How To Pick Locks Novels & Stories

Nodding in acknowledgment, I withdrew a hairpin from my tresses. Again, I glanced over my shoulder, verifying that no curious onlookers disrupted my imminent endeavor. Facing the door, I squatted down, straightening the hairpin to match the hole's dimensions. With gentle pressure, I skillfully wiggled the pin, gradually discovering the various pins within the lock mechanism. Employing the hairpin's end, I deftly pushed up each pin, mimicking the action of unlocking a door with a genuine key. Simultaneously, I endeavored to rotate it, persisting in this repetitive process as my hands grew increasingly damp and my heart pounded relentlessly. Periodically, I stole glances behind me, confirming

Somehow I felt my answers would be in that book, and I wouldn’t let a lock keep me from knowing the truth. After searching for a while, I got exhausted, and I pulled out my hair pin to pick the lock. People do it in the movies, but it never really worked for me. I tried for several minutes but the lock wouldn’t open, so I gave up and decided to look for other alternatives.

It could be picked if you had the right tools. I took out the hairpin in my hair—it wasn’t much, but it might work. I knelt down in front of the door and inserted the hairpin into the lock. My hands were shaking slightly from nerves. Shane had taught me how to pick a lock during our training lessons because he claimed it was a very important skill to have. If only he knew how right he was. Come on, I thought desperately. Come on, please work. After what felt like an eternity, I heard a soft click.

What can I do now? I hadn't come this far only to give up. There had to be something I could do. I asked myself. I paced about until I remembered that Kris had taught me to pick locks just for the fun of it when we were younger. We used to play games that involved locking ourselves up and I had gotten quite good at picking locks after several trials. That was a long time ago and I could only hope I had enough muscle and mental memory left to be able to pick this lock. I silently got to work, stopping every few minutes to check for anyone coming. My hands trembled and my heart raced but I continued to tinker with it. I nearly screamed out in triumph when I heard the lock click open.

It was locked. Cursing under her breath, she pulled a slim set of lockpicks from a pouch on her belt—a skill Lester had patiently taught her. Her hands were steady as she inserted the tension wrench and the pick, her ears straining for any sound from inside or from the dwindling distraction out front. The world narrowed to the feel of the pins inside the lock. Click. Click. Click. With a final, satisfying scrape, the cylinder turned. She shoved the door open and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her.

"I wouldn't if you quickly tell me what to do. It's very important. I promise I'll tell you everything." She heaved a sigh. "Wait a minute. Put the phone closer to the lock. I need to know what kind of lock it is." I nervously did so, looking over my shoulders. "You can get in. Do you have two pins or something?" "I do." I loosened my hair, bringing out the pins. "I need you to listen carefully. Insert the pin into the top part of the keyhole. Carefully push the pin until it touches the back of the lock. Do you understand?"

he asks me. It's clear from his tone of voice that he's not being serious, but actually, I do know how to pick locks. It's a skill that's come in handy more than once. I pull out my hairpin. "Let me try." I kneel down and take a closer look at the lock. It's simple enough to pick, and it only takes a few minutes before it's open. "Good work," Gregory says, and I can hear the admiration in his voice.

I stood in the corner and waited for the right moment. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at the watch on my wrist. “One more minute,” I thought to myself. Just then the office door opened and Beta Atlas walked out. I quickly dodged, making sure he didn't see me. Once he was gone, I moved swiftly and silently. As I got close to the door, I turned the doorknob, but it was locked. “Dammit, what was I expecting? Of course it would be locked.” I knelt, pulling the thin metal tool from my sleeve. A friend had once shown me how to pick simple locks years ago. The memory almost made me smile. And now it was coming in handy.

I wait breathlessly and then notice that two robots cannot reach with their protruding arms to place the device under the cars. “Shit,” I say out loud to no one in general. I need to get out of the car. I pull the pin from my hair and let my hair fall around my shoulders. I attempt to open the car lock with it, but it fails. I quickly pull a bobby pin from my bag and bend it into a lock-picking tool. As I attempt to pick the lock, I hear a commotion outside. Someone’s shouting, followed by the sound of men running out.

It’s still locked. As I’m about to walk away, I suddenly remember a lesson that Cayden once taught me on picking locks. He used a hair pin. I reach up and pull one of my hair pins out, stick my sandwich in my mouth so that my hands are free, and crouch down to the lock. Thankfully, Cayden’s lesson stuck in my mind because the lock clicks and the door swings open after just a few seconds of trying. A cold gust of wind blows out of the room and into my face. It smells musty, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.