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400 grand pays for a lot. Right now, it's paying for me not to get the hell out of here. I'm standing on a short sidewalk that leads to a long, steep flight of stone steps, which in turn lead up to a building that has seen much better days. Well, considering what it is, or used to be, maybe the better days were few and far between. At the top of the stone steps is a set of double doors.
Above the doors, carved in stone, is the name: Helmuth Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane. You can see why I want to get the hell out of here.
Behind me is a black town car with a driver fumbling in the trunk for my stuff. I spin around to see what's taking him so long and come face to chest with the enormous son of a bitch. I mean, Newell. That's his name. He's huge. He has to be over 6'5". Maybe what? 260? 275? Freaking huge. Phone.
Newell says, a massive palm held out to me. "Where's my stuff?" I ask. "I have tools and need- Phone." Newell repeats, his hand still waiting. "No freakin' way." I say. "I need my phone." "Ain't gonna work in there." Newell says with a shrug. "Yeah? That so?" I snap. I'm not a fan of rich people's thugs.
"You provide me with a flashlight? A camera to document what I find? Voice recorder for notes? A tin can and string so I can call for freakin' help if shit goes south?" "Non-negotiable," Noel says. "Then your boss should have made that part of the terms." I reply. "Consider it an add-on." "That'd be called an addendum to the contract. And you can consider it a no-way Jose."
"Phone," Newell says with finality. I snort. Yeah, the guy is a giant, but I know a couple of tricks when dealing with giants. But before I can tell him no one more time, Newell says, "400 grand." Shit, he's right. His boss had said to ride with Newell to the location, and he'd give me further instructions, which, if I wanted to get paid, I was to follow the instructions to a T.
"Fine," I say, and give Newell my phone. His massive palm swallows it up and it's lost from sight without having to be pocketed. Hands like those are only good for one thing: making guys like me hurt. A lot. "My stuff?" I ask. "Here," Newell says and tosses me my backpack. I open it and do a quick scan. Everything I need is in there. "What about the item?" I ask. "Your boss said you'd give me a description when we got here."
Nool snorts and takes something from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He hands it to me with a smirk. "What is this?" I ask. "The item." Nool says and walks away, back around the town car to the driver's side door. His smirk widens into a crooked grin. "Now go be the thief you are and collect what you've been hired to collect." "Kiss my ass," I say, and look at what's in my hand. It's a photo. "You wish," Nool said as he opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
The passenger's window slowly rolls down. "Have fun, asshole." I flip him off as he drives away. My middle finger doesn't come down until the town car is out of sight. I look at the photo. "You have got to be kidding me." I mumble. All that's in the photo is an iron door. It looks like one of the cells inside. The number 13 is painted in white, just below a small, barred window. I'm guessing the item is in cell 13.
Makes the hunt a little easier, sure, but still doesn't give me a clue as to what I'm looking for. I climb the steps. The doors are chained and padlocked. Both the chain and lock are new. There's not a sign of rust or weathering on them. But past the chain, I can see that the door has been jimmied open before, not just an attempt. Someone took a crowbar and managed to get the doors open.
When you've been doing what I do for as long as I have, you know the difference between what an attempt looks like and what success looks like. There are scratches all around the door's lock. A few people have picked the lock too. Hence the need for a new heavy chain and padlock. But if the door locks have already been picked, then why choose a padlock and not a combination lock? Someone's just gonna pick this padlock. Which is exactly what I do.
I set my pack down, open the second pocket on the front, and pull out my pickset. It takes me less than 30 seconds. I undo the chain and let both chain and lock fall to the ground. Too easy. Way too easy. A shiver goes up my spine. I should pay attention to that shiver. If it wasn't for the 400 grand, I would. But I'm in way too deep to walk away from that kind of dough. That'll set me up for a long time.
I put my pickset away, throw the pack onto my back, and grab one of the door's handles. It opens easily. No one even bothered to lock the doors again. They just slap the chain and lock on and called it a day. I take one last look over my shoulder at the overgrown hospital grounds, then step inside. When I think back to the meeting with Newell's boss the day before, there are a few red flags that stand out.
I mean, there are always red flags when doing a job for old money. Especially a job as weird as this. But yesterday was chock full of 'em. I was shown to the study by Newell, a man set in a high-backed leather chair. He had one of those glass snifter things filled with expensive liquor of some sort in his hand. No idea what the liquor was, but I'm sure a bottle of the shit costs more than my car. He swirled the amber liquid as he eyed me.
I don't like to be eyed, and that should have been red flag numero uno. The smart thing would have been to have called it right then. Guys with that look in their eyes tend to have hidden agendas. I don't like being part of those agendas, or any agendas really. I like my jobs to be straightforward, but I'd clocked about two dozen items in the library that I would have killed to obtain. Hell, I had clients searching for half of them. So I stayed.
The man knew his stuff, and he obviously had cash to spare. I couldn't help myself. Cash talks. "Do you know why you are here, Mr. Sornos?" he asked. "You have a job for me." I replied as I watched him swirl that liquor. Freakin' hypnotic. "Yes, a job," the man said, and took a sip of his drink. He smiled when he finished his sip. It wasn't a good smile. "Do you know what I do, Mr. Sornos?"
I shrugged. The man laughed and sipped again. "Never reveal too much. A good strategy." The man said and stood up. He walked to the fireplace and poked at it for a few seconds. I waited. I was gonna give him ten minutes tops, then I was out, regardless of the payout. "I procure items for my friends," the man said, facing the fire. "Rare items. Some might say the rarest." He kept his back to me.
Fire poker in one hand, his drink in the other. Like he was telling me some huge secret. The dude watched way too much PBS. He wasn't as scary as he thought he was. "Okay, great," I said. "So what do your friends need?" The lobby and reception area is trashed. Beer bottles, liquor bottles, used condoms, food wrappers. If a teenager can get their kicks from it, it's on the floor.
I kick trash out of my way as I spot a map of the hospital that still hangs by one nail on the far wall behind the reception desk. Something squishes under my boot, but I don't bother to see what it is. I have a feeling there's gonna be a lot of squishy crap in this place. I pull a flashlight out of my pack. Always good to have a backup, especially when your employer's goon takes your phone. I aim the flashlight at the map and turn it on. Kids have written graffiti all over the map.
There are numerous sketches of dicks, lots of dicks, but I can still make out the hospital's wings. The east wing was administration, the south wing was medical, and the west wing is where the cells are. Guess I'm heading west, if the picture is right. They don't tend to put bars on the windows in admin or medical. I give the map another look over to make sure I'm oriented, and then get to work. Or try to, at least.
Before I can take a step toward the west wing, I hear a noise coming from the east wing, from admin. My flashlight beam pierces the darkness in that direction, but all I see is a shadowed hallway with old desks, chairs, and filing cabinets strewn about haphazardly. But this isn't my first rodeo. It's not even my first job in an old insane asylum. I've never been in one for the criminally insane, but the differences come down to semantics, since the place is shut down.
The noise echoes down the hallway again. Is it? I hear it again. It's a person. I can't hear the words, but I know what pain sounds like, and what I'm hearing are whimpers of pain. I'm about to take my first step around a filing cabinet that is on its side when I pause. I aim my beam down at the floor and see it. A trip wire.
I pull my foot back and crouch down. I let the flashlight beam play across the floor, and I see the wire in front of me, and another few steps away just before the path through the old office furniture makes its way around an upturned desk. Interesting. The whimper echoes down the hall again. I wait, still crouched. I hear the whimper once more, and I'm certain it isn't a recording. There is someone down the hall that's hurt. "Hey!" I shout. "Who's there? Do you need help?"
A word? Maybe. Hard to tell. "Listen!" I call out. "If you're hurt, I can help. If this is a trap, I'll gut you. You hear me?" Another word. Another cry. Then the whimpering. I open my pack and reach for my combat knife. It's not there. I set the pack down and search the entire thing. That's not all that's missing. No knife. No lighter or matches. No mini screwdriver set. No mini crowbar. Fucking Newell.
Doesn't matter, I can handle myself. The whimper is louder and I hear movement, then silence. Well, that's not true. Behind me, I hear footsteps. I spin around and, of course, there's no one there. The footsteps sound again after a couple of seconds. The west wing, the direction I need to go in. I have a choice to make. The guy really needed to get on with it. The man glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled. I didn't like the smile then, and I don't like thinking about it now.
Red flag numero dos. "Something very rare," he said, and set the fire poker aside. He faced me full on. "I have a lead on an item that my friends and myself, I have to admit, have been looking for for a long time." "Good for you and your friends," I said again. "Sounds like you already found it. So why do you need me?" "Because knowing where an item is
"And securing said item are two totally different things," he said. "Just because I can point to a destination on the map, doesn't imply that I have the means to travel there. Thus it is so with the item. I know its location, but I need you to secure it for me. Can you do that, Mr. Sornos?" "Listen, Mr." I let the question hang there. So does he. I roll my eyes and continue.
"Listen, mister. I can get you anything that exists on this earth. Anything. But I'm gonna need details. Details shall be provided at the location," he said. "What I need is for you to simply agree to our terms beforehand, and my man will drive you there post-haste." Post-haste? Who the hell did the guy think he was? Some British lord? We were outside Boston, not London.
"I have my own car," I say. "Text me the address and I'll head there now." "No, no, Mr. Sornos. My man will drive you." "I'd rather drive myself." "That will not be possible." "Is the ride part of the terms?" "I am afraid so." Red flag numero tres. I was racking up red flags like dead bugs on the grill of a pickup truck in Texas. I seriously considered turning tail and getting the hell out of there. Except, then he said,
"And $400,000 cash, all in 20s. That is your preferred payment method, isn't it, Mr. Sornos?" "Yeah, that is my preferred method," I said, annoyed at how he kept saying my name that way. "Fewer eyes on 20s, they say, than 50s or 100s." "One must be careful in your line of work," the man said.
That smile, I wanted to slap it off him. "That it?" I asked. I should have asked a thousand more questions, but that was then and this is now. "That is all, Mr. Sornos," the man said. "Unless you feel you can't handle the job." "I can handle it, don't worry," I said. "I always finish a job. It could be dangerous," the man said. It didn't sound like a warning, more like he was amused by the fact.
"You could get trapped. I always find a way out," I said. He sipped his drink and smiled at me. The thing about booby traps is they work only if there's one way in and one way out. The setup was amateur hour. I grab the closest filing cabinet and give it a shove, then jump back into a crouch. I cover my head with my arms and wait. It's pure chaos. The filing cabinet sets off a chain reaction and every trap is triggered. Scalpels,
There has to be close to a thousand of them that fly from one wall to the other. Some at head height, some at ankle height, most are at torso height. I'd have looked like a medical pincushion if I hadn't noticed the first wire. After the dust settles, I do a quick double check then move forward. It takes me a minute, maybe two, before I come to the source of the whimpering.
Jesus Christ. I whisper as I stare at a man pinned to the floor by what looks like the rest of the hospital's old scalpel inventory. His face is sort of familiar, but it's hard to tell considering he's stripped naked and the scalpels pin him through his hands, his feet, the sides of his legs, his arms, the flesh of his hips, the flesh of the side of his neck, and his scalp. His scalp has been cut and peeled back from his forehead, exposing the top of his skull.
The flap of skin and hair is pinned back behind him like a shroud or crown. He's whispering a word. "Hey man, I don't have a phone." I say. "I can't call for help." I look back the way I came. I should run. He whispers again. I lean down and listen hard. "Sar knows." He says. "Yeah, I'm not even calling that a red flag. That's a green flag for get the fuck out." "What the hell?" I snap. "Who are you?" He doesn't answer and only stares up at me.
How does he know my name? Who is he? Then I see it. The gold tooth. No way. It can't be. "Lawrence?" I ask. He blinks slowly. "Holy shit, man! What happened?" He whispers again. "Dude!" I'm at a loss. This is messed up in so many ways. I know Lawrence from a few old jobs. He's a jerk. But not pin him to the floor with scalpels kind of jerk. What the hell do I do? I mean,
Run!
The scalpel had been placed perfectly so that when I removed it, he bled out from his femoral artery. "Lawrence?" The dead man doesn't respond. "Yeah, I think I will run." I backtrack to the lobby and reception area. Scalpel still in my hand since Newell took my knife. I give the west wing a quick glance, then sprint to the main doors.
They are chained and locked from the outside. I press my face to the wired glass of one of the doors and see there are four chains and four locks now. I'm not kicking these doors open anytime soon. "Nul. That son of a bitch. How'd he manage it without me hearing? That's a lot of metal. The trap. He waited until I sprung the trap. I wouldn't have been able to hear God over that racket." Speaking of racket, footsteps from the west wing echo again.
"Fine," I say, scalpel gripped tightly. I always finish a job, and I always find a way out. I head to the West Wing. "What else?" I asked. "What else, Mr. Sorenos? Is payment not enough?" The man laughed like he was hilarious. He wasn't.
"Delivery timeframe, delivery location, who I will be handing the item off to, all that jazz," I said. "Usually clients provide that info as part of the terms. No need to worry yourself over those details," the man said. "Everything will be handled on site and immediately after you secure the item. So you'll be there when I'm done?" I asked. His smile widened, but he said nothing. "Whatever," I responded. "When do we get started?"
"No, Mr. Sornos," the man said, and set his drink on a side table. He crossed his arms in front of himself and waited. "I'll fetch my man." Fucking Newell. I had a feeling about that guy. He smiled like he knew too much when he drove off. And of course, he did. He knew he was coming back. But why lock me in? I haven't been paid yet. So even if I bail, Newell's boss doesn't lose anything. It makes no sense.
but the rich rarely do. The floor of the corridor to the west wing is littered with sheets and towels. I crouch at the start of the corridor and shine my flashlight along the ground, then up and up until I'm studying the ceiling. No trip wires. Careful not to step on any of the sheets or towels, I wind my way down the corridor. Not that the sheets and towels are sparkling white to begin with, but I start to notice stains on them as I pass by. Brown stains that become red when my light hits them.
Blood. Soon they aren't stains anymore. By the time I reach the end of the corridor, the sheets and towels are soaked through with blood. Then I come to the bodies. They are draped with sheets that are completely soaked with blood. The flashlight flickers and I give it a smack. The beam strengthens and I check for traps again. Nothing. "Screw this," I say.
but I still bend down and pull away a blood-slicked sheet from one of the bodies. I'm scrambling away, and my back hits the wall before I even know I've moved. There is no doubt in my mind whether or not I know this face. "Kirsten," I whisper. We'd worked more than a few jobs together, and we'd been more than just colleagues. But life in our business is hard to keep steady, and we drifted apart. "Jesus, what did they do to her?" The skin on her face is shredded like it's been sliced a million times.
I glance at the scalpel in my hand. That'd do it alright. I don't need to. But I pull the sheet away from the other body. Tommy. I'd heard he and Kirsten had partnered up. Doesn't look like it worked out too well in the end. Suddenly there are footsteps behind me. I spin around, scalpel up. My flashlight flickers again then goes out. I fish through my pack. Oh great. My extra batteries are gone too. When I see that Newell guy again, he's a dead man.
A clang. Like a metal gate, closing rings out. Okay, no flashlight. But at least I have the scalpel. I got that going for me. What I don't have going for me is a choice. I could search for another way out. But there isn't one. Newell's boss seemed like a thorough bastard. So I'm guessing every window and door to the place is secured somehow. So I walk away from the bloody corpses toward the sound of the gate closing. When I reach it, I see my mistake.
The gate wasn't clanging closed, but clanging open. "Noel!" I shout. "I'm gonna gut you bad when I find you!" No response. I didn't expect one. I'm about to walk through the gate like an idiot, but I stop. The area around the gate was cleaned. I can smell a hint of bleach. I bet if I get down on my hands and knees and squint into the dark, I'll see remnants of the last person who tried walking right through.
I study the gate and don't see any trip wires or other ways to spring a trap, but I know there is one. A disgusting idea hits me. It's nasty, but necessary. I hurry back to Tommy's body and drag it to the gate, leaving a trail of coagulated blood behind. It's not easy, but I get Tommy upright and then shove his corpse through the gate opening. The body hasn't even had a chance to fall a couple of inches when the gate slams closed. I'm coated in Tommy.
The gate slammed so hard that it ripped the corpse in half, showering me in bloody bits. Great. Coated in yuck I can deal with. But now the gate is closed. I give the bars a yank and it doesn't budge. How do I get to the cells now? It takes me at least an hour to work out the problem. I find the solution to my problem by being methodical, which is probably why I've been hired for the job. The others weren't so careful and they paid for it.
Which brings up a very valid question: What were the others hired for? The same job? I guess that's two questions. The way through the gate is simple: A set of bars has been expertly cut away and then placed back in perfect position. All I have to do is grab and pull, and I have a man-sized opening in the gate. I toss my pack through and follow behind. I'm on the other side, and staring into the darkness of the corridor when I see it. Light.
It's coming from the window of one of the cell doors about halfway down the corridor. Why hire a master thief to find something if you're just going to lead them along anyway? None of this makes sense. Without my flashlight to look for tripwires, I have to walk slowly and carefully down the corridor to the cell. I'm not an idiot. So I wave my pack in front of the cell door's window. A sharpened iron rod pierces the pack. Yeah, I had a feeling.
At least now I have a sharpened iron rod to go with my scalpel. I pull the pack away from the cell door, remove the bar, wave the pack in front of the window again, and then take a deep breath when nothing is triggered. My turn. I look through the bars and stare at what's inside. Carlson, Von Horn, Comstock, Morrigan. All dead. All posed around a table. A table covered in cards, poker chips, and a lot of blood.
The source of the blood is easy to guess because each guy's head is backward, held on by steel wire stitched to their necks. It's my old crew. We'd come up together in the business. "This is too much." I yell as I turn away from the nightmare game. "You are dead!" I stalk down the corridor. Trip wires be damned. I hear a laugh and heavy footsteps. I'm running with the iron rod held out in front of me. I am going to beat that goon to death when I catch up to him.
The corridor tees and I look left, then right. There's only a little light that filters from each end, where windows must be. But I can't make them out. "Nul!" I yell, no response. I can just make out some lettering on the wall across from me. Cells 13 through 48, with a faded arrow pointing left. Cells 49 through 72, with a faded arrow pointing right. "Okay!" I say out loud. "Let's do this!"
I always finish a job. I always find a way out. Left it is. I have to walk all the way to the end of the corridor before I find my target. Cell 13. No sign of Newell. I glance at the barred window of the cell. There's no light beyond it, and I'm not going to press my face up to it either, so I have no idea what's inside. Time to find out. I fish out my pick set and do my thing.
But instead of pulling the cell door open, I brace the iron bar through the handle, move to the side, and leverage the door open with the bar. Nothing happens. The door swings open with the loud squeal of its hinges. I wait. Still nothing. I lean closer and wave the iron bar in the doorway. Again, nothing. Newell could be waiting for me in there. Except in my business, you get a feel for when a space is occupied or empty. There's a vibration to a room when someone's in it.
The cell feels empty. I take a couple of deep breaths, then walk into the cell. It's pitch black, but my eyes are semi-adjusted and I begin my search. I feel along the wall for triggers or recesses that could open a hidden panel. Nothing. I check the floor. I check the corners. I even poke at the ceiling with the rod. Nothing. Then I see it. Just to the right of the doorway, about face height. A mirror.
"What the hell?" I mutter as I walk toward it. I look in the mirror, and I can barely make out the reflection of my own face. Then the cell door slams shut. I throw my shoulder against it, but it's locked tight, and there's no access to the lock from the inside. I can't pick my way out. "Nul! You asshole!" I yell through the window's bars. "Let me the fuck out!" The response is hands clapping slowly. A lot of hands. After a few seconds, a light fills the corridor outside the cell.
"Nuul!" I shout. "Who Nuul has left to fetch the car?" A familiar voice says. Then the man who hired me appears on the other side of the window. "It looks like you found the item," he says and smiles. Every red flag I felt that evening slams into my head, and it all makes a kind of sense. The empty cell, the mirror, my reflection. "I'm the item?" I ask. "What the fuck, man?" The man wags a finger at me.
Oh shit.
"Ahh, I can see a realization dawning in your eyes," the man says. "And yes, in a way, this is payback, but mostly, we've grown tired of your antics and decided you'd be a perfect addition to our collective collection. A true master thief. What a find indeed. Honor the fuck out!" I growl. "No! There's only one way out," the man says.
"And you always find a way out, right, Mr. Sornos?" Then he walks away. The rest stare at me for a couple of seconds before following him. I scream. They don't. The town car pulled up in front of the man's house, and he gestured toward it. "After you, Mr. Sornos," he said. Newell got out and opened the door for me. Damn, he was huge. "I'll see you as soon as the job is completed, Mr. Sornos," the man said.
"Great," I replied. "That's all I needed to hear. I assumed as much," he said, and followed me to the car. I got in the back, and Newell closed the door then went around and got in the driver's seat. My window rolled down. "I do hope you are up to the job, Mr. Sornos," the man said. "It has taken a while to find the location of the item. I would be so disappointed if this is all for nothing.
"Don't worry," I said. "I always finish a job." "Of course you do," he said, and the window rolled back up. "Hey!" I screamed for them to come back and let me out. "Come back!" After what must be an hour or two, my throat is so raw that I can barely swallow. I sigh, turn, lean my back against the door, and slide to the floor. "There's only one way out," he'd said. I grab my pack and pull out the scalpel.
I guess so. I say as I study the scalpel. I always finish a job. I slash quickly. And I always find a way out.