Page 42 of The Picasso Heist
“Just the thief himself,” said Sigma, pulling back from the camera for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Olly, olly, oxen free, motherfucker.”
Tau panned left, right, up, and down, and his hands suddenly locked. “Six o’clock, black T-shirt, heading right for them,” he said.
There was no headshot, no cheat sheet for the thief. There was only the intel that said he’d be coming, and coming fast, on his own. Solo. The bigger the heist, the smaller the footprint.
Sigma put his eye back against the camera and aimed south down the block. “Got ’im,” he said. “Damn, he’s flying. Here we go.”
“Stay on him,” said Tau.
“Trying to. Switching to vid. What about the girl?”
Tau shifted back up the block to view Halston. “She just saw him. Quick peek.”
“Anybody else see him?” asked Sigma.
“No. No one’s looking that way. They’re all—oh, shit!”
“What?”
“We’ve got company,” said Tau.
“Who?”
“Don’t know, but he shouldn’t be there.”
Sigma hastily zoomed out. “Where is he?”
“Nine o’clock, across the street. Leaning against the building.”
“In the raincoat?” asked Sigma.
“That’s him.”
“There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Exactly,” said Tau. “Right knee. Is that…”
Sigma zoomed back in, filling his frame with the guy in the raincoat. There it was—the tip of an AK-47 sticking out by his knee. “Shit! It is.”
Tau threw down the binoculars and scooped up his Delta 5 Pro long-range rifle. “What the hell’s the ROE on this?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Sigma.
It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Rules of engagement had never been discussed. Not in the briefing, not ever.
“No matter what, stay with the painting,” said Tau, resting the bipod of the rifle on the edge of the rooftop.
“You got the shot?” asked Sigma.
“Not yet.”
“Hurry.”
“I am.”
“Hurry faster.”
“I am, damn it,” said Tau, adjusting his scope. It sounded a lot like Sigma’s camera—click, click, click.
