Page 91 of The Picasso Heist

I THINK I read this in a Malcolm Gladwell book. No, wait. On second thought, it might have been a fortune cookie.

Routine can be the secret of life… or the kiss of death.

“Don’t run,” says the first.

“Don’t scream,” says the second.

To make sure I do neither, they both flash their gun-tucked-into-the-belt ensembles before pointing at the black Escalade idling at the curb.

Still, it’s not as if I’d let myself get abducted off the streets of Manhattan without asking a few questions.

“What the hell’s going on?” I say. Yeah, that seems pretty spot-on.

Of course I don’t get a straight answer. “Somebody wants to talk to you,” says the first guy.

“Who?” I ask.

“Just get in the damn car,” says the second guy. “Or we can help you get in, if you’d like.”

And that’s that. The story of how I’m going for a ride.

Just like Anton Nikolov told me it would happen. His guys, his plan.

I don’t say much in the car. Neither does anyone else.

The driver has two earrings in each ear and knuckle tattoos that spell out hell on the left hand and fury on the right.

I’m not sure which one delivers the harder punch, hell or fury, but considering the driver’s hulking frame and how the top of his head is scraping the roof of the Escalade, it’s a safe bet that those who have tried to find out over the years immediately regretted it.

He misses the turnoff for the Manhattan Bridge.

I clear my throat. No one notices. I clear my throat again, louder. They all notice but no one says anything. We’re heading farther south, toward the financial district instead of over to New Jersey. Shit. Never have I been so upset about not going to Newark.

I need to say something, except I can’t.

But I have to.

Which leaves me no choice. Everyone in the car is supposed to know I’m wearing a wire. What the hell.

I start yelling, “What are you doing? Stop! Get your hands off me!”

No one has their hands on me. No one’s doing a thing beyond staring at the crazy girl in the middle seat reaching up under her own sweatshirt. I rip the tape from my skin, detaching the wire. Here goes nothing.

“What the hell, guys? What are we doing?”

The driver tightens his grip on the wheel, flexing his hell and fury, before saying in a Bulgarian accent, “Change of plans.”