Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(3)
Until the man in front produces a hunting knife from somewhere out of view and grabs hold of the rope. The knife must be the size of my forearm, and if it’s as sharp as it looks, it will cut through that rope in no time flat. Panic rises like bile in the back of my throat; my mother is still too far from the ground.
I can almost reach out and touch her when suddenly the rope slackens and gravity pulls her down with a thud. I rush to her side, but by the time I get there, she’s already pushing to her feet. As soon as she has boots flat on terra firma, she grabs my wrist again, and we take off for the van, for safety. It feels a million miles away instead of just a few hundred yards.
Somewhere behind us, a man yells in French, and I wish for a brief moment I had listened to my mother when she advised me to learn more than just the basics of the language before we came to the country. I didn’t see the need before, but now? Now I do. I hope it’s just a security guard chasing us, but I’m too scared to look. I sprint behind my mother and pray it’s not the police or anyone who might be able to shoot us in the back.
When I don’t take a bullet, it’s probably safe to assume the guy is unarmed security and not armed-to-the-teeth criminal.
We veer away from each other in unison, parting to round the van on our respective sides. My mother is in her seat and starting the ignition before I even have my door closed, and we’re speeding away from the museum before I’m even belted in.
Now that we’re putting distance between them and us, I breathe deeply, attempt to catch my ragged breath, then turn to look behind us for any sign someone might still be in pursuit. The lot behind us is dark and empty; we seem to be in the clear. Until a gunmetal-gray sports car fishtails into view from behind the building, kicking up gravel and a cloud of dirt as it speeds toward us.
At the exit, one lone guard is standing in front of the levered bar that serves as a gate. His grip is tight on a radio clipped to his shoulder, and he’s talking into it. But he’s not calling for backup. Luc is with us, a plant. Whatever he’s saying through his radio is a diversion at best.
My mother’s face is a mask of fierce determination, and I silently will Luc to get out of the way. Sure, he has to put on a good show for the cameras outside the gatehouse, but my stomach is a knot of worry that we’ll end up driving right over him. At the last moment, he jerks back inside the guardhouse. I’ve had eyes locked on him since I spotted him, and I can’t tear them away as we pass. I’ve never noticed how young he is, barely into his twenties. I spin in my seat to watch him through the back window. The car behind us pulls up next to him. He bends to speak to the driver, but a heartbeat later, gore and blood spray into the air around him.
He stumbles back, grabbing at his chest, then falls to his knees. The driver reaches one arm out his window to press a gun to Luc’s face. I know what’s coming, but I still jump when the kill shot comes. I turn straight in my seat and cover my eyes, as if that can erase what I’ve just seen. Nothing can erase it. Helping us just cost Luc his life.
“Hold on,” my mother says before the van veers left onto a side road. The vehicle rocks as she pulls the wheel sharply and throws it into reverse. The back corner scrapes a wall, and the sharp sound of metal on stone stings my eardrums, but it doesn’t faze Mom. Her concentration is static and immutable while she backs us into an alley, effectively tucking us into the shadows. She puts the van in park, shuts off the lights, and waits.
Barely a moment later, the same gray sports car speeds by the entrance of the alley. My mother is over her seat and into the back of the van in record time. Meanwhile, I hold my armrest in a white-knuckled death grip, every muscle in my body mirroring the tension in my hands, the tension in the pit of my stomach. If I relax, I will collapse into a quivering puddle of fear in my seat.
She places a hand over mine, and I drudge up the nerve to take my gaze off the road in front of us and look her in the eyes. “I know you’re scared, Mari. I do, truly.” Her Spanish accent is thicker than usual, the only outward sign that she’s as frazzled by this as I am. “But it’s time to go now. I have other transportation not far away.” Tires screech, and an engine revs. They’re coming back for us.
I shake my head vigorously.
No.
What happens if they find us on the road like they did Luc? We won’t stand a chance out in the open. There’s still time for her to get back into the driver’s seat and get us the heck out of here.
My mother grips my chin to stop the movement. “Marisol, you cannot break down right now. The only way we’re going to get out of this is by being strong and remaining calm.” She’s right. I know she is, but it still takes me a moment to compose myself. I’m still not quite solid when the sports car appears again, this time stopping in front of the alley, not more than thirty feet in front of our car.
They’ve found us.
My stomach takes up residence in my throat, even as I vault into the back with her. She’s already at the back door with one palm on the handle. The other holds a solid black bag stuffed to the stitching with supplies. The matching pack, equally stuffed, is already on her back.
I watch the passenger door of the sports car open at the same time my mom throws the back door of our van wide and jumps down. I don’t get a look at whoever is climbing out of the car before climbing down after my mom, and I don’t care to. With the van taking up the whole width of the alley, we might just be able to make our escape.