed the stud.

From the other room, Tommy’s voice sounded like he’d just found out tomorrow was Christmas. “Awesome! What? Sure!” They heard his footsteps running for the TV room.

Showtime.

Danny stepped into the hall, Evan close behind him. A surreal sort of déjà vu swept over him in a wave as he looked at the polished wood floor and familiar photos on the wall. He’d never expected to be in this house wearing the clothing of a thief. Or in any house ever again, for that matter.

Keeping close to the wall, he inched along the hallway. Through an open door ten feet down, the light of the TV flickered ice blue. He could barely hear Tommy’s voice over throbbing hip-hop. Debbie would be telling him that they were about to show his name on the screen.

Danny’s heart was pounding, but he made himself step lightly, easily, the plastic rectangle loose in his hand. When he reached the door frame, he took a quiet breath and peeked around.

A VH-1 logo flashed across the flat-screen TV. Tommy stood silhouetted against it, the cordless phone pressed to one ear. He wore jeans and a rugby shirt, and bounced up and down, crackling with energy. The shell of preteen world weariness had fallen away, leaving a little boy excited about the prize he thought he’d won.

It was too much. The facts of what he was doing rattled through Danny like an El train. He was a thief – no, worse, a kidnapper – and innocents were at risk. Again.

He’d thought that by coming, he could control Evan, make sure that Tommy didn’t get hurt. But now, standing here, he realized he couldn’t go through with it. No way. If they left now, no one would be the wiser. The worst consequence would be Tommy’s broken heart over a PlayStation that never arrived. Danny would find some other way of squaring up. He turned, intending to motion Evan back.

And found Evan pushing past him into the room, making no attempt to hide himself or be quiet.

Holding a gun in his hand.

All his wavering vanished. Using his left hand on the door frame for leverage, Danny threw himself into the room, raising the rectangle of plastic he’d taken from the duffel bag. Tommy was already turning, the excitement on his face melting at the sight of Evan with a pistol. The phone dropped from his hand, and there was a frozen moment as it fell. Then it struck the wood floor with a loud clatter, and Danny lunged past Evan, thumbing the button on the stun gun and pressing it firmly to Tommy’s shoulder.

There was an electric crackling sound, and the boy went rigid and then slumped. Danny caught him before his head hit the floor and set him down gently.

He turned, anger surging quick now. Evan stood casually six feet away, the gun at his hip, the arm moving loosely, like the revolver was tugging at it.

“I told you not to bring a gun.” Danny had to fight to keep from yelling.

“Yeah,” Evan’s voice was slow, almost a drawl. “I remember you saying that.”

Right then, if he’d a piece of his own, Danny couldn’t have sworn he wouldn’t have pulled it. He straightened, stepped away from Tommy. The stun gun was still in his hand, and that old anger throbbed through his veins. He stared at Evan, the part of his mind that calculated odds screaming at him to stop, to cool out, telling him that a thirty-dollar stun gun was no match for a thirty-eight-caliber pistol. Evan stared back, a hard smile on his face. Ready to play.

“Hello?” The tinny voice came from the floor, from the phone Tommy had dropped. “Hello? Are you guys okay?”

Debbie’s voice broke the spell. He blew air through his nose, turned away. Picked up the phone. “Yeah.”