One

Raquel

BOOM!

The ceiling shatters and the walls crumble, burying me beneath thick dust, chunks of concrete, and splinters of glass. I hit my head hard against the cracked tile floor, unable to tell if the ringing in my ears is the building’s alarm system going off or if I’ve blown an eardrum.

Knowing my luck, probably both.

I suppose it serves me right for getting my hopes up. The gods of thievery are fickle bitches, and I’ve apparently done something to piss them off today. Months of planning —literally— up in smoke, and in under five seconds. I’ve probably just made the world record for fastest time for a heist to go tits up.

Somebody better call Guinness.

“Rocky!”

Dad’s voice reaches me, a muffle against the foggy haze clouding my mind. It’s too hard to concentrate, black encroaching on the edges of my vision. Which way is up, and which way is down? It’s anybody’s guess. I’m tempted to close my eyes and go to sleep, the crushing weight on my chest easy to succumb to, but a pair of strong hands pulls me out from beneath the rubble.

“Rocky? Talk to me.”

“What happened?” I croak. My throat is painfully dry and scratchy. I wonder if I accidentally breathed in some of the glass.

Dad helps me to my feet in a hurry, slinging my arm over his shoulder for support. Everything hurts. If I manage to walk away today with a couple of fractured ribs, I’ll count myself lucky. I ignore the salty tang of blood on my tongue and force my feet forward.

“We have to get out of here,” he says, leading me away.

In the distance, police sirens wail. Even in my concussed state, I know we have to get the hell out of dodge. Thieves and cops mix like oil and water. It’s best to avoid them at all costs.

As Dad drags me over to the window, I blink away my confusion to take in the mess. The rest of our crew is buried underneath the destruction. I can see Martin’s foot sticking out from under a fallen support beam. Harry’s unconscious on his side, his face painted white from disintegrated drywall. I can’t see Laura, and I worry she’s caught under the heaviest of the debris.

“We can’t leave them here!” I rasp. “We have to go back!”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he snaps, kicking open the window to stick his head out.

The thick Parisian air wafts into my nose, bringing along with it the smell of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, and the faintest hint of pastries from the bakery about a block away. It’s nighttime, but a crowd of curious and startled pedestrians is forming. I know as well as anyone that we need to get away without any witnesses; otherwise, it’s game over.

“Where the hell is Lucius?” Dad hisses under his breath.

Lucius, our getaway driver, had very specific instructions to block off the main road with a boosted box truck to give us extra time for a hasty exit. Now that I can see the blue flash of police vehicles, something tells me he didn’t hit his mark on time.

I’ve only been a part of the Red Raven crew for a little over three years —Dad wouldn’t let me join until I turned eighteen— but I know enough about the business to tell when we’re royally fucked. We couldn’t steal the painting —which was our whole reason for being here in the first place— more than half the crew is out for the count, I’m pretty sure I bruised my ribs in the explosion, and we have no escape route. Everything that can go wrong has, so I don’t think anyone can really blame me when I start to panic.

Like I said, royally fucked.

“What do we do?” I ask Dad, frantic.

In the blink of the eye, he pulls something out of his jacket pocket. He hastily places a black flip phone in the palm of my hand and closes my fingers around it tight.

“Listen to me very carefully, Raquel,” he says.

My body tenses. He never uses my full name unless he means business. We always use code names while on a heist to protect our identities. He quickly spouts an address which I commit to memory with ease. Even in my shell-shocked state, my photographic memory will never fail me.

Dad taps the phone in my palm. “Go to the location I gave you and find Gabriel Lacroix. Tell him this exact phrase: it’s raining in the Sahara. He’ll know what it means.”

I frown, my brows knitting together. “I don’t understand.”

“He’ll keep you safe,” Dad continues. “Lay low and wait for my call.”

“Lay low… You’re not coming with me?”

“We need to split up. Something’s not right. I need to get to the bottom of it.”

“Do you think someone set us up?”

“No more questions. Get a move on. Don’t stop until you get there.”

“But how am I supposed to get down—”

It’s in this exact moment that Dad pushes me out the window. I yelp, plummeting three stories… Right into a truck full of mattresses marked for disposal. Dad must have seen the vehicle approaching and calculated the rewards over the risks.

Talk about impeccable timing.

The vehicle speeds away before I can call out for Dad to follow. My heart twists when I see him head back inside the building. The violent sound of sirens wail, police cars racing past my last-minute getaway car as we navigate the narrow Parisian streets. There’s nothing I can do for him now.

My only option is to run.

I hang on as tight as I’m able despite my bruised and swollen knuckles. I was in the middle of cracking the safe when the bomb went off. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose any of my fingers; that would have meant the end of my career.

My joints ache and my muscles burn, but I refuse to let go until we’re on the other side of the city. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the tip of the Eiffel Tower due north-west, which means I’m in the south of Paris’s 13th Arrondissement. I still have a ways to go before I reach the address Dad gave me, so at the first opportunity, I slip off the mountain of mattresses and briskly duck down a narrow alleyway, wincing with every step.

I keep my gaze cast down and my hoodie up over my head to obscure my hair and face. I may be an expert at hiding amidst the crowd, but that doesn’t stop the paranoia from creeping in. What if someone spots me? What if someone is tailing me? I’ve never served hard time, but I’m not exactly eager to find out what it’s like behind bars.

“Excusez-moi,” comes a weak, fragile voice.

I stop mid-stride and look at a woman huddled beneath the stoop of a building with a child wrapped in her arms, fast asleep. I can tell just by looking at them and their tattered clothes that they’re homeless. I know the world sees Paris as the City of Love, as some fantastical metropolis where fashion and food and fragrance reign supreme, but they neglect to realize that there’s a sadder, uglier, crueler underbelly that leaves the most vulnerable out in the cold. The same can be said of all major cities around the world. There’s the side that’s featured on postcards to send home, and the other half that’s tucked away and ignored, like all large cities.

The woman looks up at me with hope in her eyes. My French is basically non-existent, but I can tell she’s asking me for some spare change.

I know I’m in a hurry, but I stop and reach into my pockets regardless. I’ve got a handful of Euros that I place in her palm. It’s not a lot, but it should buy her and her little one something warm to eat. In all likelihood, I’m the first person today who’s bothered to show her even a sliver of kindness.

Thisis why the Red Ravens do what we do. Yes, we’re criminals, but we’re criminals with heart. It’s our mission in life to take from the corrupt and greedy and give to those who truly need it. The money we would have earned by selling the Picasso painting would have been split between the local food banks, underfunded hospitals, and homeless shelters —save for the small sum we pocket for ourselves to keep our operation running.

“Merci,” she says with a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

Her expression quickly shifts when she notices something. She taps her forehead. “You’re bleeding!”

I reach up quickly, my fingers brushing against my temple. They come away sticky with blood and dust. “Ah, shit. Um, don’t worry about it.”

“Do you need hospital?” she asks in broken English.

“No, no. I’m okay. I’m—”

I cut myself off at the sound approaching footsteps. When I look up, I see two patrol officers stopping pedestrians to show them a picture. The sight of their uniforms makes my heart leap into my throat. I hastily round the corner and press my back against the wall. They approach the homeless woman and show her the picture next. It’s blurry, taken from a traffic cam, but it’s very obviously me.

Well shit.

They speak too quickly for me to understand anything, but you’d be surprised how much you can interpret through tone alone. They’re looking for me, interrogating the homeless woman to see if she knows anything.

“Non,” she says over and over again. “Non, I see no one like this.”

With a frustrated grumble, the patrol officers continue down the street. Only when they disappear around the corner do I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” I whisper to her.

She nods knowingly. “Run, girl. They will be back.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. With one final nod, I’m off like the wind, racing down the street in the opposite direction of the officers.

When I come across a line of older model cars, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder. The coast is clear. The address Dad gave me, and this Gabriel Lacroix guy, apparently resides in the south of France near Montpellier. While it’s a hard rule amongst the members of the Red Ravens to only steal from other criminals, I can’t very well walk to the hideout location in my banged-up state. I don’t want to have to boost some hard-working blue-collar worker’s ride, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I walk up to the driver’s side of a light grey 2007 Peugeot 208. Its front and back bumpers are dented to hell, but she looks like she’ll handle just fine.

Reaching into the inside pocket of my jacket, I pull out my lockpicking kit. Everything fits in a discreet black leather case no bigger than most large wallets. I’ve got a handful of differently shaped picks and tension bars of various thicknesses to choose from. I’m quick to select one of each, working on the door as nimbly as I can. It’s hard getting it on the first try because my hands are still shaking with adrenaline, but my second attempt pops the lock free.

I hastily slip into the front seat and get to work on the ignition. It’s far less eloquent than the door, a matter of jamming my longest pick in at the right angle and wriggling it around until the engine rumbles to life.

The gas tank is three-quarters full. If the traffic’s good, I’ll be able to reach Montpellier within eight or so hours. I hit the pedal and pull away from the curb. The more distance I put between myself and the scene of the crime, the better. If I don’t make any stops and drive through the night, I may get there by morning.

Even when I get out onto the highway, I refuse to let myself relax. I keep my eyes on the road and anxiously fiddle with my silver necklace, turning the drop-shaped pendant over and over again between my fingers. I concentrate on my end goal and the man I need to find. I don’t know who he is or how Dad knows him, but his name echoes inside my skull.

Find Gabriel Lacroix.

He’ll keep you safe.