Mortal Pursuit

3

Alone, Cain crouched by the wrought-iron gate and unzipped the duffel bag.

Outside the gate stood an intercom mounted on a post. Below the speaker was a second, smaller panel featuring a digital keypad and an alphanumeric display-an alarm-system controller.

The system covered only the front and rear gates and the twelve-foot fence. Magnetic contacts on the gate latches would trigger an alert if separated while the system was armed. Motion detectors aimed at the fence made climbing into the yard impractical.

To disarm the system, Cain needed to enter the four-digit access code.

From the duffel he withdrew a digital decrypter.

Last Saturday night, exactly a week ago, he had opened the controller and wired the decrypter to leads running from the keypad to the central control panel inside the house.

With his tampering concealed, he had waited until the Kents returned from a night out and disarmed the system at the front gate. The decrypter’s I.C. chip had recorded and stored the access code when it was keyed into the pad.

Later he had removed the decrypter to prevent its discovery. Now he had to reinstall it.

His black leather gloves, skin-tight, compromised his dexterity not at all as he pried open the bottom of the controller console with the blade of his knife. Quickly he again wired the decrypter to the leads.

Then he downloaded the stored data, sending the access code to the controller in a burst of electronic information.

He looked at the keypad’s one-line liquid crystal display.

SYSTEM DISARMED.

The words remained in view for ten seconds, then blinked off, the screen going blank.

The gate’s latch was easy to defeat. He didn’t even require his locksmithing tools. The knife was enough.

He motioned to the others. They came fast across the road, brushing past him as they slipped through the open gate.

Before following, Cain downloaded the access code a second time.

A low buzz sounded, a pre-alarm warning, as the alphanumeric display flashed a new message.

SYSTEM REARMS IN 30.

The two digits ticked down, counting seconds.

29. 28. 27.

The grace period was designed to allow the homeowners to reset the alarm before entering. Very convenient.

He had no time to disconnect the decrypter, but that was all right. He was happy to let the police find it. The equipment, purchased on the black market, could not be traced.

He closed the bottom panel, sealing it with a strip of duct tape from his duffel. From the street no sabotage could be detected.

11.10. 9.

Better move.

Toting his duffel, Cain stepped through the gate, then let the latch click shut behind him.

The buzzer fell silent.

It was doubtful anyone inside the house would check the system in the next five minutes, but taking this precaution cost him nothing. And he wasn’t being entirely paranoid. One of the interior keypads was visible from the dining area, and there was at least a small chance someone would look in that direction.

Turning, he surveyed the grounds of the Kent estate, spacious, dense with shadows.

The front yard was empty. Already his crew had fanned out to the side and rear of the house, taking up their positions. They would stay clear of the fence to avoid being picked up by the motion detectors.

He checked his watch. 8:00. Right on schedule.

Despite the high stakes, the operation ought to be simple enough. Cain’s sole concern was the two Sharkey boys-last-minute replacements for Hector Avalon.

Avalon was a seasoned ex-con, cool and professional, ideal for this job as long as he was clean, and he’d sworn he was. Then two nights ago Cain found him dead in the front seat of his rusted-out Palomino, white powder frosting his nose. Cardiac arrest or some goddamned thing.

And suddenly Cain’s crew was short-handed, with the deadline closing in.

That was when Cain, not an introspective man, discovered something about himself. He was getting old. Old for this line of work, anyway.

He had no network of contacts. The men he’d known well enough to trust were mostly dead or in prison or burned out on booze and smack.

In desperation he’d remembered somebody Hector had mentioned in casual conversation, a kid in San Diego named Blair Sharkey. Cain wasn’t sure exactly what business the two had transacted, but Hector had put the kid down as a comer, and Blair’s number was jotted in Hector’s address book.

Six hours later, Blair had arrived at Cain’s trailer in the Mojave, bringing with him an unwelcome surprise-his baby brother. Gage, all of sixteen. Cain didn’t want any damn kindergartner in his crew, but the Sharkey boys had been adamant. It was a two-for-one deal.

There had not been enough time to train them properly or to learn if they were reliable under stress.

But probably they would work out okay. Hell, they had to.

Nothing could go wrong tonight. This was it, his big score, the climax of his career, and it would go off without a hitch.

Of course it would.

Sweating, Cain moved forward into the dark.