Take or Be Taken

Every so often, Flynn Cintalin got the itch. He knew his own pattern well. It would begin with lingering looks toward a person’s watch as it glittered in the sun or toward houses behind gates that taunted him. His fingers would begin to reach for pockets and purses, gleaning belongings with ease. Flynn would get home, spread his stolen prizes across the floor and stare at them, pride welling in his chest, for hours at a time. And when he knew he could stand it no longer, could resist the urge no more, the voice would return with a vengeance in his mind.

It’s not enough. More, the voice would say with steadily growing desperation and volume, until it reached a fever pitch and Flynn could hold fast no longer.

Flynn was insatiable, not necessarily for property or riches, but for the need to take. It was a game that kept him ever entertained. Many people, some with degrees lining their walls and disappointed looks creased into their faces, would name it kleptomania. For Flynn, however, it was simply a need he had to sate, an ever present desire to steal. This time, however, Flynn let the need simmer within him to the point he was dangerously close to boiling over. He knew he had to pull off something big, something to hold him over for a while, to live on the high of for a while. He needed to pull off a heist. And Flynn already knew who his target was.

Whenever Flynn found himself bored, he would spend hours scrolling through houses online. The bigger the house, the better. It was two weeks before the itch won out and Flynn found a house, one he knew would be perfect for a heist. The house would more appropriately be described as a mansion, maybe even a castle, as it was an eight-story, sprawling estate. The windows, no matter the side, face acres of manicured terrain filled with a variety of leisure, including tennis courts, two pools, a golf course and an unattached garage that Flynn was sure would be filled with treasures. The rooms were massive, ceilings that rivaled those in museums, gilded and artfully crafted details. A theater, a wine cellar, three kitchens, areas for entertainment of company and a gargantuan, walk-in safe.

Flynn had licked his lips thinking about the lot to come when he’d made a trip to visit the house in person and watched as a perky realtor in a powder blue pantsuit plaster a giant “SOLD” sign across the advertisement staked in the front yard. This was perfect timing. Flynn could get a crew together while the new homeowners moved in. Seeing as people would be walking in and out of the giant house during the move-in process, it would be a simple task to waltz in under the guise of being there as a handyman or mover, just another person on the property who had a right to be there. And, being Flynn, he believed he did. It was his right to take, just the same as it was his right to breathe.

It was far too big a job to do on his own and, even with Flynn’s fervor for thievery, he knew his limits. He needed to make a few calls, track some people down. The first choice was easy enough. Flynn’s good friend, and the best hacker to be found, Robbie Brown was the first call he made.

“Flynn,” Robbie said cooly into the phone, picking up on the first ring.

“How did-,” Flynn began, but Robbie cut him off.

“You think I can’t figure out who’s calling me simply because it's a burner. You wound me, old friend,” Robbie said with mock hurt.

“Of course. I will never underestimate you again, not if you can pull off this next job,” Flynn trailed off.

Within a few minutes, Robbie agreed. Even if he wasn’t Flynn’s pal, he would have agreed. Flynn had a gift for convincing people to do his bidding. Growing up everyone had known Flynn as the charismatic type, the kid who could talk his way out of, or into, anything. It seemed that was the perfect gift for a man who grew up to do exactly what Flynn loved to do. That is why Flynn was so confident in his next call, it was an easier task than getting Robbie in agreement.

Flynn smiled widely and put on his most charming voice as the phone clicked to an open line, “Tracy, baby. How are you?”

A giggle like champagne fizzing over came through the phone, a flamboyant voice to match, “Flynn, darling. How are you, you handsome boy? Oh I just need to see you. I can just picture that gorgeous face. Honestly, it feels like committing a crime each time I alter it. I swear!”

Flynn suppressed a victorious smile and knew the man on the other end of the phone was in. Hook, line, and sinker. Flynn lounged back into his chair, staring at the house he’d bought with stolen goods and filled with even more of them. It was like a king taking stock of his wealth, a pirate lavishing in his gold. He sighed contentedly as he hung up the phone, another crew member secured. Tracy was the best at disguises. That old-timey saying about a pig and lipstick, however it went, Flynn was sure Tracy could somehow take that pick and turn it into Marilyn Monroe.

The next task was the most difficult, but also the most important. The itch was getting worse for Flynn, however, and he was trying his best to hold it together. He felt like an animal caged, pacing side to side along the perimeter, with the door cracked; he was just waiting for the right moment to pounce and seek release. Flynn steeled himself though, and made his final call, a recommendation from Robbie. He needed someone who could crack a safe, any safe, especially considering the safe he was adamant to get into was more than likely the most complicated he’d ever encountered. Flynn was sure this was the person for the job and, for that reason, he had to ensure he pulled out all the stops.

Along with fingers that grabbed with ease and charisma to outshine all others, Flynn had the innate ability to find anyone. A week before the heist, he found his target and trailed the slim figure down a busy street. He was sure to keep his distance and blend into the crowd, pausing every so often with pretend admiration for the day or interest in a shop. Eventually, his target slid into a seat at a recently abandoned table outside a cafe. A table for two. Flynn knew he’d been spotted. He admitted defeat by sliding into the chair across from his target, leaning back from the wrought-iron table to get a better look.

Black hair slicked into a bun, features sharp enough to deflect any passerby who caught a look at her, and eyes so piercing blue Flynn thought the rumors may be true, that she may be able to see right through him as he did any impenetrable object. Amalie Fitzharlin, the best in the business in all things entry. Buildings, safes, possibly human souls, Amalie could crack into anything and get to its center. She was known for being perceptive, calculated, and to Flynn’s dismay, extremely impersonable.

“Amalie,” Flynn began.

The critical woman raised an entirely too perfect eyebrow.

“I’m Flynn Cintalin, nice to make your acquaintance,” he extended a hand that stayed in the air for far too long before he finally dropped it to the table.

“I know who you are,” she replied.

“You flatter me,” Flynn winked, but second-guessed his approach upon her silence.

Amalie crossed her slender arms, all angles and pointy bones, like a porcupine flexing its quills.

Flynn cleared his throat.

“Well-,” he began, but Amalie cut him off.

“Forty percent or I walk,” she said simply.

Flynn wasn’t startled often, but at this he balked. He waited for clarification or at least a repeat of what Amalie said, but it seemed she was not a woman who repeated herself.

“You haven’t even heard the deal,” Flynn was perplexed.

Amalie rolled her eyes, a rare show of human emotion for her according to what Flynn had heard.

“You men are all the same. You’re so confident, so assured you’re the smartest in the room, meanwhile your fly’s down and no one’s bothered to tell you,” Amalie said with the slightest tilt of her mouth.

Flynn couldn’t help himself, he looked to make sure his fly was up, and heard a small laugh in response to his literal application of her metaphor. He knew he was losing this encounter, as he saw all encounters as a competition, and he was aware enough to know this was not going in his favor. Even though she knew about the plan, he still took the time to recount it. The entire time, Amalie sat with an expression of appraisal on her face. When he finished, Flynn waited for her to respond once more.

She only repeated herself, “Forty percent or I walk.”

With nothing left to say and his charisma bowing to desperation as the itch took over his mind, Flynn nodded in agreement. The woman tapped the empty coffee mug, left by the prior table occupant, toward him, stood from the table with a nod, and walked away. Flynn watched her leave, jaw slackened with how horribly he’d held up under the pressure of her, with her stare to cut diamonds, and peered into the mug before him. Inside the mug, wet with the remnants of a drink not quite finished, was a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Flynn used a fork to fish it out and smiled a small, wry smile. The heist was on.

Over the next week, Flynn made contact with his crew. He watched the house some more, the itch growing more crazed in his mind. He needed this heist to go off without a hitch. He needed whatever was going to be found in that safe, but he had to time it right. Flynn knew if he acted too early, the safe could be empty. He needed surveillance. That was the first step of the plan.

Dressed by Tracy to appear as the locksmith the new homeowners hired, Robbie headed inside the house to install cameras imperceptible to the human eye. The costume was almost unnecessary, as prior to this, Robbie had hacked into the homeowner and locksmith’s computers, changing the dates in the homeowner’s calendar so that it appeared the locksmith was coming the following day and marking the appointment as completed on the locksmith’s end. The homeowners were unable to meet Robbie, apparently busy with whatever made them enough money to afford the house, making it all the easier to do what he needed. When he was done, he fired off a text to Flynn to confirm his success.

Flynn now had eyes within the house and access to all exterior doors. It was almost too easy, he had to laugh. Next, he met up with Tracy for a fitting. Amalie was there as well, listening to Tracy’s continued chatter without a flicker of annoyance on her face, but also with little comment. Flynn had heard the woman was as heard to crack as the safes she penetrated, but he still felt the burn of his charisma’s failure each time he looked at her. He wanted to win her over, but he tried his best not to let that take precedent over the job at hand. At the end of the session, Tracy left with a promise of costumes and prosthetics in two days time. Amalie left with a stiff nod.

Over the next two days, when Flynn wasn’t pouring over his plans, he was dreaming both awake and asleep, of what could be in the safe. He saw stacks of gold bars, sometimes walls filled with weaponry, or even cases of jewelry or rare artwork. Flynn wanted it so badly he became the need to take as much as he felt it. He watched the camera feed on his phone like a religious practice, waiting to show what was about to be his.

The night after receiving his package from Tracy, Flynn saw it. Multiple large crates were wheeled into the room-sized safe. The few movers retreated and hours later, Flynn was notified of movement. He clicked open the camera feed once more and watched as a slender man wearing scrubs walked into the safe. It must be the new owner of the house, clearly a doctor of status and wealth, checking in on his most prized possessions. Flynn could wait no longer. He was zealous with the need to take at the sight of this man and his locked away riches.

The next Flynn found himself looking in a mirror, a mustached, squashed nosed mover staring back at him, he was jittery with excitement. He made his way to the house, blending in with the people preparing the house. There were electricians making final touches on lighting, movers pulling truckloads of expensive furniture, and interior decorators were running around with clipboards and self-important looks. Amalie was easily able to blend in with these women. She passed by him in a floral dress shirt and slacks, her hair masked with a short blonde wig and her piercing blue eyes disguised with warm, brown contacts. She passed by Flynn without the slightest look of recognition. She was too good at her job to give away anything as simple as that.

Everything going according to plan, Flynn found himself in the basement hours later and the house silent, everyone gone for the day. Suddenly, Amalie appeared, silent and swift as an animal on the prowl. Flynn jumped with surprise, but was only given a curt nod before she pulled a kit from her purse and got to work. Flynn paced as Amalie worked and soon, he heard the hiss of air releasing and turned to see the larger than life door begin to swing open. Amalie turned with grace and smiled, a small, but contained grin.

“Voila,” she said.

Amalie pushed the door open further and Flynn followed her in. He’d made it about two steps inside when he ran flat into Amalie’s stiff back. He didn’t care why she’d stopped, he plowed forward, the itch practically hives across his mind. It only took a few seconds, however, for Flynn to realize why Amalie’s shoulders had hiked and her feet glued to the ground. The room was not full of treasures. It was filled with horrors.

In acrylic cages along one wall, air holes drilled into them, bodies in various forms of butchery were laid with tubes attached to whatever appendages were left. They were all apparently still alive, but heavily sedated. The wall directly in front of them showcased tools and medical supplies, all glinting menacingly at Flynn and Amalie. The center of the room held an operation table, trays of supplies ordered neatly beside it. And, to the wall opposite the cages, were industrial freezers. Flynn couldn’t help himself, he walked around the room with his mouth frozen open in terror. He opened a freezer and stifled a scream. Wrapped in plastic, were shelves of severed body parts. The owner of this house was a doctor surely, during the day, but at night he was using his skills for a far more profitable business.

Flynn staggered back and turned to Amalie, who was still frozen to the spot. Her cool demeanor was cracked and her face was stricken with raw fear. At a loss for words he whipped his head around and felt trapped. He was no longer the predator, he was the prey. He was no longer stalking the cage, aware all the time he had a way out, but cowering in the corner and looking for an escape route.

Before Flynn could do or say anything, Amalie spoke in a quivering voice.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” and sprinted from the room, not caring to grab the case of tools she’d left on the ground outside the safe.

Flynn took a step forward, to follow after Amalie, but hesitated as he looked at the victims trapped here. He was never a charitable person. He never gave, he took. He was a taker, but so was this man. This man, however, took far worse things than Flynn ever could. Flynn felt a desperate need to take, but in an effort to for good this time and knew, somehow, that this would be his last time taking. The itch was gone now, balmed with reality he was now in.

He ran to the wall, searching for a way to release those who had enough of themselves left to escape. He found a woman missing one arm from the elbow down, but otherwise unharmed and with the ability to run if he would break her free and awaken her. Flynn was scrambling. He ran to grab tools from the wall to hack at the enclosure. His heart pounded and he knew he should, but he couldn’t admit defeat. Then he heard a squeal that sounded like the welcoming of death itself.

Flynn turned and, eyes bulged in panic, watched as the door swung shut and clicked closed. Locked. He was locked in the safe. A voice crackled to life over a speaker Flynn couldn’t locate. He spun in slow circles, the feeling of dread settling heavy in his bones at the sound.

“Eat or be eaten,” the wiry voice croaked with a laugh.

Flynn gulped. He was playing in someone else’s game now.

He thought, take or be taken. And this time he wasn’t the one doing the taking.