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“I want to thank all of you today for doing your part in the great revolution,” Jeb calls out. “These diamonds will fund Patriots Now’s fight for freedom,” he says, backing away incrementally as he speaks.
As if on cue, the door opens, and a half-dozen Patriots Now members burst in. I trigger the sirens and the flashing lights as soon Jeb and I step out the exit, then I reactivate the security bars to slam down and lock them in the jewelry store.
“Come on,” he says, hitting my hat so it flies off my head to the floor. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to watch the show.”
I don’t ask him what he means as he leads me down two flights of stairs to a parking garage where a shiny red convertible is parked.
Reaching behind his back, Jeb pulls his shirt over his head one-handed, and though I’ve seen—and felt—his chest before, the sudden reveal stops me in my tracks. I can’t help but let my eyes feast on the dark blond hair that covers his muscular chest or the way his waist narrows to a V or how his low-riding jeans show off the indentations on the side of his abdominals that lead to—
“Get your shirt off,” he tells me. “We need to get going.”
Knowing changing in front of Jeb would be necessary, I wore a light undershirt. I quickly pull my t-shirt over my head and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t reach out to take it. Instead, he stares at me slowly taking in every inch of my bare arms and the exposed part of my chest as if I were completely naked.
I throw my t-shirt at him. “I thought we were in a hurry.”
He easily catches the shirt, rolls it into a ball with his own, and lights a match to them. It doesn’t take long for the cheap fabric to burn to ashes.
We get in the convertible, and he jets out of the parking garage and drives to a hill that overlooks the jewelry store.
“Why are you stopping?” I demand.
“I told you I want to watch the show.”
“We should be miles from here.” I protest.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jeb responds as a loud knock sounds on the car’s window.
I jump clear out of my seat only to have Jeb calmly roll down the window to a middle-aged man in a tie-dye shirt, holding a large bag.
Jeb thanks the delivery guy, handing him a fifty-dollar bill that he shoves in his pocket before walking away.
He turns to me. “Wait til later to bitch at me for this being a totally irresponsible move,” he says, and hands me a large container of hot, buttery popcorn and a large pop. Then he picks up a second large popcorn for himself and two still-frosty bottles of his favorite brand of beer. “Salut.” He taps the tip of his bottle to my pop. “To wrecking those mother-fuckers.”
It's a toast I can’t help cheersing to in agreement.
It must work because just then, six police cars and what looks like a SWAT unit pull up. At first, there seems to be a debate over who’s handling the scene, but eventually an armed sniper is put in place, the SWAT team breaks a window, and a tear gas cannister is thrown inside before they infiltrate the building.
Twenty minutes later, the six Patriots Now members are led out in handcuffs. Jeb yells and claps like he’s watching one of the car movies he likes so much.
“Good job in leading them to the stolen money,” Jeb says.
I grin at him. “Leland Banks is going to have a hard time explaining why the money from the credit union heist showed up in a jewelry store his people were robbing.”
“First nail in the coffin,” Jeb agrees. “Though it was really hard giving that money back. It’s against every principle of thievery I was raised on.”
“Well, at least you have the diamonds.”
He nods. “Easier to escape with. Easier to trade. Easier to sell. Though I’ve always wanted to steal something really big.”
“Like what?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He mulls it over a second. “Maybe a plane?”
I lean back in the seat and stare out the window while I envision it. “That would definitely qualify as legendary,” I say, borrowing his favorite word.
Jeb looks over at me, that glint of trouble in his eye. “Let’s do it.”
“Do what?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I need to hear him say it.
