by Kim Foster
Ethan unwrapped his sandwich. “You know . . . a little of this, a little of that.”
Ryan laughed. “Sounds suspicious. What? Were you a criminal or something?” He laughed even harder.
Ethan smiled but couldn’t bring himself to laugh, much.
“So what are you running from?” Gary asked Ryan.
“What makes you think I’m running from something?”
Gary shrugged. “Most people who end up here are running from something. Something ugly in the past—bad family life, career failure, got fired or quit or whatever. So they end up here. Or places like this.”
Ryan scoffed. “People can’t volunteer out of a sense of the greater good?”
Gary took a bite of his sandwich. “Maybe. But usually there’s something else, too.”
Ethan squinted into the distance and sipped his water, saying nothing. After Paris, after successfully robbing the Louvre together with Cat, he’d stayed in France for a short while, wondering what to do next. The idea of going back to his old life had lost the appeal it once held.
And then, one day while he’d been poking around bookshops in the Latin Quarter, he’d come upon a protest underway. It was a peaceful protest—not an unusual sight for Paris. People were always rallying for some cause or other.
The protest was being run by Global Life. He’d started chatting to one of the canvassers and the next thing he knew, he was signing up and boarding a plane.
So here he was. Building a schoolhouse for orphans in Kenya with his bare hands.
He enjoyed the fieldwork. There was something deeply satisfying about rolling up his sleeves and helping people who were truly in need. It was something he never thought was in him.
Once the break ended and it was back to building, Ethan found himself working side by side with Gary, sawing boards. It was now the full, searing heat of the day, and they sipped water constantly. It felt like it was evaporating straight out of their skin as soon as it went in.
A young woman in shorts and work boots approached their workbench and Ethan looked up from his work. She wore sunglasses, and a golden braid swung down her back. “You boys okay for water?” she asked Ethan with a gleaming smile, holding up two frosty bottles of water.
Ethan squinted into the sun. “We’re good,” he said simply, inclining his head to the full cooler beside them. “Thanks.”
She shrugged. “Okay, just say the word,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “Whatever you need.” She strolled away, gazing at Ethan over her shoulder.
“She’s got a thing for you, dude,” said Gary.
“Not interested.”
The other man stood up straight and laughed. “Ah, there it is.”
“What?”
“The thing you’re running from. The reason you’re here.”
Ethan shook his head dismissively. “Right. Whatever.”
“You got burned, golden boy. I can see it now.”
Ethan ignored him, hoping he’d shut up eventually.
Gary laughed. “Yep, that’s it. Burned by a woman. Shit, she really must have broken your heart.”
Ethan scowled and bent his head to his work. Technically, Cat hadn’t broken Ethan’s heart. She’d just said . . . she needed some time alone. The exact same thing she’d said to Jack. But Ethan would be damned if he was going to sit around and wait for her to make a choice, only to watch her eventually ride off into the sunset with Jack.
No, thank you.
“Well, I hate to tell you, but you’re going to have to come up with a new way of escaping your life, and the girl—whoever she is.”
“I’m not escaping—” Ethan began. Then he straightened and narrowed his eyes at Gary. “Wait, why? What do you mean?”
“Because they’re shutting us down,” Gary said. “What—you hadn’t heard?”
Ethan stared. “Are you serious?”
“Truth,” Gary said. He put down his saw. “Word is, the funding ran out.”
It was a kick in the stomach. “What about the schoolhouse? The villagers? Who’s going to help them?”
Gary shrugged. “It’s the shitty thing about NGOs. If somebody decides to pull the plug, it’s over.”
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. There had to be something he could do. He’d have to find out more. For now, they had boards to finish cutting. They continued working for a while and then Ryan approached their work area. He looked at Ethan. “Jones—you’re wanted in the main office.”
“What about?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. Go see for yourself.”
Ethan put down his saw and walked a dirt path up the dusty hill, toward the camp. A cluster of semipermanent safari tents made a circle around a firepit. Smells of cooking—some kind of rice and bean dish, probably—emanated from the kitchen tent. Dinner wasn’t far off.
The hinged screen door of the office tent creaked when he pulled it open. Ethan’s boots clomped on the plywood floor. Inside the tent was Ethan’s field supervisor, a man in his early forties wearing khakis and a retro graphic Batman T-shirt, with a whiskered, leathery face and deep smile lines.
Ethan’s gaze slid automatically to the man beside him. It was someone Ethan knew on sight, and the last person he expected to see here.
Looking incredibly out of place, in his three-piece suit, sipping a cup of tea, was Templeton.
Chapter Seven
Seattle
I walked along the lawn of Emerald Downs, the horse racetrack, carrying a Starbucks coffee. Over my left shoulder, the rumble of horse hooves thundered on the dirt track. The air shimmered with cheering and hollering from the stands. I wasn’t sure I was up to this—training someone for AB&T—but I was badly in need of some distraction. My mother was still in the hospital and I was powerless to do anything to help her. Indecision over the Lionheart job in Yorkshire sat like an undigested lump in my stomach.
I made my way to the rendezvous point. There, perched at the base of a bronze horse statue, was a young man wearing a San Francisco 49ers jacket. That was the signal. The 49ers were Seattle’s rival; there was little chance anyone else around here would wear such a thing.
He had a small frame and a boyish haircut topping his sweet, innocent face, with ears that stuck out like doorknobs from the sides of his head. In truth, it was an excellent look for a thief. People wouldn’t look twice at him, let alone suspect him of anything.
I sipped my coffee, sized him up for a minute, then walked over. “So you’re the trainee,” I said.
He grinned. “I am. And you’re my teacher.”
I nodded.
We walked to the stands and sat down on a cold aluminum bench. People around us were busy watching the race and scribbling in their betting books. The air smelled of beer and manure and fresh-cut grass.
He introduced himself as Felix Tucker, and we got down to business. “So how did you land in AB&T’s lap?” I asked him.
“My stepfather put my name forward. He thought I’d be good at it. Lock picking is my specialty. But I guess I need some brushing up in other departments, like pickpocketing. Which is why I’m here today, right?”
I nodded. That was the goal. I was to teach him the finer points of pickpocketing. If I could focus, that was. I puffed out my cheeks and glanced at my watch, wondering what Templeton would consider an acceptable time investment. I’d promised him I would do this, but now that I was here my heart really wasn’t in it. Maybe I could get out of this somehow. I could call it off, give Templeton some kind of excuse.
Felix cleared his throat. “Can I say how much of an honor it is, Ms. Montgomery, to have you training me? I’ve heard a lot about you and your work,” he said. “I also heard about the LA job, the Briolette of Kashmir? Nice one, by the sounds of it.”
I smiled a little, in spite of myself. “Call me Cat, okay?”
He nodded. “Anyway, I’m really looking forward to today,” he said. “At AB&T they say you’re one of the best pickpockets they’ve got.”
&
nbsp; I lifted my eyebrows. “They say that?”
Well, that was flattering. I supposed it was one of my more highly developed skills. It was certainly the one I cultivated first. It was how I’d started in this line of work, honing my craft in public places like Pike Place Market.
When I was an enterprising young crook, pickpocketing was the whole job. You’d take a watch, a bracelet, a billfold of cash. Job done. Now, for the high-stakes work, pickpocketing was just part of the skill set. But the value wasn’t to be underestimated—all kinds of information can be gleaned with the expert application of swift fingers. ID. Hotel key card. Paystub with a signature. Lipstick with a set of fingerprints. Jewelry store receipts. Dinner reservations.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” I said. “Let’s see where your skills are at.”
It didn’t take long for me to spot a prime target: a woman in her twenties among the crowd lingering by the bar. She carried too many things—a purse, a drink, a jacket on her arm—and she was distracted on a number of fronts. Not only was she ritually checking her appearance in windows and sundry reflective surfaces, she was also texting obsessively, taking photos with her phone, and repeatedly attempting to capture the attention of her older date—a man who displayed visible wealth in his Patek Philippe watch and his commanding posture.
I described the target to Felix and, keeping my gaze pinned on her, said in a low voice, “She’s got a Louis Vuitton wallet in her purse.” I had seen her remove it while hunting for lip gloss in the purse. “Get it for me.”
He nodded. I sipped my coffee and watched him approach, evaluating his technique.
Not bad, I thought. A little stiff. A trifle too self-conscious. But we could work on that.
He sized up the situation proficiently, taking a few short glances at the target. He kept his eyes flicking, but subtly. Good. And then he allowed a long look when a cheer went up for the winner of the race.
Nicely timed.
He maintained good positioning. He was standing close, but not too close. Within striking distance. With the next major distraction—the start of the next race perhaps—he would go for it. I leaned forward to catch everything.
The woman turned unexpectedly. I nibbled a fingernail. Did she see him?
She did. But her eyes slid right over him. My lips curled in a smile. A forgettable appearance was the advantage I’d spotted on first seeing him.
Watching another thief at work suddenly reminded me of the last thief I’d worked with. Ethan. Of course, he would probably use an entirely different approach here, since his appearance was anything but forgettable. Ridiculously gorgeous and charismatic, Ethan used his looks as an asset, a weapon. He could charm and disarm anything. Men, women, babies, Mafia bosses . . . whoever.
There was more to him than that, though. My mind trailed off, spiraling away on thoughts of Ethan. He was a hero—even though he didn’t know it. He’d saved me more than once. He liked to think of himself as a bad guy. But the truth? Even though he did bad things for a living—like I did—he was one of the good guys. Which probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.
I snapped out of my daydreaming and focused on Felix. He had regrouped, repositioned, and was going for it again.
I gripped the edge of the bench, watching closely, and . . . success. He had it. There had been the barest flash as he’d lifted the wallet, and he’d been a little clumsy in the dismount, but he’d stuck the landing.
He strolled through the crowd, making his way back over to me.
“Good work, Felix,” I said to him casually, not looking at him yet. “Couple of tense moments, but you did it. I’m impressed. We can work to smooth out those rough spots, no problem. I can see why AB&T wanted you.”
I turned to see him grinning like a kid on the last day of school before summer. I let him enjoy it for a moment. And then I said, “Now go put it back.”
His face fell. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
He stared at me for a minute, then dutifully returned to the spot where our poor little victim stood. It’s often trickier to do the return job, of course, and almost impossible if the mark has already noticed the theft. But I was impressed—I watched as he somewhat haltingly pulled it off.
She was, however, an easy target. Very naïve and very distracted. We’d need to hone his skills on more savvy targets. We spent the next hour angling various marks and I watched his skills improve, bit by bit. Even more significant—I could see his confidence growing.
Taking a break in the tiny café Felix thanked me again for taking the time to help him out.
“No sweat, Felix,” I said as we stood in the coffee lineup. I realized I was telling the truth—it really wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. “Besides, I’m not that busy these days, so it’s no problem.”
“What? No big assignment coming up?” he asked.
I winced slightly. He raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Okay, there is an assignment,” I confessed. “And it’s a pretty big one. They want to fly me to England. But I’m not sure if I’m taking it.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure I want any more assignments.”
He choked. “What are you talking about?”
I fidgeted. “I don’t know. It’s just—I’m not sure this line of work is for me anymore.” He stared at me with utter bewilderment. I looked around. Nobody was paying any attention to us. “It’s like this, Felix. I have always justified this profession by calling it the Secret Sport of Kings. The überrich have always nicked each other’s goodies. And they always will. It will go on without me.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I believe that anymore. I’m starting to think I’ve been fooling myself all this time. And . . . I wonder if it’s time to get out.”
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to unload all this on an inexperienced kid—a virtual stranger, at that. But I had so few people I could talk to about this.
Felix was quiet. How could he understand my point of view? He was at the beginning of his career, and I was, perhaps, at the end. Then he brightened with an idea. “Okay, but what’s this assignment? Maybe it would make a good last job. You know, a grand finale.”
It wasn’t a bad thought.
“Presumably they’re paying well?” he asked. “If they’re flying you all the way over there?”
I nodded. “Very well.”
“Then that sounds like your ideal swan song. If that’s what you want it to be.”
He was making entirely too much sense. I could do this last job, then leave AB&T for good. Focus on my studies—that was where my future lay, right? Hadn’t that always been my plan? I was close to being finished with my master’s degree and then I could move forward, maybe get a PhD, find a nice academic position in a leafy college town.
If I took the Lionheart job there was the sticky issue of working with Ethan again. But maybe they wouldn’t even be able to find him. He was off the grid, apparently. Perhaps they’d partner me with another thief. Either way, it wasn’t enough of a reason to turn down the job.
I thought about it more as we ordered our coffee at the counter and took our cups to the cream and sugar stand. I turned the cream jug upside down and received the merest trickle. I looked down at the baskets and frowned. They were all out of sugar.
I tried the door of the cupboard under the counter, thinking they’d have spare supplies in there. The door was locked. I looked up for assistance, but the café was packed, the lineup was huge, and there were no staff people in sight. I pressed my lips together.
“Hang on,” said Felix.
Before I knew what he was doing, he’d crouched down and I saw the flash of a lock pick produced from his sleeve. Then suddenly the cupboard door was open.
It was the fastest lock picking job I’d ever seen.
“That—um, that was impressive, Felix.”
He grinned broadly. “Thanks. It’s my best skill
, I think.”
I flicked a glance around. Nobody else appeared to have noticed a thing. “I’d say. Are you always that fast?”
He shrugged and nodded.
I was pretty swift with a lock pick, but this guy made me look like an amateur. My brain was churning. He could be useful . . . on a job. If the need should ever arise. Interesting.
I filed the thought away and kept moving forward with the task at hand. “Okay, let’s keep going, shall we? You scan for a suitable candidate, I have to make a quick trip to the restroom.”
When I came back, I surveyed the area, looking for Felix, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Where could he have gone? And then I spotted him. He was homing in on a new mark. I followed his line of sight to his target and my chest seized.
No. Not that one.
I had to get to Felix. I pushed through the crowd. But I got there a second too late. I saw Felix’s hand slip, rather skillfully, inside the man’s pocket.
The mark’s hand snapped around Felix’s wrist.
It was over; he was caught. The mark glared at Felix, then wrenched his arm behind his back, dragging Felix away, presumably to the nearest security officer.
“Atworthy, stop!” I shouted. Both men froze, staring at me.
“It’s okay. This guy, he’s with me.”
The mark was none other than my professor from UW.
“You know him?” asked Felix, his face a mixture of shock and relief.
“He’s my prof in the French lit department. My thesis supervisor, actually.” I looked around and lowered my voice. “But it’s okay—he’s also a former assassin.”
At that, Felix’s eyes went even wider. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he whispered.
Atworthy still had a hand firmly wrapped around Felix’s scrawny wrist.
“Catherine, what the hell? What are you doing? Who is this?” Atworthy demanded once we’d moved away to a more private spot.
“We—um, we’re doing a little training exercise. You weren’t supposed to be a mark. I didn’t see him targeting you until it was too late.”
