Even in the dark, Wojo could see the keypad for the alarm. As always, he reached for his phone, which held an app that would help him unlock it. For years now, every alarm company had had to file their particular transmitter frequencies with the FCC, which made them publicly available. For real. Publicly available. Most door and window sensors operate at 315.0 MHz, so all you have to do is copy that frequency to jam it. But as Wojo got closer to the keypad （still singing in his head how forever was gonna start tonight）， he saw that a bright green light was on. Alarm wasn’t even armed.
Lucky night for sure, Wojo thought, picturing his daughter Gabriella in skydiving pose, arms outstretched, the wind widening her smile so much, she was nothing but teeth. All that was left was . . .
Wojo gave the doorknob a twist. Locked. But not for long. From his pocket, he pulled out a key ring filled with bump keys, the same ones locksmiths used. It took two tries to find the right one, then . . .
Click.
The door swung open, and Wojo was hit with the whiff of a stale mop and bleach. Laundry room on his left. In his pocket, Wojo slid his hand around the small black stun gun he always carried on these trips, just in case someone jumped out of the dark.
Inside the house, everything was silent. No barking. No obvious pets. A good sign.
In two and a half minutes, the blood would be everywhere.
Right now, he was slow-walking through the family room, eyeing the cherry floors and the built-in bookcases that were filled with kids’ DVDs and far too many Tom Hanks movies. Captain America had a wife and teenage kids, by the looks of the photos on an end table.
When it came to décor, the family had spent money on the couch—a modern chocolate-brown leather sectional—but everything else—rugs, coffee table, shabby-chic slipcovered chairs—was like a Pottery Barn, West Elm, and Crate & Barrel bomb went off. All of it in its prime a decade ago, just like the BMW. Every life has a peak. Ten years ago was when Cap was really making money.
Along the far wall was a framed revolver—an antique buccaneer-style flintlock pistol from the 1700s, complete with a wide brass barrel like something from Pirates of the Caribbean. Worth at least three grand, Wojo knew, though he walked right past it. Something that big goes missing, the cops get called. Besides, he knew where the real rewards were.
Following the house’s main artery, Wojo made a left toward the master bedroom. He wasn’t walking gingerly anymore. Too excited. Down the hallway, he saw the way the bedroom opened to the right. Toward suburbia’s real prize. His and hers closets.
According to home security experts, during a break-in, the very first place that criminals go is the top drawer of a woman’s dresser. As a result, women are never supposed to hide their jewelry there. But most women did it anyway, not wanting to deal with the headache of moving their favorite items in and out of a safe.
A flush of adrenaline lifted Wojo’s chest. Yet as he stepped over the threshold and made a right toward the closets, he was surprised to hear . . .
Kllk.
A light in the room popped on. Wojo squinted, blinded.
“You really think we wouldn’t find out?” asked a man wearing a latex Oscar the Grouch mask. He was on the opposite side of the bed, which was drowning in throw pillows. In the man’s hand was a gun—an M1911 military pistol—aimed straight at Wojo’s face.
“This isn’t—” Wojo said. “I wasn’t—”
“You should know better! I know you know better!” Oscar the Grouch exploded, his voice muffled by the mask, which was deflated and misshapen, wobbly on his head. Even with his navy sweatshirt and baggy jeans, it was clear he was well built, though he had a natural impatience in his stance, ready to spring. His hands were bony and pale white.
Wojo backed up into the wall, his face burning with fear. A single thought filled his brain. He didn’t know the why or the how—Did they follow him?—but one thing was clear: This was no longer a robbery. It was a trap.