Heist Society

The bellman certainly didn’t see the girl who sat with her legs thrown over the side of a wingback chair as she cocked an eyebrow and said, “Welcome home.”

The element of surprise is one of the greatest weapons at a thief’s disposal, or so Kat had to think when she saw the boy’s face. He stood framed in the doorway of his own hotel room, staring at her, shocked.

“What?” Kat asked, feigning ignorance. “No ‘Hello’? No ‘Honey, I’m home’?”

“You.” He turned his head and looked down the narrow, empty hallway, as if she had just rushed inside and that was how she’d gotten into his room.

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced on the street.” Kat swung her legs off the silk-upholstered arm. “I’m Katarina Bishop. But you already know that if you looked in the wallet you’ve got in the inside left pocket of that coat you’re wearing.” He touched his pocket as if checking to see whether or not she was correct. She was.

“My friends call me Kat.” She looked the boy up and down. “I’m not sure what you should call me.”

At the end of the hall, a television blared. Kat heard a French anchorwoman announcing the arrest of a suspect in the robbery of a local gallery where a valuable statue had been stolen. She flinched and hoped the boy didn’t notice.

“How’d you get in here?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You can pick pockets.” Kat watched his hand fly to his back pocket. “I can pick locks. Looking for this?” she asked, holding up his wallet. “Oops. Maybe I can pick pockets too.”

She held his wallet toward him. “Care to trade?” Then she opened it and looked at the I.D. “Nicholas Smith. Sixteen. British citizen.” She glanced between the I.D. and the boy in front of her. “Not very photogenic.”

She hopped from her chair and plucked her own wallet from his limp hands. She tossed his onto the hotel bed.

“How . . .” he started, but Kat’s look stopped him.

“You’re telegraphing your cover,” she said matter-of-factly.

Kat was prepared for an argument and lies—anything but the sight of the boy smiling, the sound of him saying, “Wow. Talented and cute. It’s very nice to meet you, Katarina.” The boy dropped onto the corner of the bed and pulled off one shoe. “How old are you, anyway?” Kat didn’t answer.

She turned instead and fingered the fresh flowers on the table, eyed the silk window coverings blocking the view. “This is a nice place. You pay for it working short cons?”

The boy looked up at her. He had short dark hair and bright blue eyes and the kind of smile that made you forget what you’d been thinking. “Among other things.”

“And you’ve been practicing for”—Kat eyed him again— “two years?” she guessed. The pleased look on his face was answer enough. “Where did you learn?”

“Around.” He shrugged. “You pick up things. You practice.”

Kat had been picking things up since her third birthday, when Hamish and Angus’s father took them all to the circus because he needed to “borrow” an elephant.

“You ever get caught?” she asked, and he shrugged again.

“Not by the police.”

“Do you have a record?” He shook his head. “Do you have a crew?” she asked.

“I work alone.”

Kat wondered whether or not the boy who had bumped into her on a Paris street was as good as she thought he might be. And whether or not he knew it.

She studied him, wondering if the missing piece of her plan might have strolled into her life. “Do you want to keep it that way?”

4 Days Until Deadline

Chapter 23

Of all the things that should have fallen within Katarina Bishop’s comfort zone, sneaking into a mansion (especially this particular mansion) at three o’clock in the morning should have been incredibly high on the list. After all, she knew the pros and cons of the security system (because she’d been the one to recommend it). She was familiar with the house and was well aware of the fact that the patio doors were painted shut and the rosebushes beneath the dining room windows were equipped with a particularly nasty supply of thorns.

But that night, walking through the front door of the Hale estate felt a lot like walking back into Uncle Eddie’s kitchen— like she’d left without permission, and she might never really belong inside again.

So she tried to cling to the shadows. She wanted everyone to be asleep.

“Kat?”

She froze and cursed the creaky floors.

“Kat, is that you?” Gabrielle’s voice was high and scratchy. Despite the darkness, Kat could easily make out her cousin sitting at the top of the stairs. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy mess on the top of her head.

“What is it?” Kat asked. “What’s wrong? Is it Taccone? Did he—”

“It’s your dad, Kat. He was arrested.”

A light turned on in one of the rooms upstairs, and Kat heard voices approaching.

She looked at Gabrielle, praying she would understand. “I know.”

“You did what?”

Kat wasn’t sure who said it first, because it seemed like her entire crew had blurted the question at the exact same time. She wasn’t even sure where to look, because every eye in the billiards room was staring at her with such heat and scrutiny, it was like squinting at the sun.

“I made an executive decision,” Kat told them.