Page 102 of Sticky Fingers

Chapter Thirty-Five

Malcolm

What the fuckis going on?

No, seriously.

What the fuck is going on?

When Sonia asked me to gather everyone here, I had no idea what she was planning, but I sure as hell didn’t figure it would involve something as drastic as smoke grenades. More than that, the whole place is dark, and it’ll take at least thirty seconds before the emergency generators kick in.

I blink, trying to see past all the smoke, and that’s when I hear the fire alarm go off.

Jesus, what the fuck is she thinking?

If she sets the alarm off, it’s very likely that the sprinklers will be triggered, which means that both everyone and the paintings will be drenched in no time. Well, shit, at least there’s a built-in safeguard against that. In an emergency, the paintings will recede into a partition inside the wall, protecting them from all the water.

And, as the smoke starts to clear, that’s exactly what I see happening.

By the time the sprinklers start spitting water everywhere, most paintings are already hiding inside the walls. One by one, they slide back into their hiding compartments, millions of dollars trying to protect themselves from all the water and a supposed fire.

Narrowing my eyes, I try to do the impossible and spot Sonia. I can’t, of course—she’s being doing this for a very long time, and there’s no way I’ll spot her if she doesn’t want to be seen.

“What the…?”

I turn on my heels as I hear a slight but repetitive noise right behind me.

Like something bumping against the wall.

Holding my breath, and with one hand in front of my face to shield myself from the smoke, I take a few steps towards the end of the gallery.

“No fucking way,” I whisper under my breath, watching as the painting Sonia donated to the gallery to replace the stolen Picasso bumps repeatedly against the wall.

It has too large of a frame, meaning that every time the mechanism tries to pull him inside the wall compartment, the frame bumps against it repeatedly.

Shit!

Did Sonia plan this? But why?

Looking around me, I notice as dozens of Strong’s goons swarm the whole room. They run through the crowd, eyes wide as they try to pin down the culprit. Three of these assholes are staring straight to me, almost as if they were expecting me to do something stupid like pull out a giant Picasso from my suit and put it back on the wall.

Strong wasn’t kidding when he said he wouldn’t give me a free pass on this.

“What the hell is going on, Malcolm?” I hear him growl right behind him, and then I feel the pressure of his fingers as he holds my right arm tight.

“I have no fucking idea” is the only thing I can come up with, my eyes still focused on Sonia’s painting as it keeps bumping against the wall.

Only then do I realize what’s happening.

The painting, the only one not hiding inside the wall, is already drenched. Large beads of water drip down the canvas, washing away the paint to reveal what’s underneath.

“Is this a joke?” Strong asks me.

For the first time in what seems like forever, he isn’t barking a command or growling a threat—he seems as surprised as I am.

“If this is a joke…” I mutter, not taking my eyes away from the painting, “it’s a pretty great one.”

“No way,” Strong whispers, easing his grip on my arm. “Are you telling me that—?”