Naughty by Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn

Hammett double checked all the guards’ positions. “Move. Now.”
    “Affirmative,” both sisters said in unison, creating a strange, stereo effect in Hammett’s ears.
    Christ, they even all sounded exactly the same.
    The two ran for the house, the video feeds from their jackets bouncing with each stride. Clancy made for a patio door on the first floor, just outside a spacious living room area. Ludlum dashed to the front door. Then both of them set about picking the locks.
    Hammett looked back to her view of the guard house security monitor where Forsyth straddled the guard, her feet propped on either side of the L shaped desk. Head thrown back and hands gripping his shoulders, she raised and lowered herself over him, one knee blocking Hammett’s view of the screen where she’d last seen the exterior guards.
    Hammett opened Forsyth’s audio channel. “Hey, Jenna Jameson, move your damn knee.”
    A whistle trilled from somewhere near the house. The dog responded, perking his head toward the sound and whining.
    Hammett glanced back at the video from Clancy and Ludlum’s camera brooches. Neither was yet inside.
    What was taking them so long? Hammett would have been able to pick those locks five times over by now.
    “Sorry,” she told the dog, and held his collar. Better to have the guards’ attention focused on the garden than the house.
    When she checked the laptop again, Forsyth was leaning forward, the stud muffin guard taking care of her from behind, the monitors free and clear.
    Back on the lawn, the two guards stood together, probably trying to figure out what might have happened to the dog.
    Clancy slipped inside, then Ludlum.
    Hammett dug into the dirt of the garden with one hand and gently wiped the moist loam on the dog’s white snout and front paws. “Sorry, buddy. But I have to give them an explanation of what you’ve been up to. Now not a word, okay?”
    He looked at her as if he understood.
    She released his collar, and when the next whistle came from the guards, he bounded off.
    Hammett returned her attention to the laptop. Clancy was visible on the security monitor. She sat with her legs stretched out on a sofa, a book in her hands. Her own video feed revealed she was reading The Hunt for Red October.
    Funny girl.
    Ludlum, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen on the security monitor. Her own monitor showed a powder room decorated in burgundy, ivory, and gold.
    “Ready for you,” Hammett told Forsyth.
    Forsyth was now standing in front of the guard, one ankle braced on his shoulder. She leaned to the side, peering around him. “That’s weird.”
    The guard continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word.
    “I said, that’s really weird,” she shouted. “I’m on the security cameras, I’m in bed and reading. Those images had to be taken earlier today.”
    Blood apparently returned to the head on top of his shoulders, and the guard untangled himself from Forsyth and spun around to look at the monitors. “Holy shit. Someone must have replaced the feed with prerecorded video, like they do in all those bank robber movies.”
    Hammett had to smile at the movie reference. Any security system worth its money had safeguards against that. But she’d been counting on the guard’s inexperience for her plan to work. Good to know she’d gambled well.
    “I’ll bet something is just wonky with the system,” Forsyth said.
    He picked up a radio and hit the call button. On the security monitors, the guard snacking in the kitchen and the two outside simultaneously grabbed their radios.
    Hammett gave Clancy and Ludlum each a quiet, “go,” and then keeping an eye on her laptop, she headed closer to the house, reaching the spot she’d chosen earlier, a greenhouse sheltered from the rest of the property by fragrant vines of Japanese hydrangea. She entered through the plastic door, the temperature inside at least fifteen degrees warmer, Hammett’s nose assaulted by dozens of flower scents; roses,