Chapter 1
KELLY PARKER
I’m sitting in my plush sofa, reviewing the latest project files, laptop on my knees when my phone buzzes. The screen shows Julius’s name, which means he’s found something—or someone—interesting enough to share.
“You’re going to love this one, Kel,” he says without preamble when I answer. “Just secured a contract that’ll test everything I ever taught you.”
He sound pleased with himself.
I settle deeper into the sofa, knowing that tone. It’s the same one he used when teaching me to crack my first safe—the mixture of pride and mischief that always precedes a challenge.
“Should I be worried?”
“Not at all. It’s perfectly legitimate.” A pause that lasts just long enough to make me suspicious. “Mostly.”
“Uncle Julius,” I warned.
“Blackthorn Castle,” he says, savoring each syllable.
I can almost see him explain it with his hands as if it was headlines in the New York Post.
“Historic property, private owner, significant security concerns. The FBI wants an independent assessment of vulnerabilities before the owner hosts a major event there.”
I sit up straighter.
“Blackthorn? That one in the Hudson Valley? If my mind remembers this correctly, haven’t you visited that place at one point?”
We both knew what I meant. My uncle Julius, who raised me, also had a shady past as a gentleman thief. He possessed a sense of honor, yet that did not prevent that honor from occasionally being a trifle flexible.
I start tapping on my laptop, searching for info about the castle. And the owner.
“Hmm, yes,” he admitted. “However, I left empty handed. The allusive object was not willing to be found. Even tough it was a experience too remember. Now, the owner has agreed to lend out his castle during an event. And since there will be a lot of objects of value they need the security to be top-notch.”
I can practically hear his smile through the phone. “They specifically requested your expertise in physical penetration testing.”
Something about his phrasing makes me hesitate.
“And this came through your FBI contacts?”
“Perfectly above board, I assure you.” Another pause. “Though perhaps it’s best if the owner doesn’t know which firm is conducting the audit. The FBI believes surprise will yield the most accurate assessment of his security systems.”
I tap my fingers against my thigh, considering.
“So we’re essentially breaking into a castle without the owner’s explicit permission to test his security? That sounds like exactly the kind of job you’d have loved before your arrest.”
“Now, now. We’re simply doing what the FBI has authorized. Think of it as... a government-sanctioned heist.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Send over the details. I’ll review them with Andrew. And I wonder, dear uncle, why they prefer a dusty old castle instead of oh, let’s say for the hell of it - a museum that already have a security.”
“Those who will attend are rich and utterly bored, and I guess they want something to brag about. Blackthorn castle and the legend that surrounds it draw them in. No one have been in there.”
“Except for you.”
“Correct.” He sounded smug, and I shook my head at my mischievous uncle. He always had a plan within a devious plan, and I wonder what he has tucked up in his sleeve this time.
After hanging up, I stare at the photo of Blackthorn Castle I’ve pulled up on my laptop. The castle was as suspected, all turrets and dark stone, surrounded by dense forest.
Three obvious entry points, a dozen less obvious ones, and probably a security system installed by someone who’d never actually tried to break into a medieval building.
Julius was holding something back; I could feel it in the gaps he’d left. The owner, Jake Harrison Crowe brought up the usual tech-billionaire gloss, but a few whispers in deeper forums told a different story—rumors of underworld connections. Potentially a dangerous man that needed security.
The irony.
All I knew for certain was that I had a castle to infiltrate for the FBI, and a growing suspicion that the job was far more complicated than the one on paper.
Two days later.
Our office at Prescott Security was quiet except for the low whir of servers in the adjacent room and the faint scratch of pencil on paper where my cousin Andrew was sketching out something incomprehensible to anyone but himself. I have tried too decipher the scribbles, and all I could say it looked like he had enjoyed plunging his fingers in a outlet with one hand while writing with the other.
It was impossible hieroglyphics. Now, while you ponder over that scene with Andrew willingly electrocuting himself I leaning back in my chair with my boots propped on the edge of the desk.
It creaked in protest, but it had survived worse. The old wooden desk was the only thing that didn’t belong, scarred with the ghosts of homework and pocketknife carvings.
Underneath, taped to the privacy panel, were my childhood drawings of fairy-tale castles. My right hand flipped a slim tactical knife open and closed with lazy precision, the blade catching the afternoon light. The other held a thick folder, and I shook my head while reading it.
I snorted.
“House,” I muttered and glanced in Andrews direction.
The word was in fact printed three times on the cover page. Once in the corner and twice in the subtext.
Property Overview: Private Residence, house locate in Hudson Valley.
Owner: Jake Harrison Crowe.
Type: Restored European House.
Inside the folder were architectural drawings. I flipped to an aerial photograph paper-clipped to the plans.
The structure dominated the landscape like something torn straight out of a medieval chronicle and dropped into modern America by mistake.
“House,” I repeated, shaking my head and pushed the chair back slightly and let it rock on its rear legs.
“Rich people,” I mumbled, waiting for my cousin to speak up. “When you can afford a castle but call it house.”
Across the room, Andrew didn’t look up. “Technically, if someone lives in it, it’s a house.”
Ah, finally a sign of life.
I pointed the knife at him without removing the sturdy boots from the desk. “If it has battlements, it’s not a house.”
Andrew adjusted his yellow tinted glasses absently. “Depends on zoning.”
Now I’m huffed a laugh and let the chair thump back down onto all four legs, flipping another page.
“Get this,” I continued, tapping the folder. “Our new client, Jake Harrison Crowe—cybersecurity mogul, collector of expensive toys—had his father dismantle a French castle stone by stone and ship it across the pond. A forty-year-old puzzle box.”
Eccentric wasn’t the word. The folder felt heavy with audacity. Balancing the knife on its tip, watching it wobble as I thought of the crayon turrets I’d drawn as a kid, still taped under my desk.
“The feds wants a security evaluation. Full audit. Discreet entry.”
Andrew finally looked up at that. “Discreet entry as in—?”
“As in break in and tell him how easy it was.”
Andrew’s expression brightened faintly. “Fun.”
“Exactly. Almost too fun. No staff present? That’s not just easy, it’s suspicious. Either our billionaire is arrogant, or he’s baiting a trap.”
I scanned the notes again. No visible external surveillance beyond a minimal system. Owner insisted on ‘atmospheric authenticity.’ That likely meant hidden wiring, if any. Possibly outdated hardware. Possibly arrogance.
I smiled slowly. Most likely arrogance, and that was my favorite vulnerability.
“Maybe he thinks... because he made millions protecting other people’s data, no one can touch his fortress,” I mused. “I give it twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen,” Andrew corrected automatically, already turning back to his scribbles.
I tossed the folder onto the desk and caught it again before it slid off. The knife snapped shut with a decisive click.
“Let’s hope they are ready for the bill. Because if he calls that thing a house, I’m charging them castle rates. Major event, major kaching,” I said smiling.
“No reason to be shy, I am sure they can afford it. You need a new car after all,” he said.
“Nothing wrong with my car.”
“It’s not safe. Just take a picture of it if you are sentimental.”
“You’re lucky we’re related,” I tsked. “Insulting my car is a capital offense.”
“Hmm... people notice it because it is so…” He quickly wallowed the word and changed it when I looked at him pointedly. “…vintage looking.”
I let out a short laugh at that. Both of us knew that the battered-up car had a mean machine underneath. A true getaway car.
Grinning to myself I leaned back once more, staring at the ceiling as my mind began mapping routes, entry points, blind spots. Stone walls. Towers. Old bones hiding under modern weaknesses.
My grin must have been predatory, because Andrew finally glanced up from his work, a knowing look in his eyes. He knew this was exactly my kind of job. Before I could gloat, he changed the subject.
“Sienna called,” he said. “She asked about the gallery.”
“Hmm? Gallery? Oh yeah, it was something about a fancy-schmancy opening,” I said with a dismissive wave.
“It is tonight,” he pointed out.
I groaned, remember what I had promised. An impossible task.
“Damn. I remember now. She wanted me to go there and see if I could discover who the artist really is. This signature Stormwalker is on par with the infamous Banksy. No one know who he is, but you recognize his work at a glance.”
“Or she,” added Andrew.
“Or she,” I conceded. “Sienna’s convinced I have some kind of secret decoder ring for this stuff.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. The last time I’d hesitated on one of her ‘scoops,’ she’d nearly torpedoed one of my actual cases. She called it journalistic integrity; I called it a pain in the ass. But I did owe her for the Garrett tip-off, and Sienna never let debts sit long.
“Fine,” I whined, slumping in my chair. “But I’m not getting dolled up just to spy on a bunch of trust-fund artists.”
Andrew leaned back in his gaming chair, looking ridiculous in his neon pink top hat.
“You can always use the disguise you had with the Garrett-case.”
The idea landed like a key turning in a lock. I felt the grin spread before I could stop it—the particular one Andrew always said looked like I was already three steps into a plan nobody else knew about yet.
That was the only way to get me to these insipid events anyway: bait me with a character to inhabit. A gallery full of preening strangers became a different proposition entirely when I didn’t have to walk in as myself.
I turned the disguise over in my mind. Twenty-eight to eighty. The posture alone would take some work—that particular kind of settled, unhurried authority that only comes from decades of not needing to prove anything.
