Page 93 of The Picasso Heist

I’M TRAPPED IN a car with a bunch of human brick walls.

Everything I say bounces off them. They don’t take the bait, not once. I try over and over to get one of these goons to tell me where we’re heading, and each time I’m met with silence. Nothing works. Logic, sympathy, deadpan humor—I exhaust all angles.

Well, almost all.

The angle I avoid, the arrow that stays in my quiver, is the outright reminder. Four words: We’re not alone, guys.

I don’t use it because they already know my brother’s in the trail car, and for some damn reason they don’t seem to give a crap.

If I had to guess, I’d say these guys are just putting too much faith in their elementary math skills.

There’re three of them and only one Skip.

Three is greater than one. Easy-peasy, right?

I hate to break it to them, but they’re on the wrong side of that equation.

Or so I keep telling myself.

The Escalade speeds up, merges onto the West Side Highway, and zigzags through traffic, and that voice in my head sounds a little less confident. These brick walls know something that I don’t, and that’s the very definition of leverage.

I turn to look out the back, checking to see where Skip is in my Jeep, and they don’t try to stop me. I’m free to gaze all I want. The less they care, the more worried I get.

My instincts kick in. Test the boundaries, push the envelope, find the ceiling. I reach for my phone. Not quickly, just casually.

Ceiling found. No sooner does my phone appear from my pocket than it gets ripped out of my hand.

I expect it to be tossed out the window, since that’s what would happen in the movies, but life rarely imitates art.

Goon number 1 simply holds on to my phone, but he utters something for the first time in the car.

It’s not a word; it’s a sound. A satisfied grunt.

No matter. As long as the phone stays in the car, Skip can track us. But as I look at the dash and see our speed topping eighty, the question becomes whether he can keep up with us.

Hell and Fury behind the wheel is fearless—or maybe just flat-out crazy.

With every lane change, every swerve, he’s mere inches from clipping the bumper of another car.

I’m holding on to the seat so hard, my fingernails are about to tear into the leather.

Forget about where they’re taking me; I just hope we get there in one piece.

Be careful what you wish for.

We take the next exit off the highway. We’re no longer going eighty but my mind’s still racing.

After a few turns, I know our destination even though we’re not there yet—it’s the last of the undeveloped land in downtown Manhattan, a block-long stretch of vacant lots and abandoned warehouses just above the financial district.

I turn to look again over my shoulder, desperate to find Skip. I can’t see him. Or—wait, maybe that’s him. I don’t know, I can’t tell. Way, way back… that looks like my Jeep. Sort of.

The Escalade swerves again, then turns, and I whip my head back around to see what’s happening.

We’re pulling in between two warehouses on a potholed stretch of pavement only about twenty feet wide.

I immediately get a bad feeling. We’re hidden, out of sight.

The feeling only gets worse when I spot the Lincoln Town Car parked up ahead, its engine running.

The Escalade slows to a stop alongside the Town Car. I look over, but the windows are tinted; I can’t see inside.

At first, no one does anything. It’s as if they’re waiting on something.

Then all at once, doors begin to open and I’m getting dragged out. It’s so fast, there’s no time to scream.

Still, nothing’s happening with the Town Car next to us. The doors are closed, windows up, engine idling. Then I see it. The trunk pops; the lid rises. It’s like a giant shark opening its jaws, ready to swallow me whole.

Now I’m screaming, but not for long. This has all been planned out.

Duct tape gets slapped over my mouth, silencing me.

All I can do now is kick and squirm, but I’m no match for Nikolov’s goons.

They hoist me up and into the trunk like I’m a feather.

My arms are yanked behind my back and I’m hit with more duct tape—wrists, then ankles.

So much for pulling the emergency latch.

Slam! The trunk goes black. Whatever’s about to happen next, I’m not meant to see it.

But apparently someone else is.