How To Pick Locks Novels & Stories

I had learnt how to pick locks back at home when I'd sneak out after getting locked up by Olene, to steal food. I ran to the wardrobe, opening it to go through my mini duffle bag. I found an old pin stuck in the depth of a pocket and smiled. I ran back to the door and after setting the bobby pin, began trying to pick the lock carefully. After minutes of praying for it to work, I heard a click and exhaled in relief. I poked my head out and surely, the hallway was empty.

Grandma is so going to kill me. I was about to give up when I saw a locker that was carefully shoved behind the desk. I walked over to it and saw that the lock was complicated, but I had picked harder locks before. This should be a walk in the park. A couple of minutes later with a hairpin and some patience, the lock clicked open without leaving a scratch.

The hallway opens up, the sitting room ahead, and the light flickers again as I reach the door and press my ear against it. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I knock three times. Silence. Then— Knock. Knock. Two soft knocks echo back at me. I pull back and knock again, leaning in, listening. Knock. Knock. The taps echo again. I step back, retrieve my lockpicking kit from the counter at a corner of the sitting room, and begin the delicate dance of unlocking it. The pins click, the tumblers turn. One last twist, and the door snaps open.

I used to have a knack for picking manual locks with hairpins, a skill born out of habit from constantly losing my keys. I crouch to examine the lock closely. It’s simple enough—I could open it, no problem. But there’s one glaring issue: I don’t have a hairpin on me. My heart sinks, but determination takes hold. There has to be one somewhere, and I need to find it fast.

I just had to feel my way through it. I bent the pin slightly, giving it a tiny hook at the end, and carefully slid it into the keyhole. At first, nothing happened. I wiggled it around, listening for any sound, any sign that I was close. Lila watched me quietly, her big eyes wide with hope. I could feel the pressure building in my chest, but I didn’t give up. I twisted the pin gently, feeling for the pins inside the lock. One by one, I nudged them, my fingers growing more confident with each tiny click.

It was unlocked. She slowly pushed the door open, wincing when the door made a soft creak but she continued onwards. She glanced into the hall beyond the door then, slowly entered the small hallway of the house. It was quiet and empty as she looked around. She headed for one of the doors on the right side of the hallway. She turned the knob but the door was locked. The woman reached into her pouch at her hip and grabbed her lock picking tools and started to work on the lock. The lock soon gave in and she quietly turned the knob as she put her tools back into the pouch on her hip.

Not once he'd seen them. "I'll let you go." Mason holstered his gun and pulled out his lock-picking set. None of them responded. Mason crept across the open space. Everything in the sphere of their reach was clean. It was outside that where squalor reined. He knelt next to the post and selected one of the locks securing the chains in place. The picks were tiny in his hands, small things, but he'd done this act a hundred times. All locks had the same pieces and these were nothing fancy. It would only take a moment, but a lot could happen in a short span of time.

There’s a lock that isn’t simple—it’s enchanted with a mechanism that clicks only with the right rhythm of pressure. My wolf huffs. Careful. One mistake, and they’ll know. I press my body against the door, eyes scanning the intricate carvings. There’s a tiny catch hidden beneath the floral motif near the bottom edge. My fingers trace the pattern, remembering the subtle click Camille’s guards taught me to recognize when I practiced lock-picking. My breath comes in shallow bursts, my pulse tightening in nervous rhythm. Slow. Precise. The lock resists at first. My wolf growls in frustration, urging me forward.

He had learned the art of lock-picking from the best, a skill honed over years of training. With practiced ease, he inserted a thin metal pick into the lock and began to manipulate the tumblers. He could feel the tension in the lock, the subtle clicks as the pins aligned. Finally, with a soft click, the lock opened. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The study was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon through the window. He moved cautiously, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He found his way to the safe, a heavy steel box hidden behind a painting of a stern-looking Russian general.

They thought they had me, but they did not, not yet, and not today. They really thought they had me by covering my key with green goo? HA. I felt a wicked smirk fall onto my face as I ignored the keys and headed straight to the lockers. I found mine with the bell etched on to the silver plate. I quickly pull out my lock picks and began working as lots of splashes sounded, the rest of the group must be jumping into the pool. I had to work fast. It did not take me long to figure out the type of locking mechanism. It was pretty basic, smirking as I used the picks to even lock the bell into the locker. The big guy who was behind me jumped into the pool moments before I did. climbing out my hand