A film expert and her brother are lured to a secluded mansion with the promise of receiving a rare print of a long-lost film. Waiting for them is a deadly secret that someone there will kill to protect.
Hannah eased her way into the back door undetected, the rain having driven her into a quick sprint from the garage where she had just finished disabling both vehicles. With the cars out of commission, the cell phones jammed, and landline cut, the house and everyone in it was essentially isolated from the rest of the world. The plan, though somewhat impetuous, was going perfectly.
It had gone through several versions, been the subject of last-minute changes and improvisations, but all in all, they were right on track to getting what they wanted. The lost Hildebrand film was worth a lot of money to the right buyer, and Mason was going to get it one way or another.
Mason.
Just the thought of his name sent a spike of heat through her body like no one before him ever could. His very presence was a thing of beauty. At six foot five, he towered over other men, lean and fit he looked as if he had been sculpted by Michelangelo, his long blond hair giving him the appearance of a Nordic God while his piercing eyes had the power to boar into your soul and stake a claim forever. To say that she was in love with this man was an inadequate description of something even more powerful than that, something deep and profound and primal.
It was almost impossible to conceive of life before he had found her. In that previous life, she had been an Army medic in Afghanistan, dishonorably discharged for insubordination and dereliction of duty. That's what the records said. The truth was something else. Those triage centers where the wounded were brought in were chaotic messes of inadequate treatment where incompetent superiors tried to tell her how to do her job. She could tell from just one look whether a soldier was going to make it or not. As far as she was concerned, the ones who were doomed weren't worth the time. They didn't need saving. They needed put down. A little extra morphine and, bingo, a free cot for the next man that they might actually have a chance of saving. Her superiors disagreed. A psych evaluation revealed sociopathic tendencies, just the excuse they needed to get rid of her.
Soon she was back home, unemployable, the stigma of a dishonorable discharge hanging over her head. Broke and destitute, she was about five minutes away from hooking when Mason found her.
A mutual friend introduced them. At the time, Mason was a low-level enforcer for a crime syndicate in the city and was in the early stages of building his own crew for a crack at a solo career. He needed someone like her who could patch up his boys yet also be fine when the hard choices needed to be made. Hannah fell hard right away. She could tell at first glance that this man was a lion among cattle. He would go all the way and she wanted to be right there with him when he did.
It didn't take her long to prove her worth: a broken bone here, a stab wound there, and even a mercy killing every now and then. When it happened, Hannah didn't hesitate to do what needed to be done. Mason knew that he could trust her, which is why he put her at the forefront of this score, probably their biggest score yet.
The tip had come in from Joseph Burns a few months ago. Tired of being paid peanuts to live like a hermit out in the middle of nowhere with some withered old coot and a bunch of antisocial misfits, he contacted Mason with a can't-miss plan. The old man was in possession of a rare film print that could be worth millions to the right collector. The plan was simple. They needed to find a willing expert who could produce a fake print. Nothing fancy. Due to his obsession with preserving it, the old man hardly ever took the reels out of their cans. It was likely the fake print would sit for months, or even years, before the old man even noticed it had been tampered with. By then, Burns would have turned in his resignation and been long gone with his cut.
It took some doing, but Mason eventually found a film geek willing to put together a fake print. With Teague's health failing, it was easy for Burns to bring Hannah in to nurse him. Once everything was in place, Hannah would drug Teague, then her and Burns would switch the real film print with the fake one. Afterward, Teague would simply wake up and be none the wiser. Hannah would stick around for a couple of weeks to keep up appearances. Burns would stay a little while longer, then collect his cut and bolt. With any luck, he'd be sunning himself in the Bahamas before the old man ever knew anything had happened, and Mason would have the bankroll he needed to really get his crew up and running.
Simple.
That's when everything went to shit.
Just days before they were ready to make the switch, the old man announced that he was going to donate the film to an archive.
They were too late. Teague's failing health must have put the notion in his head that he needed to get his legacy in order. There was no way Mason's fake would get past an expert's examination. And that was that. Burns quickly called Mason and let him know that they were sunk. It was over.
Mason had other plans.
The easy way was out, but that didn't mean that they had to give up the prize. All they would have to do was make sure that no one left with the film. Knowing that Teague had already arranged for an expert to come and examine the print, Hannah called Mason back in the city who quickly put his crew together and headed upstate. They were twelve miles away now, waiting for Hannah's signal that all was clear. Then all they would have to do is come in, take out all the witnesses, and leave with the payday intact.
It was a little messier than plan A had been, but still simple. Hannah wasn't on any books. There was no record that she worked there. Therefore, investigators would have no clue that anyone associated with Mason was ever involved. That expert Teague called and her idiot brother were a bit of a wild card. They would have to disappear along with the others. Surely someone would want to know what happened to them. Investigators would likely discover that they had come here prior to vanishing off the face of the earth. But what would that prove? Their bodies would be disposed of along with the rest of the house's occupants. Their car would be smashed into a cube and buried under a mountain of junk. No evidence. No proof that a crime had even been committed. All they would find is an abandoned house, void of any life. Maybe some contact at the Library of Congress would tell the FBI that Teague had expressed an interest in donating some old film of which they had very few details, but so what? For all anyone knew, Teague's claim could never be authenticated. It would just be another piece of a puzzle that no one would ever figure out how to fully put together. All Mason would have to do is sit on the film for a year or two until the case went cold and then cash in.
The film was still safely locked away in the vault.
Burns was dead. The rest of them weren't going anywhere.
All she had to do was shut off the cell jammer for two minutes and then call Mason who would come to take care of the rest.
But she didn't. She had another idea in mind. There were only five witnesses left. What if she were to hold off on calling Mason for a couple of hours? What if she were to take them out on her own? She could do it, one at a time, until they were all dead.
Mason would be so proud of her. He would finally know just how much she loved him, just how much she wanted them to be together.
He would get the film.
But she would get something far more valuable. She would get him.
With the Nighthawk and the stun gun still tucked into the small of her back, she headed down the hallway, ready to finish things once and for all.
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