Highways & Hostages Read Free

behind a hedgerow at the bottom of a small hill. He was ready to rip off the thin sliver of fake mustache tickling his upper lip and the muttonchops adhered to the sides of his face. Alex suggested he dye his sandy-blond hair a dark brown to match the faux facial hair, but Finn had to draw the line somewhere. Nobody messed with his hair. He compromised by adopting a ridiculous shoulder-length wig, a baseball hat, and prescription-less glasses. He was pretty happy with the result: he could’ve been Mike Meyers’s stunt double in Wayne’s World .
    Finn rose and peered over the hedgerow. From his position, his view of the mansion on the hilltop was shielded by a copse of trees. The images he and Alex found using Google Street View hadn’t shown much of the house either, but it didn’t matter. Finn studied the blueprints for hours—practically memorized them. He knew the inside of the house like he knew his own condo.
    Keeping low to the ground, he crept alongside the shrubbery and up the hill. If everything was happening according to plan, Alex should have been hidden by his own set of shrubbery behind the house. Two blocks away, near the neighborhood’s entrance, Billy should be sitting in a nondescript, black sedan, ready to drive them back to Julian’s. Finn glanced at the watch on his wrist, placed a reverent hand over the dog tags beneath his shirt, and stood. He strode purposefully up the drive, stopping several feet away from the front door. Neither the low-resolution photos nor the blueprints prepared him for the sight before his eyes.
    Enormous limestone columns featuring carvings of nude female figures flanked the arched doorway of the mansion. More limestone columns stood guard at the breezeways along the front of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows dotted the first-story façade. The curtains were drawn back from the windows, spilling light out into the yard. Finn guessed curtains weren’t really necessary since the tiny forest of trees and the fence blocked the house from the street. He snorted. Being rich clearly didn’t equate with having good taste; this house had Vegas written all over it.
    One of the massive double doors swung open.
    “What the hell do you think you are doing?” a man—Julian said it would be von Rothschild’s right-hand man, Stefan—asked gruffly. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and was closely cropped to his scalp. His steel-gray eyes regarded Finn with scorn. An ugly, puckered scar started at the bridge of his nose under his right eye and ran to his lower lip.
    Finn fixed his face in what he hoped was an apologetic frown. “I came to see Mr. von Rothschild about a business matter.”
    “You think I am an idiot? You do not have a car, so you must have climbed the fence. What do you really want?”
    Stefan moved the left side of his jacket back slightly, exposing a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants.
    Finn risked rising on his tiptoes to glance over the man’s shoulder and through the open door. Right about now, Alex should have been climbing the trellis leaning against the back of the house. Finn needed to keep Stefan occupied for as long as possible.
    Stefan took a menacing step forward. “You need to leave. Now.”
    Finn swallowed and raised his hands in surrender. “Wait! Wait! You asked what I wanted! I wanted to know whether your mom charges by the act or by the hour? Do you think she’d call me Daddy if I asked?”
    Stefan stared at Finn in confusion before the meaning of the words dawned on him. He let out a primal growl before lowering his head and charging. Finn feinted to the left before diving to the ground. He swung his leg around and connected with Stefan’s thick ankle, sending him tumbling. Finn dove forward and grabbed the gun. Stefan clawed at Finn, wresting the glasses from his face. Finn scrambled away, unscathed, as Stefan put out his other arm to break his fall. His wrist made a sickening crunch when it connected with the