Foiled Plans

By Julia Knox

When Anja left behind her former life as Antonio, she also gave up her position as the best getaway driver the mafia had ever known, but a mysterious man invades her new, comfortable-ish existence with an offer she can't refuse. She tells herself it's just one last job, but the heist goes wrong, leaving her and its only other survivor, a military intelligence veteran and card shark named Sam, on the run with the world's most famous painting and several criminal and diplomatic organizations hot on their heels. As they try to plot their next steps, the two women grow closer, exponentially complicating matters. Will they ride off into the sunset or will their foiled plans finally catch up with them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094435084

Julia Knox

Julia Knox is a lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest with a background in the arts and legal professions. Living in such a beautiful area, she enjoys a good hike and stargazing — at least when rain clouds don’t cover the sky. On those drizzly days, she stays in with a good book on her lap and an interesting album on the turntable or a new recipe to experiment with, to her friends and family’s delight (or disappointment).

Book preview

1

Just a Little in and Out

Sam

The service elevator crept toward the twenty-first floor. No pleasant music piped through tinny speakers, leaving only silence and the rattle of metal outside the box. John and Smith stood at either shoulder, dressed in blue utility jumpsuits, the same as mine. Smith held a tool box loosely, as if it wasn’t full of decoys with a false bottom containing the real tools we needed for the job, or task as Horne kept calling it.

We should’ve taken one of those shiny elevators up front, we’d be there by now, John said.

Oh, they don’t let the help mix with those white-collar folks, Smith replied.

There you go, bringing race into it, John said; lips twisting in an all too familiar sneer.

Smith scoffed. I almost joined him. According to Horne, Mr. Gregory had brought in the Bostonian bigot because of his experience in art heists. That sort of focus required an expertise, some degree of specialized knowledge. So far, John had only shown his ignorance and anger. Those qualities rarely matched.

In admitting why John was on the team, Horne had offered the first clue as to our target: a single painting in a private collection, about two feet by three feet, judging by the bag he’d supplied. We had a blueprint of the room and the location of our target, but no specifics on the art itself. I had a quarter of a million reasons not to pry, so I left it at that. Who cared what we were stealing? I only cared about the money.

Do you really not know what ‘white-collar’ means? Smith was saying. I keep telling myself you’re putting on an act. Our employer spared no expense on this little task of his. He had to have a reason to bring you along.

Smith turned and glared across me down at John. Standing between them was about the worst place I could be. I inched to the rear to get out from the middle, but my backside brushed the elevator wall. In such a cramped environment, there wasn’t anywhere I could go.

Mr. Gregory and my family have a history, did you know that? John said; his ever-present sneer twisted to something resembling a genuine grin. My dad, he taught me everything he knew. He did a task for Mr. Gregory back when I was still on my way into the world. Have you heard of the Gardner Heist?

Your father pulled the Gardner Heist? Smith asked, head tilted in complete disbelief. Half a billion worth of art vanishes without a trace, yet the thief’s son is blabbing about it to strangers?

He had a good point. I’d kept to the periphery of the criminal world. When you’d joined the kind of back-room card games I had, you met your fair share of thugs and gangsters. The first thing they’d taught me at Fort Huachuca was paying attention, and thankfully I hadn’t forgotten those lessons when I left the service. If I understood the dangers, I learned to counter, or at least roll with them.

Criminals lived and died on their reputations. There were always a few who’d take credit for others’ deeds to boost their standing but the smart ones never talked about what they did. If you blabbed, people could hear you, the cops might be listening on a wire, or to an informant. You wanted to work with men who stayed mum, if you had to work with anyone at all. His bragging only increased my worries.

Smith let out a long breath, almost a sigh. His eyes shrunk under heavy brows and he inched closer to the braggart. I pushed myself away from the elevator’s back wall and back between the two.

Now’s not the time for a dick-measuring contest, boys, I said. Get your damn game faces on. We've got a job to do, right?

Neither paid attention, at first. Smith loomed over me, eyes still on John. Our art thief puffed his chest at the challenge. He couldn’t match Smith’s size, but he was far from a ninety-pound weakling. I’d held my own against men much bigger than me in the service, but between them, and in a cramped elevator? Those were odds I’d fold on.

Thankfully, Smith saw sense. His rigid posture deflated and he backed away, head shaking. John stood taller for a second as he savored a perceived victory. The elevator slowed to a stop before he could think of what would surely be a cutting reply to stir the shit again.

We stepped into the hallway, our work boots thudding on the scuffed linoleum floor. Fluorescent lights hung from the unfinished ceiling, no drop tiles. They reflected brightly on the bare wallboards. Just like the service elevator, the owners hadn’t wasted money prettying up the building’s behind-the-scenes areas.

According to the blueprints, the electrical room is to the right and around the corner, I said; already moving.

They hurried to follow, boots echoing through the hall. Around the corner, we reached a pair of double doors to one side with the label ELEVATOR across them. A single door labeled ELECTRICAL sat on the other side. Its handle twisted when I tried it, and the door swung open.

I can’t believe it wasn’t locked, Smith said; thought we’d get a chance to see our security expert pull out her picks.

It wouldn’t have taken me long, I replied, but the human element is always the weakest part of any security system. The maintenance workers probably got annoyed having to lock and unlock these doors. I mean, only authorized personnel are allowed back here, after all.

I patted the visitor badge clipped to my jumpsuit’s breast pocket. When we’d pulled up at the garage entrance in a panel van with a large AAA Electric Servicing logo on the side, dressed in matching utility jumpsuits featuring the same logo on the back, the man at the gate would’ve believed us even if I hadn’t just spoofed a maintenance call from the law offices on the twenty-third floor.

A row of circuit breaker panels lined one wall with thick cables running from them, either dropping through the floor, up to the ceiling, or along the wall. The electric meters lined the other wall, three rows of glass globed dials. I walked past to the main switch. It had its own panel. The red switch itself was as long as my arm.

Okay, once I activate the device in the van, the fire alarm will trigger. After that is when we cut the power and get to work, I reminded them, fishing a burner phone from my pocket to send the code.

Still think this is a bad plan, John said. We’re just waving a flag to the police, bringing them to us.

"No, we’re sending the building’s security to the garage, but the smoke will have dissipated by then. They’ll call it in as a false alarm, so the fire department won’t show. That false alarm will make them hesitate when the real alarm sounds, I said impatiently, then tapped the button to activate the smoke. Which it will, when we cut the power. But all the electric doors will unlock and we can waltz to our objective."

Our out is going to be loud as hell anyway, John insisted. "If we draw the cops too quickly, we’ll just find out if our lady driver is as good as he thinks she is."

"Mr. Gregory seems to think she is. He hired us, right? She’s got to know her stuff," I argued.

From my brief interactions with Anja, she’d appeared to be a hell of a lot more competent than John, but I didn’t say that. She’d explained her part in the heist without bluster or exaggeration and I had no reservations about her.

Meanwhile, a klaxon had sounded. The emergency lights over the door flashed. I tapped the button on my phone again. In the garage far below, the smoke device under the van turned off. Mentally calculating how long it would take for somebody to get down there and call in the false alarm, I added a count of five for good measure, then yanked the mainline switch down.

The lights in the room blinked off, bathing us in blackness. The emergency lights above the door strobed, continuing to flash. Smith dropped the tool chest to the floor. He tapped the hidden button and pulled it back up. The false bottom remained on the floor. The custom carrying case for our target sat on top of the guns and ropes. Its shiny titanium surface glittered in the strobing light.

Five minutes later, we’d gone two floors down and reached the utility entrance for our target suite. Smith took point. He held his pistol toward the ground, the flashlight in his other hand illuminating the spot. His light surveyed the room. Two boxy units were bolted to the floor and took up most of the room. Ducts led from them to the far wall. A server rack stood next to the door there.

Someone likes their AC, Smith said.

It’s for the art, John replied. He ran a finger along the side of the closest one. If you’re storing it for a long time, you need to keep the right temp and humidity.

And it gives us an easy entry, I said; pointing my flashlight to the far door.

Again, Smith took point. The door opened into the gallery. It moved with just a push. The outer part extended along the wall, hiding most of the room. Smith’s beam remained on the floor. He inched to the edge and surveyed the room. With a nod, he continued in. I followed behind John.

Once I passed the outer edge of the extended door, he pushed it back against the wall. My light swept the first painting. It was a huge square canvas, taller than me. Random splatters of paint covered it with no pattern in color or size.

That’s a Jackson Pollock, John said.

Paintings dotted the entire wall, all the way to the floor-to-ceiling darkly-tinted windows at the far end. They lined the opposite wall as well. A T of internal walls added more space for hung paintings. We’d entered near the bottom corner. Our target was on the far side of the T’s cross, according to Horne’s information. It was the only painting on that side. Smith led us in that direction, flashlight scanning for any threats.

John’s light kept to the walls and each painting we passed. His eyes glittered at