Tom

I SEE the four meatheads hustling out of the Grand Cherokee parked in front of Senator Flack’s house, weapons in clear view. They’re private mercenaries by the look. Military trained. Probably from a high-profile, top-secret security company.

Hopefully, their presence means Jasmine’s still alive. I race around the side of the manor, climbing up to look in each window.

Oh God.

Jasmine’s on the living room floor, her wrists, ankles, and mouth taped with duct tape. The four goons stand around her, jawing with Senator Flack. I’m going to kill them all.

There are bars on the windows or I’d bust through this one right now.

I need a distraction. I grab a grenade from the duffel Otis packed for me, light it, and throw it into the front yard, then race to the back of the house. The grenade explodes, and the men inside the house shout and run out the front door. It takes me thirty-five seconds to pick the lock on the back