We're about to exit the car when a thought hits me. Something doesn't feel right.
"Hold up." I put my hand on the door handle but don't push it open. "Let me check this place out first. Alone."
Miguel raises an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"Yeah. Rich kid, big house, who knows what's inside. Could be a trap, could be nothing. Better if just one of us tests the waters."
Ricky laughs, adjusting his cowboy hat. "Look at the new guy, playing scout."
Miguel nods. "If Tommy sees all three of us rolling up, he might panic. One man might get him talking."
"Exactly." I open the door and step out. "Give me ten minutes. If I'm not back, assume I'm either dead or drinking his expensive booze."
Ricky tips his hat. "The lone gunman approach, I approve."
"I'll circle the block," Miguel says.
I wait until the Fairlane pulls away, then approach the mansion. White columns frame the entrance like some discount Roman temple. Perfectly trimmed hedges line a cobblestone walkway. The front door, made of massive oak with iron fixtures, looks like it belongs in a castle.
I ring the doorbell. Nothing.
I knock hard enough to hurt my knuckles. Still nothing.
"Tommy? Tommy Fernandez?" I call out, pressing my ear against the door. Music plays faintly inside. Someone's home.
I step back, eyeing the perimeter. A wrought iron fence surrounds the property, not particularly high, but topped with decorative spikes. I could climb it, but why risk tearing my new suit or impaling myself?
Walking along the fence line, I notice the driveway curves around to a three-car garage. One of the garage doors is slightly ajar, raised maybe eight inches off the ground. Careless rich kid.
I glance around. No neighbors in sight. No passing cars. Just me and this half-open garage door.
Crouching down, I grab the bottom of the door and lift. It rises smoothly on well-oiled tracks. Inside sits a cherry-red Porshe 911 and what looks like a brand new Jeep. Daddy's money at work.
I duck under and enter the garage, letting the door close behind me with a soft thud. The space smells of motor oil and expensive leather. Tools hang in perfect order on a pegboard wall. Everything meticulously organized except for a few empty beer bottles scattered near a workbench.
An interior door likely leads into the house. I move toward it, gun ready but not drawn. No need to escalate immediately.
The music grows louder, some disco beat pumping through expensive speakers. I press my ear against the door and hear voices. Multiple voices. Tommy isn't alone.
I weigh my options. Back out now and tell Miguel we need a different approach? Or proceed and assess the situation?
My hand hovers over the doorknob. If there are too many people, I can always rewind and retreat. But something tells me I should see what's happening before bringing in the others.
I turn the knob slowly. Unlocked. Of course, why would a rich kid bother with security?
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step inside, ready for whatever awaits in Tommy's privileged world.
The door opens to a spotless kitchen, and not a dirty dish in sight. The maid probably comes daily. I move silently across the marble floor, following the thumping bass and voices echoing from upstairs.
The hallway smells of expensive cologne and weed. Framed family photos line the walls, Tommy's perfect family smiling from yacht decks and ski slopes. Must be nice.
I pause at the bottom of a curved staircase, listening. Four, maybe five voices upstairs. Young. Drunk. Discussing clubs.
"Starlight's got better drinks," a female voice argues.
"But Studio 55 has the best…." a male voice cuts in.
"Studio 55 is in New York, genius," someone else laughs.
I climb the stairs slowly, keeping my footsteps light. The second floor opens to a wide landing with several doors. The voices come from behind double doors at the end of the hall, slightly ajar with light spilling out.
I approach carefully, peeking through the gap. Five college kids lounging in what looks like Tommy's bedroom, a massive space with a waterbed, stereo system worth more than my life, especially considering today's tech, and enough alcohol to stock a bar.
Tommy sits in the center, wavy brown hair, polo shirt, deck shoes without socks. Textbook rich kid. Two guys and two girls surround him, passing a joint and mixing drinks.
I push the door open. Five heads turn simultaneously.
"Who the fu—" one guy starts.
"Robber!" screams a blonde girl, dropping her drink.
The tallest guy, football player type, lunges at me. I sidestep with practiced ease, my fingers wrapping around his extended arm. His momentum works against him as I pivot my weight, redirecting his charge. His eyes widen with surprise just before I send him crashing into an expensive-looking bookshelf. Hardcover classics and sports trophies rain down as he crumples to the floor, groaning.
The second guy, shorter but stockier, grabs a golf club from a bag in the corner. He swings it wildly, the whistling sound cutting through the air. I time my move perfectly, catching the shaft mid-swing. The impact stings my palm, but I don't flinch. With a quick twist, I wrench the club from his sweaty grip and use my other hand to plant firmly against his chest, shoving him backward. He tumbles onto the waterbed with a surprised yelp, arms and legs flailing as the mattress undulates beneath him like ocean waves. His desperate attempts to regain balance only make the rippling worse.
"I'm not robbing anyone," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm and controlled. I toss the golf club aside, letting it clatter against the expensive hardwood floor. My eyes scan the room, making sure everyone understands who's in charge now. "I'm here about a debt."
The room goes silent except for the disco still playing. The two girls huddle together. The guys look confused.
Tommy stares at me, eyes wide. "What debt? Who are you?"
"Two thousand with interest. Cockfights. Three weeks overdue." I step closer.
Tommy's face drains of color. "Cuban mafia," he whispers, the realization hitting him like a freight train.
"That's right. Time to pay up."
Tommy bolts suddenly, shoving past his stunned friends. I move to block the doorway, but he changes direction, darting toward the balcony doors.
"Tommy, don't be stupid!" I shout.
He threw open the glass doors and, without looking back, leapt over the railing.