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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 wronghas, 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.
