Page 2 of Stolen Princess

Only me.

“I saw two blonde women running in that direction.” I point with my cigarette toward the front of the building. “I thought they were running from the alarm. There were others doing the same.”

“Thanks! You should probably get back inside. Not sure this is the time for smoke breaks.”

“Right!” I laugh. “Wild. Thanks and good luck.”

He doesn’t spare me another glance as he runs after fictitious blonde women.

The moment he’s gone, I take off for the fence line, throw myself over it, and sprint through the brush and shrubs and fucking pools of water. The European Historical Preservation Society decided to be trendy and put their Gems of Fortune and Grandeur exhibition in an artists’ warehouse on the southern Italian-Messalinian border. It’s surrounded by marshlands and a two-lane highway, and that’s it for about ten kilometers before you hit Palemento and another thirty-five before you hit Carona.

Tough in and out if you’re trying to escape by road, but also a motherfucker to track someone if they’re not.

Wind rushes across my face and through my hair as I run with everything I’ve got. I’m trying not to think about the possibility of snakes or other critters anxious to kill me in here. Instead, I pump faster, using the high shooting up my veins to my advantage. That was too easy. At least that’s how it feels. Everything went to plan. That never happens, but I don’t think they were expecting a heist, and it showed. Their security was shit, as you can tell since I’m now running off with a necklace and a bogus tiara.

I mean, they had armed guards and a small special forces unit at the front to intimidate, and a few scattered throughout, but their technology was subpar at best.

A smile cracks my face as I wipe sweat from my forehead.

This is the start of a very big day, and it’s not even noon yet.

At the fallen tree that’s bent in half and sticking out of the water, I take a right and locate the path. My feet are fucking soaked and miserable, but who gives a shit? Up ahead, I spot the parking lot of the school we used as a rendezvous point. They’ve been parked here and used the school’s Wi-Fi to log into the exhibition servers.

Lars is standing outside the van smoking a joint, his orange hair blazing in the sun. Sven’s doing something on his phone, but both freeze when they hear me coming and twist to peer into the brush.

“It’s me,” I yell out as I get closer, slowing my pace and gasping for air.

Both break out into applause. “Did you get them both?” Sven asks, tucking his phone in his back pocket. It’s annoying how identical they are, and if they didn’t have slightly different facial hair—Lars has stubble and Sven a full beard—you’d never be able to tell them apart.

“Yep,” I tell them, trying to fight my excitement.

Both of their eyebrows hit their hairline. “No shit? The tiara was there right next to the necklace? For real?”

The tiara was a last-minute add-on to the exhibit. Our focus was the necklace. At least it was mine. It was bashert—or meant to be—as my Danish housemother used to call it. We learned that’s where they were going to put it just this morning. You’d assume a tiara like that—priceless and belonging to the stolen princess—would be in its own case as its own exhibit. Except it’s a replica, so they might have been afraid of too many solo eyes on the prize.

Now their jaws have dropped.

“You’re shitting me!” Lars belts out a laugh.

“Nope.” I grin smugly. “Not even a little. Where’s my knapsack?”

Sven grabs it from the front seat of the van and tosses it at me. I put it on my back, looping my shoulders through the straps. I can’t wait to change out of these clothes. Maybe even get a shower in.

“Let’s see it. Let’s see both,” Lars demands.

“My buyer didn’t know about the tiara, so I’ll take the necklace to him. You can manage the tiara.”

That’s when they stop, and shit, I may have overplayed that one.

“Why would you give us the tiara?” Sven asks suspiciously.

I give them my most annoyed drawl even as I reach for the knife I keep in my back pocket. “I didn’t say I was giving it to you. I simply said I couldn’t bring it to my buyer. I figured you had ways to sell it, but if not, it’s all fine by me. I’m sure I can find someone.”

They exchange looks, but then we hear sirens.

“Fuck. There.” Lars points to the distance. “Shit, I didn’t have my earpiece in. Fuck!”

“Go!” I head back for the marsh while they go for their van.