Sting

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  BEFORE: BLOOD RED STAR

  1 NOW: BACK AGAIN AND UPSIDE DOWN

  2 SOMETHING COLD, SOMETHING BLUE

  3 DOG BREATH

  4 THE BEST EXIT IS UP

  5 PLAN B

  6 EMPTY POCKETS

  7 RIVER VIEW

  8 A SORT-OF PLAN

  9 SWISS CHEESE

  10 LEFT AT THE SKULL

  11 HOW HAMISH TALKED THEM INTO IT

  12 THE GATE OF HEAVEN

  13 MY DAD IS A NAG

  14 BREAKFAST IN PARIS

  15 TOP CATS

  16 THIEVES GET CAUGHT

  17 FINISHED

  18 SCHOOL’S OUT

  19 CLEANED OUT

  20 THE BIG STORE

  21 WHAT NOW?

  22 MIAMI HEAT

  23 TROUBLE

  24 ZILLAH

  25 NO SUCH THING AS GHOSTS

  26 MAJOR BAD

  27 DO IT FOR BIG D

  28 KETCHUP AND PICKLES

  29 THE HACK

  30 GIVE ME WHAT’S REAL

  31 BAD DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

  32 STAR SEARCH

  33 JUST PULL TOGETHER

  34 SUPER SPORTS MOMS OF MIAMI

  35 FLIES, FLIES, FLIES

  36 GETAWAY

  37 THE TOP CATS RETURN

  38 NEXT STOP PORTUGAL

  39 LEGACIES

  40 THIS CURSE IS SERIOUS

  41 FEALTY FLIES

  42 SOME GOOD-BYES ARE WORSE THAN AWFUL

  43 IMMA POP STAR

  44 MINDFUL PEOPLE

  45 NOTHING WORSE THAN FAMILY

  46 THE PLACE INSIDE

  47 TURNAROUND

  48 GHOSTS

  49 FRACTURED FAMILIES

  50 THE CLIENT

  51 GINGER TEA AND WARNINGS

  52 PEOPLE GET BROKEN

  53 KARMA

  54 SHOWTIME

  55 WHEN THE STARS ARE NOVAS

  56 MIDAIR BATTLE

  57 THE ROAD TO PRISON

  58 THE CHASE

  59 WE ARE NOBODY WE ARE NOWHERE

  60 SHOWDOWN

  61 DUMPSTER DIVING

  62 KIDNAPPED

  63 WHERE THE FAULT LIES

  64 DESPERATE THINKING

  65 BREAKING AND ENTERING

  66 BROTHERS

  67 ONE SHOT

  68 LOSING IT, FINDING IT

  69 WE ARE US

  70 IMAGINE

  71 THE DEAL GOES DOWN

  72 DON’T MESS WITH MIKKI

  73 A CHOICE FOR BLUE

  74 FOUR YELLOW MINIS

  EPILOGUE: HOW TO REBOOT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  Best place to hide? In plain sight. Every thief knows that.

  It was broad daylight, but the thief wore a disguise: a uniform. In a rented estate for billionaires, nobody notices the help.

  The grand redbrick mansion was nestled in the rolling green hills of Virginia, where the meadows were sweet, the mists were gentle, and the power brokers of Washington, DC, were only an hour away, waiting to be bribed. Exactly why billionaires all over the world flocked here.

  The thick gray carpet reduced footsteps to whispers. The thief moved quickly down the corridors and fit the key into the lock, then pushed open the door to the library.

  Sunlight streamed in through double-height windows and cast squares of rich gold on the carpet. Outside, roses tumbled, impossibly lush, their thick heads almost too heavy for their stalks. Even the bees appeared fat and prosperous, lumbering from bloom to bloom and occasionally blundering against the window with a dull thwack.

  Safecracking was not at the top of the thief’s skill set. But this job was worth the risk. If there were three wheels in the wheel pack, cobalt plates, and relockers, it would take too much time. The thief would have to resort to a drill and a borescope. Doable, but there would be noise.

  The safe was behind a painting. Such a cliché. The thief flipped back the heavy, gilded frame.

  It was amusing that people thought safes were, well, safe, when any safe was vulnerable to the right thief with tools and enough time. When it came to safes, the enemy was not the lock, not the steel, not the combination — only time.

  The house staff ran on a strict schedule. The landscape workers would be moving to the flower gardens next. The thief had twelve minutes.

  Opening the safe took ten.

  A carved box sat alone in the safe. An aroma rose from the wood — something familiar, sweet and spicy, like a Christmas cookie. The thief reached in and opened the box, only to find another. Then another. With mounting exasperation, three more times the thief opened a slightly smaller box, stacking them and pushing them aside until the seventh box remained.

  Gloved fingers itching with anticipation, the thief raised the lid.

  The thief’s breath caught. Three perfect star sapphires of a shade somewhere close to heaven. For a moment, maybe a trick of the light, the crystal star that flashed in the deep blue was bloodred.

  The thief scooped them into a palm. Felt their unusual coldness.

  Light dimmed as though a transparent veil had dropped between this room and the world. All air and sun sucked out of the space, replaced by an oily darkness. Like a frozen midnight river and no air to breathe …

  The thief felt something — a shove? — as some … thing seemed to brush by.

  Cold fear paralyzed bone and muscle.

  The thief stood, frozen, and saw a sudden steaming at the window, as if someone had breathed against it.

  Then an image of two hands appeared against the glass, a spreading imprint of palms and fingers.

  As if someone were desperate to get out.

  Get out get out get out.

  Panic rushed through the thief. The jewels fell onto the carpet, knocking against one another.

  And then the handprints faded, light flooded back in, and the thief could breathe again.

  Outside? Just sunshine and air and grass and roses.

  Heart slamming, the thief pushed away what had just happened, chalked it up to nerves and no breakfast, and fumbled for the stones.

  Steady hands now trembled as they stacked the empty boxes inside one another. The safe door closed, the tumblers clicking, locked once again.

  Out the door again, closing it quietly. Moving swiftly, reassured by solid wood, plaster walls, an air conditioner’s hum. Normal things. Not thinking about the dead weight in a pocket, about the imprint of two palms on foggy glass.

  The door. The thief had forgotten to lock the door.

  Well. Somebody else’s problem.

  The thief’s partner came down the hallway on schedule.

  All okay?

  Slight change of plan. You stash the loot.

  That’s not the plan.

  That’s why it’s called change.

  The thief handed over the stones and was gone.

  The disappearance of one of the workers would be noted. Likewise the fact that a locked door was now open. Questions would be asked. But the thief’s partner would have to deal. The thief had never felt nerves like this before. Hands that trembled, knees like water, legs that shook.

  The thief hurried across the lawn, grateful for sunshine, and feeling that something dark and evil had been left behind.

  Paris, France

  March McQuin didn’t think he’d ever be in this position again — upside down and dangling twenty feet over a stone floor at three o’clock in the morning.

  It was awesome.

  If only he didn’t have an incredible urge to sneeze.

  March closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and swallowed — his usual remedy against avoiding an explosive spew of noise, spit, and snot. Dust f
illed his nose, the kind of ancient grime that tends to layer on the gutters and skylights of Parisian rooftops.

  Instead of a sneeze, what emerged sounded like an elephant strangling on a trumpet.

  The voice came through his earpiece. “What was that?” their lookout, Darius Fray, asked.

  “I sneezed,” March whispered.

  “Next time do it louder. I don’t think they heard you in London.”

  “You know, a simple gesundheit would do.”

  “Yeah, that and some earplugs.”

  His twin sister, Jules, glanced at him, her wide eyes telegraphing a clear message: Shut up. Their mark, Yves Beaumarie, was snoozing away down the hall. Their source had promised that he took a sleeping pill every night, but March’s father, the world-famous and unfortunately deceased cat burglar Alfie McQuin, had always said, Never trust a source 100 percent. Or even ninety. Okay, 75 percent, tops.

  There was no question they were rusty. They hadn’t pulled a job in over a year. But this job was supposed to be super easy. A cakewalk, Hamish Tarscher had said.

  What the heck is a cakewalk?

  Focus, March.

  Jules swung by her knees, taking photos of the security panel. The house was built in the seventeenth century, but the mark liked contemporary design. He’d gutted the old woodwork and exposed all the piping and ducts. March thought it was hideous, but it gave his twin plenty of options to display her abilities on her aerial silks — flexible fabric upon which she could twirl, fly, and suspend herself by her ankles in midair. March might look like a trussed-up turkey on the silks, but Jules looked like an acrobatic angel.

  His twin had studied trapeze and gymnastics, had been a street performer since she was five, back before he knew her. He couldn’t say she’d taught him everything she knew, because he didn’t know how to twirl by his ankles, and he didn’t want to learn. But he knew enough not to fall and wait for Jules to do the hard stuff.

  He hung on a pipe and waited. He could hear Izzy Mercado’s small, steady voice in his earpiece, rapping out instructions on how to bypass a panel.

  Jules dropped down, now hanging by her knees, and keyed in some numbers. She was disabling the thing upside down.

  It’s not like he’d tell her or anything, but his twin was amazing.

  March saw the light flash green.

  Jules did a double somersault on her way down to the floor. Show-off.

  March used the silks to propel him into an awkward half somersault and landed on one foot before crashing to his knees.

  Jules rolled her eyes.

  “You in, bro?” Darius asked. “I don’t hear an alarm, but remember, you busted my eardrum before.”

  “In,” March whispered. “Going silent now.”

  This was the charged moment he loved. The first release of pressure, when you were in, with the security disabled, and all that was ahead was grabbing the loot and making the getaway. He’d missed this.

  This moment was when all the planning was worth it. March had gone over the details of this heist until it was in his dreams and included a clown.

  Housekeeper away, the mark in a deep sleep, a briefcase full of loose diamonds. You see me, Pop? That was one perfect entry. If ever there was a sure thing, this is it.

  March often talked to Alfie in his head. The trouble was, his pop talked back.

  Haven’t I taught you anything? Never trust a sure thing.

  March pressed his fingers against his forehead. Telling his dad to shut up was definitely not cool when he was alive. But there was one advantage to his being dead.

  Sorry, Pop, you’re dead. Shut up already.

  Jules nudged him. “Wake up, dream boy,” she whispered. “You got me into this. Let’s go steal some diamonds.”

  She pointed to a long, industrial-looking desk against one wall. The briefcase was right where it was supposed to be.

  Beaumarie had decided to sell his family jewels. He had a serious gambling habit, and it didn’t help that he lived next door to a posh gambling club. He was scheduled to meet a diamond dealer tomorrow at the Bristol, a swanky hotel.

  It took March only thirty seconds to pick the lock on the briefcase. It was a standard lock, which meant it was a joke. All it took was a slender shim and the right touch.

  He’d been picking locks since age four. When Alfie wanted him to be quiet, he’d dump a bunch of locks on the kitchen table, set a timer, and hand March a shim.

  March opened the case, Jules at his shoulder. The briefcase was lined with velvet pouches. He picked up one and shook a stone into his palm.

  It felt so cold.

  It wasn’t a diamond. It was a large sapphire, royal blue, with a star in the center. It mesmerized him for a moment, pulling him into a whirling cosmos of deep blue starlight. Yet at the same time he felt as though a sudden rush of eternity blew through him, an empty black void that moved like an oily, cold river. Sudden panic rippled through him, and he felt his throat close. He had to fight the desire to toss the jewel back into the pouch.

  Then he heard the noise. Someone stirring in the bedroom off the hall.

  He and Jules froze. He shoved the stone in his pocket while Jules snapped the briefcase closed. March almost moaned as the beautiful pouches full of loot disappeared.

  They slid behind the couch. If Yves was coming out for cookies and milk, they were toast and jam.

  Jules grabbed his arm as they heard a tapping noise. March grinned. He knew what this was.

  Paws on a stone floor. They knew everything about their mark, including how much Monsieur Yves Beaumarie doted on his small, ugly dog.

  They stood as the brown dog trotted toward them, ears twitching, stumpy tail wagging. She was small enough to fit in a purse, but squat and pudgy, with a long snout. March bent down, reaching into one pocket for a dog treat. He almost passed out from the dog breath that emanated from the panting animal. He held out the treat, and the dog sniffed it before gobbling it down and immediately sniffing for more.

  “Good girl, La Rochelle,” March murmured. M. Beaumarie had named the dog after his favorite vacation spot in France. Nosing for more, the dog nipped his finger. “Ow!”

  “Shhh,” Jules warned. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know. She really stinks. Ow!” March cried as La Rochelle bit the hand that fed her.

  “Not the dog! There’s a noise on the roof,” Jules whispered.

  “Wind.”

  “There wasn’t any wind tonight,” Jules said.

  From the high window, a beam of light moved over the room. Heart pounding, March hit the floor the same time as Jules. They squirmed away from the light and crawled fast down the hall. La Rochelle thought it was a game and nipped at March’s heels. Her stumpy legs revolved, trying to catch up with them. She gave a playful growl.

  “Shhhh,” March said, digging in his pocket for another treat. He threw it toward the bedroom, and she skittered toward it.

  A faint, high noise could be heard. March knew that noise. Someone was slicing through the ornate grillwork.

  Someone else was breaking into the apartment!

  March’s heart leaped and twisted like a fish caught on a line. He shot a panicked look at Jules.

  Jules pointed toward the bedroom.

  They glided through the doorway, their knees whispering against the hard floor. La Rochelle waddled after them, sniffing at March’s pants. The man in the bed sighed and flopped over. He was dressed in silk pajamas and wore a sleep mask. March and Jules rolled under the bed. March banged his head on the wooden frame. His heart sped up to cardiac arrest levels.

  Yves Beaumarie smacked his lips. “Mon chou,” he murmured in his sleep.

  My cabbage? March wondered.

  Suddenly a hand flopped down by the floor. “La Rochelle …” Beaumarie murmured. “Mon petit chien … où es-tu?”

  The hand groped along the floor. Beaumarie was starting to wake up, concerned about his dog. There was only one thing to do.

  March
slithered closer. He steeled himself. It was either this or prison.

  He leaned over and licked the man’s hand.

  Jules clutched her throat, pretending to gag.

  Beaumarie let out a sigh. “Ah! Mon ange!”

  He was calling that stinky mutt an angel! Settling back into sleep, Beaumarie flipped over and began to snore.

  March blocked out the chain saw as best he could. He could hear the sounds of stealth — the smallest of sounds. Footsteps padding across the floor. A slight rustling. And then the unmistakable snap of a briefcase lock. March gave an anguished look at Jules. Someone was stealing their diamonds!

  March put his mouth close to Jules’s ear. “At least we’re safe,” he whispered.

  That’s when an alarm went off.

  La Rochelle howled. Beaumarie sat up in bed. He fumbled for a light but forgot he was wearing a sleep mask. He bumped his head on the headboard and swore.

  No time to think, no time to make a plan. March and Jules scrambled out from under the bed and ran. Whoever had been in the house was gone, the briefcase open and empty, the window still open.

  Lights snapped on in the kitchen.

  “Monsieur BeauMARIE!” The voice was high and panicked. Rapid French followed, too fast for March to translate. It was the housekeeper, the one who was supposed to be on holiday in Brittany, thank you very much, Hamish!

  “La police!”

  That he understood.

  Jules was already moving, running and slipping her silks out from her waist pack at the same time. Before March could take another breath she’d swung the silk over the metal duct overhead.

  “Move!” she hissed.

  March scrambled up the silk. His blood thundered in his ears. He may have missed the excitement of the life of a thief, but he didn’t miss the panic. As soon as he’d climbed on top of the duct, Jules climbed up, faster and more agile than he. She rolled up the silk and then tightrope-walked along the ductwork as he crawled behind her. Jules reached the open window and stuck one foot out.

  The stout housekeeper galloped into the space below, brandishing a copper tray.

  Jules half turned, one leg out the window. “What is she going to do, serve us up with the turnips?” she asked.

  Now that they were almost out, March let himself snort a laugh. “We’re in France. She’ll need some parsley.”