HEIST KING

Most people think the life of a thief is glamorous: stealing fancy things and sweet-talking your way into fancy places, and looking good while doing it. When I was little, I would watch Ocean's Eleven (2001) on repeat, a bowl of chocolate ice cream in my lap, mouth moving along to the words, each step of the heist memorized, each character's job sitting on my lap like a cheat sheet. 

I found the idea of working with a crew of experts to accomplish something masterful to be utterly fascinating, something my father was wary of because the 'bad guys' won. No police officer wanted to see their daughter idolizing the bad guys, and yet I couldn't help but be impressed by how they made it look like an art form. 

I would watch George Clooney and Brad Pitt walk around in fancy suits, stay in Las Vegas high-end hotels, win millions of dollars, and think. Smart people can win it all if they are clever enough to rig the game. 

I always imagined that if I were to plan a heist, I would walk around in a glamorous dress, go to a cocktail party for the princess of some far-off land, and then pluck an expensive painting off the wall right in front of everyone before I zip-line right out of the party, pulling on a black leotard that magically fits over my dress and make off into the night with my prize. 

But that wasn't quite how things turned out. 

Instead, much of a thief's life is spent planning, holed up in inconspicuous places, hoarding food while you use walls to scrawl out plans like a mathematician working out equations.

And that was the reason why I was suddenly holed up in a house, off the beaten track, eating day old, cold pizza.

It had been too long since I'd sat in an actual living room, eating actual pizza straight from the box. It felt so normal. My locations normally consisted of grimy hotels, tiny rooms the size of a closet, or on an emergency, storage units and a bunch of blankets to keep warm when the temperature dropped to dangerous levels. 

So as I ate another piece of pizza, sinking deeper into the living room couch, mind on the next step, my eyes moving toward the evenings outfit, lips pulling into a smile at the sight of the sparkles along the material. 

He'll come. 

Then my eyes moved back to the checklist siting on the coffee table, my heart rate settling into a determined, steady rhythm. 

Step One: Send James his plane ticket. — He will come.

Step Two: Prep heist hideout. —It has a view!

Step Three: Prep gear. —Include zip line. 

Step Four: Eat Dinner. —Pay cash. 

Step Five: Assure James wears the correct outfit. —You'll thank yourself later. 

Step Six: Steal the intel and convince James to escape with you. —If he won't, pin the theft on him. 

As I went through the checklist again, I fought an all consuming grin. I was about to live out my Ocean's Eleven Heist dream! 

I just have to convince James Decker to come along with me. 

...

DECKER

Decker had grown tired of being handed notes. Especially when he was supposed to be the one doing the chasing. But as Decker stepped off the plane fingers clutching his newest "gift" from the Heist King, he wondered why he even bothered to chase her at all. 

This maddening woman had made it a habit of telling him where she would be, giving him small windows to snatch her. It was more maddening than playing things the way normal criminals did things. Hiding from the law, killing the law keepers, bribing the law keepers, or throwing others under them at the law keepers to keep themselves free. 

Not her. 

As he walked through security, mind still torn, he was approached by a short fifty year old woman in a pilot's uniform, a garment bag draped over her shoulder. "James Decker?"

Decker froze, wary. No one should know his name. "You work for her?"

The woman smiled a sweet and open expression. "In a way. She's helped me. I owed her a favor." The woman gestured to the note in Decker's hand. "Decode that, and you'll find her." 

Decker had already decoded the message, his instincts working against his better judgement. The note had been handed to him by a small child when he arrived at the airport. And as he stood in front of the pilot— if she was a pilot— Decker wondered not for the first time, how many contacts the Heist King had, and why the all seemed so normal. 

Then she held out a garment bag. "But you'll need to wear this, or you won't be able to get inside."

Decker shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere with her."

The woman openly laughed. "Then you don't know her well." She gave him a motherly pat on the shoulder. "Welcome to Italy. Enjoy your denial."

Then she shoved the garment bag into Decker's hands and walked away, still laughing. 

Decker unzipped the top of the bag, glanced inside and snorted. 

What do you have planned King?

...

A tall gothic mansion sat at the top of a green hill, the wind making the surrounding trees bend and bow in eerie fashion, moonlight washing the stone walls in grays and blues. The old architecture played out in sharp contrast to the hundreds of expensive modern cars that sat in the driveway, a large red carpet yawning from the entrance and toward a twenty foot fountain made up of stone kelpies. 

The mansion's windows were brimming with light, flashes of evening gowns in a dozen colors moving from window to window as people mingled. Men in tuxes stood outside, smoking on balconies in murmuring huddles, while woman in ballgowns laughed, taking in large marble statues that stood sentry outside the main doors. 

As Decker made his way toward the mansion, taking in the sight of the elaborate party in the middle of the Italian countryside, he couldn't quite wrap his head around why the Heist King had chosen to come there. 

It didn't match any of her other hit locations. There was no tech company to steal from, just wealthy people, gathering for reasons that were beyond him. 

Decker adjusted the cufflink at his wrists, irritated that the Heist King had managed to guess his tux size perfectly. There was nothing but irritation. No hint of flattery that she had been watching him closely enough to know the details of him.

She's been watching you, it's what she does. There is nothing to read in to. 

He moved through the courtyard until he was standing at the entrance to the mansion, scanning for the Heist King. She was nowhere to be found. 

Decker swore, earning a set of glares from a set of women nearby, who actually clutched their pearls. 

It was impossible to plan when he didn't know the schematics of the location, who was inside, or what the Heist King looked like. Would he even recognize her?

"Mr. James Dillan," a voice to his left asked. Decker didn't even bother looking surprised when a woman with a clipboard glanced from him down to her list. "Mr. James Dillan?" the woman repeated, using his old alias, the very first one he had given the Heist King when they first met. "Your date is inside."

"She isn't—" but the woman was already moving on, completely uninterested in Decker's protest in being called a thief's date. 

With a reluctant last look behind him, toward his rented car and his exit point, Decker patted his pocket, assuring he had his handcuffs and gun on him before he moved into the mansion, curiosity winning out, the need to solve the puzzle, to play the game driving him forward, through the door. 

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Thank you for reading chapter thirteen! I hope you are enjoying the story! Or are at least curious to see where it goes! Add this story to your reading list to know when the next chapter drops!

UPDATE DAYS - A NEW CHAPTER EVERY FRIDAY!

Decker is in Italy, at a mysterious party. What will he find there?

What does the Heist King have planned? 

Will Decker go along with her plans, or try to arrest her?

What will happen next?

CHAPTER QUESTION - Have you ever gone to a themed party? What was the theme? What did you dress as?