Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(2)

“I’ve landed,” I tell my mother.

“Good, now you only have sixteen minutes, thirty-two seconds to disarm the case, retrieve the take, and place the decoys. And don’t forget to re-arm the case before you leave…” She can’t help herself.

“I got this.” I grit my teeth against the urge to go on.

“I’m just saying, if the guard notices it’s disarmed when he does his rounds, he’ll put the museum on lockdown before you can get out of there.”

“I know, Mom.” I roll my eyes at the reminder. Like I need it. But her point is valid enough to send a wave of nervous energy over me, waking subtle butterflies in the pit of my stomach.

“All right, do you remember how to disarm the case? You have to start at the sensor, and—” My mother’s voice cuts to muffled noises and is replaced by static. The static is replaced by silence.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Mom!” I call as loudly as I dare and tap my earpiece with my index finger.

Nothing.

I flounder for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. In theory, I know what to do, but everything looks good on paper. Now, I’m not sure our contingency plan—for me to continue on as if communications haven’t been lost—is the right move. Something could be seriously wrong; she could have gotten caught. I consider leaving the jewels behind and making a run for it. But she’s far enough away that the guards shouldn’t have been able to find her, and no alarms or sirens are breaking the silence in the distance. Maybe we just lost contact; maybe some of the equipment malfunctioned or a battery died or something.

I’m a professional.

I will finish the job, then get the heck out of here.

I slip my tools from my pocket and visually inspect the glass case for the tiny sensor. I’m just about to get to work disarming the case when a shadow blocks the light stretching in from the hall. Has the guard returned early? I spin so quickly I almost lose my balance, preparing as I turn to make a run for it, mentally running through my escape route.

The silhouette filling the doorway is small and feminine, barely larger than my small frame, and her stance is familiar. “Mom?”

“Shh, Marisol, we have to get out of here, now. Petrov’s men are here, and they know what we’re doing.” There’s only one name in the world that turns my blood cold. Petrov Rosinsky. The man who killed my father. We were supposed to be well out of his reach in France, but his syndicate has been expanding fast these days. And now we’re working in territory that is no longer ours to work in. “They’ve blocked our frequency and are entering the building right now. They’re preparing to intercept us.” Mom’s at my side and grabbing my tools from my hand before she even finishes speaking. She makes short work of disarming and opening the display case, then grabs as much as she can carry. She shoves it into the cargo pockets of her pants, then fills my own pockets while I stand there dumbly. Clearly, I’m cool as a cucumber under pressure. When the case is empty and our pockets full, she all but drags me back the way I came in.

“How did he know?” It’s a dumb question. He’s head of the most powerful artifact smuggling syndicate east of the Atlantic; of course he knew. He might have figured out we were trying to get this prize before him, but what he can’t know is why. Petrov probably thinks we’re trying to encroach on his territory, but we’re not stupid enough to go head-to-head with someone so powerful—and rumored to be ruthless. We’re here because I begged my mom to leave France, to leave Petrov’s expanded reach, to start over somewhere new with me. Somewhere safe. And this job is supposed to be our meal ticket.

We step up onto the landing of the third floor just as the security alarm goes off. Over the deafening wail, my mother might have called my name, might have directed me to the room with the disarmed window, but it’s hard to tell with my hands over my ears and my vision blurred by red lights flashing at us from multiple directions. I do my best to shut out the light and the noise and follow her.

Between the rounds of flashing lights, I catch movement behind us as we round the doorway at the end of the landing. Two men, dressed head-to-toe in thief black, have just crested the stairs and are quickly gaining ground on us. They shout, but I can’t hear them over the din. My mother sees them, too, and slows just enough to push me in front of her, to place herself between them and me as we race across the room I entered through.

At the window, my mother attaches a grappling hook to the sill and trails a nylon rope out and down the side of the building.

“Vámonos!” Mom pushes me toward it. I don’t bother arguing. Grabbing the rope, I climb out the window, and in seconds, I’m rappelling toward the ground. My mother watches until I’m halfway down before climbing out and rappelling herself.

I barely notice the cold seeping through my thin shoes from the frozen ground when I touch down. I barely notice the frosty air nipping at my exposed skin and chilling even the parts of me that are covered. I’m focused intently on playing lookout, watching the front of the building to be sure no one is coming for us while she’s in such a vulnerable position.

Shouting draws my attention to the open window above. A man, partially obscured by shadow, leans out the window, shaking his fist and yelling obscenities at my mother in French.

A second man eggs him on from the shadowy space behind him. If we weren’t at risk of being caught by guards, the scene would almost be comical.