EMMA

Despite the velocity of the getaway, Eric remained remarkably calm behind the wheel. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he navigated through the chaotic New York traffic, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

I glanced at the side mirror. Red and blue lights still flashed brightly against the winter night, sirens wailing like relentless predators closing in on us.

My gaze traveled to the speedometer—70 mph and climbing.

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my racing pulse, and clutched the grab handle above my seat, holding on for dear life.

Eric pushed the speedometer past 80, then 90, before making a sharp right onto a narrow side street. The move was so sudden, even I didn't see it coming—let alone the cops.

The car tore down the narrow alley, Eric expertly dodging dumpsters and skidding past discarded crates and trash bags before seamlessly slipping back onto the highway.

No longer seeing the red and blue flashing lights in the mirrors, I let out a breath of relief and my grip on the grab handle finally relaxed. But when I glanced at Eric, I noticed the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw was clenched.

Knowing Eric, I realized he was probably blaming himself for what happened, convinced he had missed something crucial. But in our line of work, years of experience had taught me that no matter how meticulously we planned, there was always room for the unexpected.

I needed to pull him out of his head.

"Hey," I said softly. "It's okay. We lost them."

His uncertain blue eyes met mine for a few moments before he gave me a small, fragile smile and nodded.

The rest of the drive was quiet. We kept checking the mirrors, ensuring we weren't followed until Eric finally pulled into a covered parking lot beneath an old shopping complex—one we knew had no CCTV cameras.

He parked the car next to a black Mercedes-Benz. After making sure we had left nothing that could lead to us, we jumped out of the car and got into the switch vehicle.

Eric wasted no time before pulling out of the parking lot. Then finally, when we made sure we had put enough distance between us and the other car, Eric turned into an almost empty gas station and killed the engine.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just sat there, the weight of the escape finally settling in. I reached over and squeezed Eric's hand.

He gave me a tired smile. "What is it with you and trouble?"

I scoffed, a playful smile tugging at my lips. "You know it loves me. But when has that ever stopped me? I roll with the punches."

"Nobody likes a showoff." He rolled his eyes before sighing deeply. "I can't believe I missed the feds were there."

"Me neither! How did you not notice a huge Municipal Utility van?"

He narrowed his eyes and said flatly, "There was no van."

"Damn," I said, mock-serious. "They're getting good at hiding in plain sight."

His glare sharpened, and I decided to take pity on him. "Relax, Eric. We got the painting, and I didn't get arrested by an FBI agent with... questionable dramatic timing."

Eric snorted. "Yeah, no kidding."

"Well, let's just be thankful he wasn't the shoot-first type."

"Small mercies," Eric muttered, starting the car without another word.

I let out a sigh and rested my head against the window, allowing the coolness of the glass to soothe the growing headache I was feeling. The adrenaline and excitement had worn off and were replaced by sheer exhaustion.

Feeling that I was starting to drift off, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to relax. However, that sense of tranquility was short-lived. The camera flash burned in my mind, sharp and unforgiving, reminding me that our troubles were far from over.

My eyes shot open, and I turned to look at Eric. "We have a problem."

"Other than the FBI agent with questionable dramatic timing, who almost arrested you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes! There was a private photographer at the event."

"What?" Eric blurted out, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "Do you think they caught you on camera?"

"I don't know. It was unexpected, so maybe I wasn't careful enough."

He sighed. "At least tell me you caught the studio's name."

"Of course I did." I rolled my eyes, offended he even had to ask. "It was Hauser Studios."

"I shouldn't have expected anything less than the most expensive photo studio in the city." He scoffed, then his face softened as he looked at me. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out."

I nodded without saying anything. The night had drained me out, making my brain feel as flat as a dead battery, and I couldn't summon the energy to worry about it any longer.

Closing my eyes, I dozed off until we finally reached our apartment.

Before heading to my room, I turned to Eric. "Promise me you'll get some sleep," I said. "Tired decisions are as good as drunk ones, and we can't afford that when we're trying to avoid prison time."

"Noted," he replied, already pulling out his laptop.

I sighed, knowing he wouldn't listen. Shutting the door to my room behind me, I threw myself onto the bed, heist clothes still on, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke up to a dim light flittering through the curtains and the steady patter of rain against my window.

For a moment, I lay still, letting the calmness wash over me.

But it didn't last. Memories of last night clawed their way to the surface, reminding me of all the pressing issues that could lead to me wearing an orange jumpsuit for many years to come. And orange wasn't really my color.

Dragging myself out of bed, I took a quick shower before walking to the living room to find Eric still glued to his laptop. His eyes were bloodshot, and empty coffee cups littered the table.

Guilt settled in my stomach as I regretted having gone to sleep, leaving him to handle things on his own.

"Morning," I said softly. "Have you had any sleep at all?"

He looked up, meeting my eyes. "Yeah, I crashed here for a few hours," he said, giving me a slight smile before focusing his gaze again on the laptop. "You better go make yourself a cup of coffee. You'll want to be caffeinated when you hear what I've got."

I eyed him skeptically, but didn't argue. Coffee first, schemes later.

Swiveling to the kitchen, I found that the pot was already half-full, so I decided to make do with the lukewarm coffee and poured it into a large mug, then took it back to the living room.

Sitting next to Eric, I took a few sips of my stale drink before I finally spoke up. "Okay, let's hear it."

"Needless to say, I've managed to hack into the Hauser Studios network," he began, a smug smile drawn all over his face. "In a few hours, the robbery will be featured on every newspaper's front page. It's going to be an international scandal. Everyone will question the Met's policies and the unchecked power of New York's high society."

My mind started to put two and two together. "They're refusing to hand the photos and tapes over to the FBI, aren't they?"

He nodded. "They tried pulling every string there's to pull. All they managed, though, was to delay the inevitable so they could try to lessen the damage by deleting the juicy photos. But soon, a federal judge will sign a seizure warrant, and they won't have a choice but to turn over the evidence.

"As I mentioned, I already hacked into their system and corrupted all the data on their cloud storage. However, they still have a physical copy—the hard drive that will be given to the feds."

"Wow," I managed. "How did you figure all this out?"

"They have a group chat," he explained flatly. "Now, will you focus, please? We need to steal that copy."

Leaning back in my chair, I tried to cobble together a quick plan that would allow us to get our hands on the drive. I knew it would be irrational and absurd to break into a studio in a busy city area in broad daylight. But what if we just walked in through the front door?

I felt an explosion go off in my brain—the good sort. "We don't need to steal it."

Eric glared at me, his eyebrows knitted in a frown.

Grinning, I felt myself buzzing with excitement. "Remember the sting we pulled in Vienna a couple of years ago?"

His frown faded as recognition flickered across his face. I watched as his eyes lit up and a smile tugged at his lips.

We exchanged a knowing look, an entire plan unfolding between us without a single word spoken.

Armored with a cinnamon-red wig and hazel contact lenses, I walked into the studio, my heels clacking on the expensive walnut floor. I carried myself with the confidence of someone who was meant to be there—just as I had hoped—no one looked at me twice.

The place looked more like an upscale gallery than a studio. It was modernly furnished with glass walls showing Manhattan's towering skyscrapers, while polished pillars displayed abstract photos that screamed wealth and exclusivity.

I navigated through the pristine layout until I reached the front desk, where a bored-looking woman sat behind a large desk.

Clearing my throat, I flashed my very fake FBI badge at her. "Special Agent Linda Nicole. I need to see your supervisor. I'm here to seize the evidence related to the Metropolitan Museum's case." Please don't ask to see the warrant.

She gave me what I could tell was a forced smile. "There's no need for you to see a supervisor, Agent," she said dryly. "We've got the drive ready for you. Please wait here a moment."

I restrained myself from exhaling in relief and just feigned checking my wristwatch. "Just hurry up."

With another tight smile, she disappeared into the back. I looked at my wristwatch for real this time, tapping my foot impatiently and hoping she would return before the real FBI agents would show up.

The receptionist returned a few moments later. "Here you go," she said, handing me a bulky envelope.

"You sure this is the right one?" I asked, intending for my tone to come out sharp. I needed her to know I meant business.

"Well, if it's not, you know where to find us."

"Right." I gave her a tight-lipped smile. "May I have your name, please?"

"Julia Laughlin."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Laughlin. It's highly appreciated," I said casually before turning around and heading toward where I came from.

Once I was out in the hall and made sure nobody was looking right at me, I casually pulled a small high-grade neodymium magnet out of my pocket and started rubbing the envelope in my hand with it. The magnet was powerful enough to erase everything on the drive inside.

And out of the corner of my eye, I watched as a man whose figure screamed law enforcement walked into the studio. Eavesdropping, I heard as he introduced himself as FBI to the security doorman and asked to see a Ms. Laughlin.

Taking a deep breath, I walked right up to him. As I made it closer, I realized from the way he carried himself and his badge that he was probably still a junior agent. It would make things easier.

"Julia Laughlin," I said smoothly once the agent was far enough from the doorman. "You were asking to see me, Agent?"

"Yes." He showed me a warrant. "I'm here for the evidence."

"Of course." I handed him the envelope while keeping my finger pads hidden so he wouldn't notice the transparent latex carefully placed over my fingertips. "Though we've already reviewed all the data. There's nothing to find."

"We'll see for ourselves," he replied in measured tones before excusing himself.

I finally let up a pent-up breath when he walked out the door. I watched from behind the glass as he walked to a black SUV parked outside.

And then I froze.

Waiting beside the car was a man, phone pressed to his ear. I recognized him immediately—not by his face, but by the way he stood. Shoulders squared, head tilted slightly forward, radiating a sharp and calculating energy.

I had seen that stance last night when he had aimed his gun at me on the rooftop. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking him.

My stomach tightened.

In my line of work, I had learned to trust my instincts—they were rarely wrong. But this time, I hoped they were.

Because right now, they were screaming at me about an approaching storm—and I was anything but ready for it.