July 9th, 2002

The night was cool as the moon shined down on Hollywood Hills, California.  A young woman stepped out of a cab at the southeast corner of 5th and Tyson, just 4 blocks from a luxurious community, and handed the driver the fare.  She was tall and slender, with smooth brown skin and a short black haircut.  Her black skinny jeans stretched perfectly over her long legs and curvy hips.  As she walked she pulled the large hood of her black jacket over her head so that it cast a shadow over her face.  Despite the hour, big black sunglass rested on the bridge of her nose.  The heels of her black ankle boots tapped lightly on the ground as she walked down the empty sidewalk.

She continued walking until she was a block away from a guarded and gated community.  She reached into her back pocket and took out a pair of latex gloves, slipping them over her manicured hands.  She walked toward the guard with her head down, keeping her face out of the view of the security cameras.  As she’d observed many times before, the door to the un-air conditioned room was wide open. 

A man of about 60 sat in a security uniform watching the 11 o clock news on a little black and white television that sat on the left corner of his desk.  On the other side was a small fan, spinning rhythmically, blowing around the stale air.  She eyed the old man, his back turned to her and his head occasionally bobbing forward until he bounced awake.  She slipped in quickly and quietly and before he even had the chance to turn around she delivered a strong blow to his temple.  The man slumped forward, without a sound, completely knocked out.

As the security guard lay unconscious in his chair, she patted him down, taking a pair of handcuffs and his handgun.  She continued to search the area for anything else she might find useful and found another pair of handcuffs with keys and a taser in a drawer under the window. After slipping these things in her black messenger bag, she glanced around the small space, looking for any tracks or clues she may have left behind.  Once she was satisfied that she was clear, she stepped out with her back to the cameras.

If her calculations were correct, one of the two security cars that patrolled the area would be passing by any minute.  Every action had to be timed perfectly.  She wasn’t nervous at all.  She’d prepared for weeks and had a backup plan for almost every action.  The excitement made her sort of giddy.

She walked briskly up the street and around the corner.  The house she was headed for was all the way at the end of the street and she had to get there without being seen.  The neighborhood was perfectly quiet and dimly lit, the residents craving privacy. 

The house at the end of the street was exceptionally large and sat on ten acres of land.  There was a large cement wall exactly ten feet high that surrounded the entire property.  She found her tree, the tree she’d scoped out several times, and climbed it with ease. She slid down the branch that extended over into the yard, beyond the wall and hit the grass with a soft thud.  The next step of her plan was to get into the garage, but when she tried the side door it was locked.

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath.  She hadn’t planned on this to happen.  She’s watched the house for weeks and the inhabitants always kept the door unlocked. If she tried to pick the lock, the alarm might sound.  There was barely any time to implement her backup plan. Suddenly, two dogs began barking from behind a large iron fence.  The barking went on until she heard someone unlocking the door from the inside.  She pointed the gun at the door as it opened, her heart thumping loudly in her ears.

“What the hell—?”

“Say another word and I’ll kill you.  Understand?”  The man standing in front of her nodded nervously.  He was short with dark hair, and of course, she expected him to be there.  She identified him as Trace Ayala, Justin Timberlake’s best friend.

The gun was still pointing at him, and he didn’t move.  “Where’s Justin?”

“Wh-what do you want with him?”

“Turn around.”  Trace hesitated for a moment before obeying.  She left the gun in her left hand as she lowered her right hand into her bag to find the handcuffs.  She quickly put them on him and pushed him forward.  “Go back in the garage.”  Trace did as he was told and she followed, closing the door behind her.  He didn’t dare so much as breathe as she pressed the barrel of the gun into the nape of his neck. 

She reached into her shirt and took out a syringe, but before Trace had a chance to say anything she jammed it into his neck and released the highly concentrated propofol.  Within seconds Trace collapsed on the ground.

She heard steps coming toward the door into the house.  She pointed the gun at it as it opened, stretching a grin across her face.

“Justin Timberlake, what a pleasure it is seeing you again.”

Justin swallowed hard then glanced down and saw Trace passed out on the ground.  He stared speechless at the unfamiliar face, his heart racing in fear.  “I don’t….what...  Please don’t.”  Justin entered a state of panic, his blue eyes bulging wide.  “Do you want money?  Wh-what do you want?  Take anything!! Please.”

The woman just smiled brightly at him, still pointing the gun directly into his face.  He wanted to run but his feet wouldn’t move, so he just stood there as she approached him, chest rising and falling rapidly.  “What did you do to him?!”

“He’s fine,” she said firmly as she stepped closer to him.  When she was inches from him she pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple.  With her free hand, she removed the sunglasses from her face and placed them into her bag, taking out the other pair of cuffs.  She shoved him toward a wall and turned him forcefully, slapping the cuffs around his wrists behind his back.

“Listen to me carefully because I will not repeat myself.  If you run, I will kill you.  If you scream I will kill you.  Follow my instructions and you and Trace will live…for now.”

Justin nodded, unable to speak.

“Where’s your cell phone?” she asked him quickly.

“What?”  Justin asked, confused.

“I told you I wouldn’t repeat myself!  Last time, where is your fucking cell phone?”  She said it very slowly this time, hoping that he’d get it.

“M-my back pocket.”  She kept him turned around, feeling into his pocket until she found the phone.  “Good boy.  Now where are the keys to this truck?”  She tilted her head toward the silver Cadillac pick-up. 

“Inside,” he breathed.

“Take me to them.”  Justin led her inside his large beautiful home toward the kitchen.  The keys to the truck were on the marble counter, next to a empty beer bottle.  After grabbing them she pointed the gun at him all the way back to the garage.  Soon enough she injected him with propofol as well, and he slumped over onto the floor.

She used the keys to open up the back door of the truck and after a little struggle, the two men were lying across the back seat, completely unconscious.  She pulled out two scarves and a roll of tape out of her bag.  Though they wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon, she taped their mouths and blind folded them anyway.

With the distractions out of her way, she could search the house for things she needed.  She went up to the bedroom and ripped open the closet.  She had two large garbage bags and filled them with as much clothes as she could fit in them.  Once they were full she dragged them downstairs, picking up a few items here and there on the way back to the truck.

She had to move quickly.  She had already been in the house for ten minutes and she had to be out of the community before she security guard came to.

She hopped in the front seat of the truck and started it up.  The heavily tinted windows would definitely work in her favor.  It took her a minute to figure out which button opened the garage door and which one opened the front gate.  She slipped her sunglasses back onto her face and drove out of the garage, confident that she left the house in good condition.  She sped out of the neighborhood as fast as she could and onto the highway, never looking back.