"We need a plan."
John Hastings yanked open the iron gate of the underground garage elevator and flicked on the overhead light.
"Johnnie!"
"Scarface" Daniel Murphy sprawled on the leather couch, scowling. He jerked his chin at the lamp cord dangling from his hand and the stripped floor lamp beside him.
"What's the rush? I was setting up a surprise."
John frowned and waved him off.
"The lamp's dead."
Murphy squinted at Parisa on the far end of the couch.
"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"
Parisa kept her eyes on her phone, still playing Texas Hold'em. She answered with a lazy middle finger.
"To watch you look stupid, farm boy."
Even after the warning, Murphy gave the cord two quick tugs. Then he caught himself, glanced at John, flicked the cord once more, and forced a grin.
"Don't keep embarrassing yourself, Dan."
"Fuck you, John."
Murphy rubbed his face, watching John drop onto the plastic-wrapped sofa and light up the tablet. Three villa floor plans glowed on the screen.
"Two stories, basement. You map the cameras and lights?"
Parisa passed her phone to Murphy so he could take the hand. She leaned forward.
"Satellite only gave us the outside ones—eaves and lamp posts. Guards rotate every two hours in the front yard."
She tapped a layer; a red route snaked across the image.
"Best entry is the backyard—grapnel to the roof, clear top-down. But that lights them up and gives the target time to run. So…"
She let the word hang. Murphy lowered the phone and looked over.
"So I'll kill their vehicles with the .50. Don't expect quiet, John, and don't expect one-shot magic. M82A1 isn't exactly a scalpel."
He flipped the phone up again, smug.
"Pocket kings. You're printing money."
Parisa patted his shoulder and kept talking to John.
"You heard the plan. We go loud. I'll grab a private jet—or rent one with your pension if I have to. Sign with a security outfit, get plates, a carrier, a breaching hammer, crowbar—the works."
John nodded, smiling.
"Gear's never been the problem. I've got a guy who knows a guy. But add this: I need big noise to cover us and pull eyes away. Ideas?"
Parisa arched a brow, thinking.
"I can buzz the neighborhood in a sightseeing chopper and ride shotgun."
John zoomed in on the basement level. One section showed stairs dropping into a sunken area, walls twice as thick as the rest.
"What's that?"
Parisa glanced over.
"You'll have to crawl down the rabbit hole and find out."
She snatched the phone back, leaned into the cushions, and returned to her game.
"Champagne on the jet?" Murphy asked.
"We're in coach," John said.
"So no."
Murphy's eyes widened in mock threat.
"This trip better pay off…"
His voice dropped. He motioned John closer.
"Listen—that pocket-kings hand? Guy across from me hit pocket aces. I shoved."
John shook his head and lowered his voice too.
"Before she notices… let's grab lunch."
Murphy sat back and coughed loudly toward Parisa.
"Johnnie and I are running for food. Same for you?"
"Yep."
Seeing she hadn't looked up, Murphy slung an arm around John's shoulders.
"Later, tell her I bumped into an old buddy for a drink. Don't mention the hand."
"How much did you actually lose?"
Murphy's grin turned proud.
"Same as always, John."
He leaned in, voice low and oddly satisfied.
"All-in every chance you get."