“Why do you have to leave so fast?”

“Because they’ll come as soon as they can.”

“What’s plan A.”

“The front door.”

“Plan B.”

“Any other door.”

“What—”

“When I open the door an alarm will go off. Ignore it. Step aside. Put the book down—”

“On?”

“On a windowsill. Stay there. Be quiet. You’ll come find me.”

There was a momentary pause.

Kirby’s hearing was dulled by pain and the stress of having listened to Mister and Sammy for so long, but he felt a dim happiness for his friend.

The worst of it was over.

Kirby had been tied up for hours already, and he’d be tied up for hours more. He’d learned that if he could relax, then the worst of the pain would be limited to his shoulders and his wrists. But he’d never learned to relax while Mister was grilling Sammy on his endless series of plans.

There was only ever three: A, B, C. But it was three for each major point of the operation. The other times, they’d been relatively easy—what if you can’t get in, what if you can’t find what you’re looking for, what if you can’t get out. Nine plans.

Kirby wondered how many there had been for when they broke into his shop.

A headache, his near constant companion, clenched around his skull.

A million plans wouldn’t be enough. Kirby had proved that. Mister made good use of Sammy—a thought that made a bitter taste rise in Kirby’s mouth—but there would always be unforeseen circumstances. Mister never bowed to that truth. Instead, he tortured Sammy for hours before any job, making him recite the plans, time and time again, until he could do it without hesitation.

Kirby had listened to them go through the whole process three times before. The first time, he’d tried to listen with a vague idea that if he ever got out of there alive, what he learned might help the police catch Mister. This time, his body had tensed as soon as they started, and he wasted most of his energy wishing he was deaf.

It was hard to listen to Mister's yelling, but the worst was when Sammy's voice took on that gaspy, blubbering sound that meant he was crying, even as he continued reciting, as clear as he could, plan after plan after plan.

This time had been worse than the others because there were so many more plans. This was the big job—the reason they’d come to Craftborough.

If they succeeded, it was over.

Good for you, Kirby thought. Get the hell out of my town.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Even as he thought it, he felt a small tang of sadness leak into his heart. He wished he could help Sammy somehow.

You should worry about yourself, Nolan.

The best-case scenario would be if they came back and untied him. They might do that. If everything went well, Sammy might be able to talk Mister into doing that before they left.

The much more likely scenario would be if they left and never looked back.

Kirby’s heart started pounding. He slowed his breathing and hoped his heart rate would follow. He didn’t have energy to waste. After a week and a half of being held prisoner, he didn’t even know if he had the strength, let alone the skills, to escape on his own. When they’d been gone on other jobs, he’d tried to loosen his binds and never succeeded.

This time your life might depend on it.

The worst-case scenario would be if Mister came back into the house alone. Sammy would be waiting out in the car, quietly humming to himself. Mister would say he was going back in because he forgot something—

No. The worst-case scenario would be if Mister told Sammy to do it. Because he would.

Kirby had to draw his next shuddering breath in through the sob he locked back in his chest.

He chastised himself. He should have known better than to indulge in morbid speculation.

The good news is, if they do decide to kill me, at least I won’t see it coming.

The small jerks from his silent laugh shot a bolt of pain through each shoulder. Kirby was hysterical, and he knew it, but he welcomed even his darkest humor, because at least it was humor.

An unbidden thought tip-toed into his mind:

Autumn would’ve laughed.

He could hold back the sob, but there was nothing he could do about the tears that slid from the edges of his eyes and fell to the couch.

In the other room, Mister said, “Plan C.”

“If everything goes wrong,” Sammy recited, “stop where I am. Hold still. Be quiet.”

“Good.” There was a deep note of satisfaction in Mister’s voice. “Good. You’ve got them down.”

Finally, Kirby thought.

“We’re ready,” Mister added.

“But—” Sammy started to say.

Mister’s voice was sharp with irritation: “What now?”

Kirby tensed again.

There was a pause. Then Sammy said, almost in a whisper, “What if they see the book?”

“They won’t see the book. They’ll be running for the room. I’ve explained this, Sammy! You grab the book. You get out of there.”

“But—”

“If someone’s passing you in the hall, what do you do?”

“Step off to the side, hold still, be quiet,” Sammy said.

“If someone is lingering in the hall?”

“Put the book in a corner or against the wall. Hold still, be quiet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“What if they take the book?”

“They won’t take the book.”

“What if—”

“Then you stop them!” Mister shouted. “All right! By god, you stop them! That book is everything.”

There was the loud slap of something on wood. Mister had probably hit the table with the palm of his hand again.

When Mister spoke, his voice was strained from his effort to moderate it. “Sammy. Sammy, listen to me. If we get that book, we’re in the clear. We’ll have enough money to pay off all our debts, and enough left over I can work for a year without doing another job.”

“A year?”

“A whole year, Sammy. I can do nothing but work on finding a way to get you back to normal.”

“You’ll do that?”

A note of impatience crept into Mister’s voice. “I told you I would, didn’t I? I take care of you, don’t I?”

“But what if—”

“No more what ifs, Sammy. We don’t have time. I have to get ready. Just don’t lose the book.”

“But what if someone sees me?”

“They can’t—” There was a sudden silence. After a moment, Mister said, “That guy didn’t see you. You know that, right?”

That guy. Mister always called Kirby “that guy.”

“Yeah. I know,” Sammy mumbled.

“The fact he found you was my fault. I said I was sorry, right? And I took care of it. If something goes wrong, I’ll take care of it.”

“Is that plan D?”

“You don’t have to worry about any plan D. That’s my job. You know that. If everything goes to hell, if it all goes wrong, what do you do?”

“Hold still, stay quiet.”

“Good.”

“You’ve got a plan though, right?”

“Sure. I’ve got a million plans.”

“What’s your plan if it all goes wrong?”

“That’s plan D—the one you don’t have to worry about. All you have to do is focus on your part of the job. You have to trust me, Sammy. Do you trust me?”

Kirby held his breath.

“Yeah. I do.”

If Sammy had hesitated, Kirby didn’t hear it.