Page 100 of Sticky Fingers
Not even God could lay his hands on me right now.
Smiling to myself, I finally step inside the Art Gallery. I stand right behind the curtains separating the actual gallery from the portion of the room meant only for the staff.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a whole second and then nod to myself.
It’s time.
Using an electric plier, I cut a few cables and kill the lights here. They work with motion sensors, and I don’t want to risk setting them off. Then, I push my back against the wall and let the shadows drape my body.
Hidden from view, I scan the gallery and lock eyes with Kathy—she’s the only one who can see me, given that she knows exactly where to look for me.
“Good luck,” she mouths silently, and I just grin.
I make my own luck.
But even though Kathy knows that, it doesn’t seem to help her. She’s tapping her foot on the floor, nervous as hell, and she’s constantly glancing at Detective Strong.
She’s so afraid of being next to the detective that she’s actually standing as far away from him as possible. Not a big risk taker, my Kathy—and that’s exactly why we’ve pulled so many stunts together.
In our little operation, she was the Yin to my Yang.
Tonight, though, I need her in the thick of it.
“And here he comes…” I whisper, biting my bottom lip asmyman steps inside the gallery.
Six p.m. sharp, Malcolm walks to the front of the crowd, the audience growing silent as he marches through the room. He looks slightly surprised not to see me there, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about that—he knows he can trust me.
And I don’t intend to throw that trust away. This time, I’m gonna deliver on my promises, and I’m going to fix everything.
“What’s all this about, Malcolm?” Peter asks, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. There’s a sneer on his face as he folds his arms over his chest and tries to stare Malcolm down. “Have you found the painting? Or is this just another one of your bullshit speeches?”
At that, Malcolm simply stares back at Peter, not saying a thing. He has nothing to say as a reply, which means it’s time to set my plan into motion. Looking straight at Kathy, I give her a short nod and watch as she reaches inside her purse.
A second later, every single light in the gallery goes dark.
Being the little genius that she is, Kathy programmed a small killswitch for the lights and installed it in the main electrical box of the building. And all that just a few minutes ago. With the push of a button, she killed the lights in the whole building.
Which means it’s time I do my part.
Reaching for the small satchel I have on my back, I grab two gray cans and set them on the floor. With the tip of my foot, I kick them across the room and grin as I watch the cans spinning between the feet of all the socialites in here.
Just a few seconds later, thick clouds of smoke start taking over the gallery.
Yup, that’s right—smoke grenades.
As the smoke covers the whole room, I listen as everyone starts to panic.
“The thief! He’s back!” I hear Peter scream, and I have to stop myself from laughing as he starts walking back and forth blindly, his hands in front of him as he tries to feel his way toward Detective Strong.
The detective, though, is nowhere close to him.
He has already moved to the main entrance of the gallery, more than ready to stop anyone he deems suspicious, and he’s busy listening to something on his earpiece.
“Protect the paintings!” I hear a woman scream, her high-pitched voice climbing over the crowd’s noise.
Some people are probably afraid the thief has returned to steal all the other paintings.
Well, they’re right to think that the thief is back. She just hasn’t come back to steal anything.
