Page 45 of Perfect Vengeance

In one hand he carried a black, metal briefcase. He rested his other hand on her shoulder. Even with the cast on his wrist, he managed to give her a gentle squeeze. “Good job. Any other motion sensors on this floor?”

“No, I checked.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“No.” Other than her Spidey-sense being wigged-out.

He flicked on a flashlight, also red-beamed, and headed directly for Psycho’s study. Not surprisingly, he already knew the interior layout of the place. He set his briefcase on the desk and flipped open the catches. Inside the case was a high-tech tool kit, including wire cutters and splicers, screwdrivers and wrenches of all sizes, an ammeter, fuses, penknives, and several different colors of electrical tape.

Even with a cast on one wrist, he wielded the tools with expert precision, first splicing into Psycho’s internet line. Deep concentration etched into his handsome features. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his bomber jacket, and as he carefully concealed the tiny listening device to the underside of the cable, thick muscles in his forearm rippled and bunched in a sensual dance. When he touched a voltage meter to the bug, a bulb lit on the meter.

“I need to wait for confirmation the bug is actively transmitting,” Jack said as he tapped a text into his cell phone. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Great.” Not. Those niggly-wigglies were getting worse by the second, and she was eager for them to get as far away from Casa Psycho as possible. Unable to stand still, she shifted repeatedly from one foot to the other.

Jack gave a soft laugh. “Why don’t you keep an eye out the front door?”

“Good idea.” She nodded, happy to be given a task to keep her mind occupied.

Back in the hallway, she peered through one of the glass panels next to the door. The street was quiet. With no other useful assignment, she began checking out the artwork more closely, grimacing at a particularly wretched piece on the wall just outside the kitchen. If Bozo the Clown took up painting and decided to do a self-portrait, this was what⁠—

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

She froze. This time, the noise didn’t sound like ice dropping. It was too fast, more like a rattle. So what was it? The ghost of that poor dog Psycho murdered?

Gina padded into the kitchen, darting her eyes in every direction. She clicked on her penlight, bathing the room in an eerie red glow. Nothing had changed. The kitchen was still empty, and she was positive the sound was coming from the freezer. Running her fingers along the rubber gaskets of the stainless-steel side-by-side doors, she searched for trip wires. Next, she checked the back of the unit. The unplugged unit. So much for the ice theory.

If she were sensible and smart, she’d beat feet. Something deep inside, something only an experienced burglar would understand, drove her onward. This was a puzzle to be solved, and her gut told her something interesting lay behind the freezer door. Like on that game show, Let’s Make A Deal. She had to know what was behind Door #1. She no sooner could have stopped now than she could have stopped breathing.

She placed a gloved hand on the left side door and closed her eyes. Nothing. No vibrations. Slowly, she tugged on the handle and cracked the door. Shivers of anticipation crept up her spine.

Don’t be stupid. Leave. Now.

“Can’t help it,” she whispered.

After opening the door all the way, she shined her light inside and her jaw dropped. If she were standing in front of a mirror, her eyes would be bigger than chocolate chip cookies.

Staring back at her were five shelves jammed with cash, each piled high from front to back, mostly with hundred-dollar bills.

She chewed on her lower lip. This was more than enough to get Marilyn and her kids to the west coast. All this cash was hers for the taking. It would be so easy. Minus the little part about the FBI agent in the other room. If she stole cash, Psycho would know someone had broken in, and Jack’s bug would be rendered worthless, and… Federal obstruction charges here we come.

What if she just grabbed a few stacks from the back, say, one from each shelf? If those really were all hundreds, five stacks would be around five thousand dollars. Psycho would never know.

Neither would Jack.

She reached into the freezer and took a stack from the front of one shelf. Then she reached to the rear of the shelf and pulled another stack forward to make it look as if nothing was missing. She stared at the cash, biting harder on her lower lip.

Leaving this money behind sat about as well as turning away a box of Godiva chocolates, but she’d made a deal. No more rips until Jack completed his investigation. The idea of breaking her word to him bothered her more than she expected. More importantly, she could never risk getting her friends in more trouble than they were already in. They’d just have to pray the Center raised enough cash for Marilyn at the fundraiser.

Sighing, she started to put the stack of cash back on the shelf. That’s when she heard it. A rattle followed by a hiss. Something darted from behind the stacks of cash, knocking the light from her hand. She gasped, letting go of the money and jumping back. Her hip slammed against the kitchen table. She might be a city girl, but she’d watched enough episodes of Animal Planet to have a complete—albeit late—understanding of what that rattling sound was.

Rattlesnakes.

Behind her, a chair toppled to the floor, clattering loudly. She lost her balance and fell. Her head whacked against the edge of the table as she went down. Despite the pain shooting through her skull, she crab-walked backward on the floor.

The penlight had rolled beneath the table, yet still illuminated the inside of the freezer where three coiled rattlesnakes each protected their own shelf of cash.

Holy—! That psychotic lunatic had booby-trapped his cash with pit vipers. What if the one that had lunged for her was slithering on the tile floor? Getting closer.