We make the extraction as quickly as we can while police sirens already wail in the distance. Colt waits for us with the engine running, and the second we're inside, he grins at me through the rearview mirror before peeling out.
“We've got it,” I sigh as I pat the pocket of my jacket.
The car erupts in cheers and applause.
We end up at our usual spot, a dive bar called The Hook, where the owner doesn't ask questions and all sorts of deals get made with all kinds of people. The smell of cheap beer and hamburger grease saturates the place.
“A round for everyone!” Chad shouts, tossing some bills onto the bar. The rest of the team settles into our regular table, close to the emergency exit, in case we need to bolt in a hurry.
The cheap whiskey burns my throat, but I enjoy the sensation. On nights like this, when everything goes right, I can almost forget about the shitty life I've been dealt. The one that taught me nobody's going to take care of me except myself.
“Let me see those rocks,” Cherie murmurs, extending her hand. She's painted her nails a bright purple that matches the tips of her hair.
I pull out the velvet pouch and smile before opening it slowly, with a theatrical flourish. Even under the bar's dim lighting, the diamonds catch the light in an almost magical way.
“Damn, they're gorgeous,” she sighs, leaning closer to get a better look.
“Not as gorgeous as what we're going to get paid for them,” Chad replies.
“When's the handoff?”
“Tomorrow night,” he answers, glancing around to make sure nobody's listening. “Voronov is dying to add them to his collection, and he'll pay us a fortune.”
Hearing that name sends a chill through me. Grigore Voronov, the Russian millionaire with a taste for stolen antiquities. He's our best client, but there's something about him that's always unsettled me. Maybe it's because he never smiles, or the way he seems to evaluate each person as if he's calculating the value of their organs on the black market.
“That guy creeps me out,” Colt says, like he's reading my mind.
“He gives us money,” Chad replies, “and that's all that matters.”
The hours pass between shots of whiskey, laughter, and plans for how each person will spend what they'll get. Cherie mentions something about a vacation in the Bahamas. Gil wants a new car. For Colt and me, the moneymeans something else: security, freedom, never living on the streets again like we always have.
“I'm going to bed,” I announce, standing and adjusting my jacket.
“I'll walk you,” my roommate murmurs, but the way his arm wraps around a waitress he just met tells me he doesn't mean it.
“It's fine. I'll be careful,” I respond, used to this ritual where everyone does their own thing after finishing a job.
The moment I step outside, the night greets me with a cool breeze that stirs my hair. I breathe deep, letting the air carry away the smell of weed and alcohol from my lungs. The streets are surprisingly quiet for a Friday night, just a few groups of drunk kids disturbing the silence.
I enjoy the solitude.
I always have.
There's something about it that comforts me, like a strange feeling screaming that I'm different. Despite its reputation, I've never had problems in my neighborhood. The usual creeps seem to avoid me. I've never understood it, but I'm not complaining.
A couple of blocks from my apartment, that sensation again. It's subtle at first, like a faint tingle at my nape, but it intensifies rapidly. Someone's watching me. I'm sure of it.
No, someone's following me.
I stop under a streetlight and rummage in my pocket, pretending I can't find my house keys. It's an old trick Colt taught me years ago. The street looks empty, but the sensation persists. I can feel it in the air, a strange pressure, like the tense calm right before a storm.
I hold my breath, focus. And then I feel it stronger: the wind changes, grows stronger around me, whipping abandoned papers and making the branches of nearby trees creak.
A sudden gust shakes a bush to my right and, for an instant, I see her. An imposing figure, much larger than I expected. A flash of dark skin and short hair. Eyes that gleam under the streetlight like a predator's.
And muscles. A mountain of muscles.
My heart races. Whoever she is, she's too big to risk a direct confrontation. If the street teaches you anything, it's to assess a threat in seconds. To know when you should fight and when it's better to run.
