The Instructor said. “Our job is to figure out how to do it.” His new name was Roddy “Whiteboy” Simmons. Hammett had broken into his home seven minutes earlier, having picked the deadbolt on his back door and disarmed his burglar alarm with the use of a drill bit, a dental mirror, wire cutters, and a 9-volt battery. Child’s play. But what came next was anything but. She stood in his living room, letting her senses report. The house was dark and quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator coming from the kitchen down the hallway. The scent of lemon wood polish was strong, and there was a lingering odor from the microwave lasagna he’d eaten for dinner several hours ago. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she scanned the room, first for his computer, which was nowhere to be seen, then for the cat. Last Thursday she had gone through the garbage he’d left on his curb and found several empty cans of Friskies. Hammett liked cats, and was curious what kind this one was.
