And lay your body down

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𝔸𝕊 they drove late at night through a remote area surrounded by dense trees, the driver suddenly spoke, catching everyone's attention, "What the fuck?" They approached a metal gate that opened as they neared it. Annabelle instinctively held Gabriel's hand as they drove through the gate and up to a large house. A striking stag statue stood in the middle of the pathway.

They all climbed out of the vehicle, and Annabelle saw Lambert standing by the entrance of the house. His expression shifted to one of shock and surprise when he saw Annabelle. She walked towards the house, with the big guy carrying Gabriel over his shoulder.

"Hello," he greeted Lambert, while the driver chimed in, "What's up, boss?" before heading inside.

Once inside, Annabelle looked around, marveling at the beautiful yet antiquated living room. "This place is pretty sweet," the driver commented, taking in the surroundings.

The woman responded with a touch of skepticism, "You like this?"

"Yeah, look at all this cool shit," the driver replied, clearly impressed.

Lambert interrupted their chatter, giving instructions with authority. "Find a room and get the boy situated. Set up a lookout position. Meet back here at five."

With that, Annabelle and the man carrying Gabriel entered a room that felt eerily familiar to her. They placed Gabriel gently on the bed. The big guy cuffed Gabriel's wrists behind his back and chained him securely before leaving the room, leaving Annabelle alone with the unconscious man.

She lifted Gabriel's head gently and moved a pillow closer to him to make him more comfortable. Running her fingers through his brown hair, she whispered softly, "Who are you?" She gazed at him for a moment, her mind swirling with questions. Finally, she left the room, closing the door gently behind her, and made her way to the living room where the others were gathered.

The group stood around, looking at Lambert, who was positioned on the stairs. He addressed them, "For those of you who don't know, I go by Lambert. You all came highly recommended. And so far, those recommendations are paying off. You know the rules: no real names, no backstories, and keep the grab-ass to a minimum. It's a 24-hour job, and the hard part is already over. Now you babysit. But the only one who sees the boy is this one." He pointed at Annabelle. "So he only hears one voice. The rest of you... get comfortable. Questions?"

Annabelle spoke up, "Yeah. Who's the guy?"

Lambert replied, "You don't need to know his name."

Annabelle pressed further, "Okay, then, whose son is he?"

The man with the glasses interjected, "The fuck's that matter to you?"

Annabelle shot him the middle finger without looking before Lambert continued, "A very wealthy man who's about to be $50 million poorer. Look, you're safe here. And to be completely certain that you can't be tracked, I'm going to collect your cell phones."

"Nobody's tracking me," the driver insisted defiantly.

"We're not taking any chances. Give 'em over," the man with the glasses retorted, holding up his phone.

Lambert walked around with a bag, his demeanor authoritative. "In the bag," he commanded.

The driver grumbled as he dropped his phone in, "Bullshit, man."

Lambert approached a blonde woman who was busy texting. "One second. I just gotta send this real quick," she said, fingers flying over the screen. Lambert reached out and grabbed her phone. She clung to it, trying to press the send button. "Thank you. Just..." she started, but Lambert snatched it out of her hand and dropped it into the bag. "Just... okay," she relented, smiling sheepishly.

Lambert moved to the big guy, who handed over his phone without protest. "Thank you," Lambert said, then walked to Annabelle. She placed her phone in the bag without a word.

Once Lambert collected all the phones, he addressed the group while walking past them, "Keep the doors locked and the boy isolated. Anything else I can do for you before I leave you to it?"

The big guy spoke up, "Uh, how come we can't use our real names?"

The guy with the glasses answered, "So if any of you fucks get caught, you can't rat out the others."

Lambert sighed, then started pointing at each person. "You want names? Fine." He pointed at the guy with glasses, "Frank." Then at the driver, "Dean." Next, the blonde woman, "Sammy." Then to the big guy, "Peter." Finally, he pointed at Annabelle and paused for a moment.

He spoke up, "Odette."

Lambert nodded and was about to continue when another man cut in, "Damn. The man got his finger on the pulse of pop culture." Lambert shot back, "And you're Don fucking Rickles. You happy?" The man, now identified as Don, replied, "Not really." Dean, the driver, looked confused. "Who the fuck is Don Rickles, man?"

Lambert ignored the outburst and spoke, his annoyance barely concealed, "There's clean bedding and lit fires in the rooms. Kitchen's fully stocked, so is the bar. See you in 24 hours, my lovely pack of rats." He smiled, catching a glance from Annabelle before leaving the house and closing the door behind him.

Peter looked puzzled and spoke up, "Rats? Why'd he... How come he called us rats?"

Annabelle shrugged her shoulders, her thoughts drifting to Gabriel and the many questions she had about him. A few moments later, the group gathered in the bar area. Annabelle settled into an armchair while Frank fiddled with the radio. Dean rode around on a small bike, ringing its bell. "Man, this place is dope, right?"

"No. No, it's not," Sammy replied from her seat at the bar.

"Come have a drink with us, Odette," Don called out.

Annabelle smiled. "It's okay, I have to check on the dancer soon. Maybe after."

Dean rode his bike over to her, still ringing the bell. "No party poopers allowed, anyway."

Peter, standing behind the bar, chimed in, "Hey, who do you guys think this guy's father is?"

"Hmm, some tech billionaire," Sammy speculated.

"Nah. Probably real estate," Frank countered.

Don shook his head. "Nah, you don't get a house like that without being into some serious shit. Weapons, drugs... human trafficking." Annabelle glanced at him, then returned to the book she was reading. Dean rode up to her again and asked, "What about you, Odette? Who do you think he is?" Without looking up from her book, Annabelle answered, "America's dad. Tom Hanks." She looked up and smiled at Dean. Dean laughed sarcastically, "Ha, ha." He peered at her book. "Let's see that book." Annabelle held the book close to her chest. "Get your own book."

"Fuck you, too," Dean muttered as he rode off. He then called back, "You grew up with a bunch of brothers and sisters, huh? I'm like an expert at reading people."

"Oh really?" Annabelle asked sarcastically, looking up at Dean.

"Mm-hmm," he responded confidently. "You're like a nanny or a lover, looking after that guy."

Annabelle chuckled under her breath as Dean faced the group. He looked at Frank and said, "Your man here is the bagman for that dude who let us in the door." Turning to Don, he continued, "Lookout/private security." Next, he turned to Peter, "Explosives man in the back." Finally, he addressed Sammy, "And a little teenage runaway hacker turned black hat for the feds."

Annabelle spoke up, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "Wow. It's like you can read through me." She paused, then added, "You might be the least perceptive person I've ever met." She chuckled and returned to her book.

"How the fuck would you know that?" Dean retorted, clearly annoyed.

Annabelle sighed, irritated that she couldn't finish her book. She closed it and placed it on her lap. "You literally got nothing right. About anyone."

Frank walked up to Annabelle, pulling out a dollar. Dean pointed at Sammy, "Pretty sure she ran away from home." Frank placed the dollar on the pool table. "Crisp $100 bill, you can tell me one true thing about me." Annabelle glanced at the dollar, then at the fireplace next to her. "Pass."

"Told y'all she ain't know shit," Dean said smugly.

Annabelle put her book down on the chair, got up, and walked over to Frank. "You used to be a cop." She took the dollar as Sammy asked, "Did he arrest you or something?"

"No," Annabelle replied, putting the dollar in her back pocket. "It's the stance. The walk. The shoes. Not to mention that standard-issue Glock, the shoulder holster, and he used police hand signals back at the house. Not a street cop. No. Too smart. You need to be in control. So I'm gonna say detective. Homicide or vice. And he tries to hide it, but he's from Queens. Probably only been up here a few years."

The room fell silent as everyone processed her accurate assessment. Frank gave a grudging nod, acknowledging her perceptiveness. Dean looked a bit deflated, realizing he'd underestimated her. Peter looked at her as he started clapping at her. 

"Hey, uh, you do me, too?" Peter asked, taking out a dollar. "Right here." He placed it on the bar table.

Annabelle smiled, looking down for a moment before stepping up and taking the dollar. "I almost feel bad taking this... 'cause you've basically got a fucking neon sign over your head that reads 'muscle.'" Peter grinned and flexed his chest, but Annabelle continued, "Quebec, right? You got bullied in school? Probably by Dad, too. So when you got bigger than everyone else, you turned the tables. Made it into a career." She smiled as Peter's smile faded. He fist-bumped her, acknowledging her accuracy. Sammy took out a $20 bill, fanning it, and asked, "How much will this get me?"

Annabelle smiled. "Wow, really? A 20? That's cheap, considering you come from money."

Sammy nodded, smiling. "It's true."

Annabelle went on, "Which means you're only in this for the kicks. You don't get your hands dirty. You use a keyboard instead of a gun and tell yourself that makes what you do not as bad. Good luck when the illusion wears off." She walked off, leaving Sammy impressed and smiling. "Very good."

Don chuckled as Annabelle approached him. "No cash," he said, smirking as he looked her up and down. Annabelle nodded. "Mm. Then I'll just leave it at 'semper fi.'" She walked away before Dean spoke up. "Hold on, now, you forgot about me." He pulled out a dollar. Annabelle cut him off, "You don't want me to do you." She smiled.

"What do you mean? This is fun," Dean insisted.

Annabelle sighed, then spoke, "You're not a professional."

Dean bristled. "I'm the best motherfucking wheelman in this town." "I didn't say you weren't good. I said you're not a professional. You've got... loose wiring. Probably a sociopath." Annabelle smiled before walking off, but she was stopped in her tracks by Frank. "And your sister is a junkie," he said, making her halt and turn to face him. He continued, stepping closer, "That's why you're in this gig, trying to get the money to help her. I'm assuming she overdosed. You dropped out of school—Ballet school, no less—to help her out."

Frank towered over her, removing his glasses and speaking in a warning tone, "Don't ever fuck with me."

Annabelle looked up at him calmly before replying, "Wouldn't dream of it. I'm gonna check on the guy." With that, she walked off, leaving Frank to watch her retreating figure.

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By: SilverMist707

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