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“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.
