Page 55 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

I t takes forty-seven minutes to get there. A three-story house with sharp lines, landscaped to look accidental—like wealth with a PR team. Rachel kills the engine.

“End of the line.”

I don’t move.

She turns toward me, voice dipped too soft. “You sure about this?”

“Get out.”

She smiles. It doesn’t touch her eyes. “If she screams when she sees you, I’m not helping. I’ll just assume you earned it.”

“She won’t scream.”

“That a hunch?”

“That’s history.”

From the curb, it doesn’t look like somewhere you’d want to escape from. That’s the trick. Normal windows. Normal yard. Porch light glowing like it’s expecting company. It’s only when you really look—too many right angles, too few shadows—that it makes sense.

The guards don’t shift. The camera above the porch is tucked behind the lantern like it belongs there.

Nothing about it says prison.

But I’ve broken into enough homes to recognize the kind you have to break out of.

Rachel leans against the car, arms crossed, chewing her thumbnail like it owes her money. “This it?”

I don’t answer.

Because yes, this is it. And no, I’m not ready to say it out loud. Naming something gives it weight. And right now, I need to be light.

“Well?” she tries again.

“You stay here.”

She laughs. It doesn’t sound amused. “The hell I do.”

“You’re not coming up the hill.”

“I didn’t drive two hours and commit, what, three felonies just to sit in a car like some desperate Uber date.”

I reach over and take the key.

“Hey—what the fuck?”

“You said they might kill me,” I remind her. “I believe you. Which means I’m not bringing liabilities.”

She glares. “So now I’m a liability?”

“No,” I say, stepping out. “Now you're cargo.”

I shut the door before she can respond. Her muffled rant trails behind me like static.

I hike the incline slow. Brush and limestone. Pine needles underfoot. Smells like mulch and the kind of cash that doesn’t get taxed.

Halfway up, I pause.

From here, the property unfolds with engineered symmetry. One long drive. Two outbuildings. A perimeter walk. Security is light, but confident. Like they know no one’s coming. Or think no one would be dumb enough to try.

I count four men outside.

One leans against the porch column, checking his phone.

Two walk the perimeter, lazy and loose. One lights a cigarette off the other.

The fourth is stationed near the garage, sitting in the driver's seat of a running car, half-asleep.

I watch them for half an hour. Maybe more. Let the rhythm settle in my bones.

There’s a camera tucked in the eaves.

Inside, there are silhouettes. Hard to count without risking movement.

I know she’s there. Not by logic. Not by pattern.

I know it the same way you know a bone’s been set wrong. It looks fine until you touch it—and then it tells the truth.

I slide down the slope and circle wide, make mental notes of soft spots: a gap in the fence, the location of the cameras, the way the man on the porch scrolls his phone.

The window will come. When it does, I’ll use it.

I return to the car.

Rachel startles like she thought I’d already died.

“Jesus. You were gone forever.”

I hand her the key.

She shoves the door open with her foot. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

She groans. “Okay, mystery man. What's the plan?”

“You stay here. Keep the lights off. If I’m not back by?—”

She holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t you dare say some cowboy shit like ‘don’t come looking.’”

“Then don’t.”

She scowls. “You planning to walk in and just...what? Wing it?”

“No. I’ve already walked in. In my head. Ten different ways. Now I pick the best one.”

She studies me. There’s something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not concern. Just inevitability. Like she already knows what kind of story this is.

“This is not a good idea,” she says. “Take it from me.”

“Well, I don’t see you trying to get your sister out.”

“It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right.”

I slide the passenger seat back and pull out the small duffel I packed in silence. Just the essentials.

I sling it over my shoulder. Step back out into the night.

“Vance.”

I pause.

She starts to speak then thinks better of it. In the end—like most women—she can’t help herself. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too.”

“Even if you get her out, he’ll never stop looking.”

“You say it like he’ll have the opportunity.”

“Right.” She chews at her bottom lip. “Well, in that case, I guess there’s room in the trunk.”

I nod once. Just enough.

Then I vanish into the trees.

And this time, I don’t look back.