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it?”
    â€œYeah, right. We should,” Jonathan said, laughing. He looked at Lew’s face and saw he wasn’t kidding. “Are you serious? We can’t do that.”
    â€œWhy not? Think about it. You’re as pissed as I am at how the world works. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and it ain’t ever changing. And in a few days we’re going to go our separate ways and you know as well as I do we’re going to either end up dead or doing the same old shit we were doing before. But this could be our chance. Our chance to do one thing right. Our chance to feel good about something.”
    â€œYeah, but—­”
    â€œYou gonna tell me you’ve never stolen anything as part of an op?”
    â€œNo, that’s not the point.”
    â€œThen what’s the point?”
    â€œThe point is . . . the point is . . .” Jonathan trailed off and thought about it. Soon he was smiling. “The point is it would feel fucking great.”

 
    PART TWO
    Saturday

 
    5
    New York City
    10:05 P.M. Local Time
    W ITH A FINAL thump on the thick glass, Emily Burrows fell back into the Town Car’s creamy silver leather upholstery, the heel of her hand red and sore from pounding on the glass for over five minutes straight, her throat raw from screaming. The panic rifling through her body aside, she’d never been in such a luxurious car before. At almost six feet tall, her slender frame fit easily into the space, a new experience for someone who spent most of her life banging her head on low ceilings. As her panting eased, she was about to start a renewed assault on her prison when a melodic voice spoke by her ear. She snapped her head around, confirming she was alone in the ample space.
    â€œOver here, Miss Burrows,” the voice said.
    It was coming from one of the three LCD screens set into the wood grain panel along the front of the compartment, door-­to-­door smoked glass above it, similar to the glass on the doors and behind her. Unlike most tinted glass, she couldn’t see through these at all.
    This car was made for kidnapping . The thought renewed her panic and her breathing sped up. She swallowed hard and fought futilely to calm down.
    â€œPlease try to relax, Miss Burrows. Have a drink.” With that last, a seamless panel opened, revealing a few bottles of water in a refrigerated compartment. Against her better judgment, her dry throat made her grab one of the bottles and gulp down half of it.
    Just then, the LCD screen showed the image of a well-­appointed study, rows and rows of bookshelves in the background. Sitting at an expensive-­looking desk was a man in a black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie. The man wore a mask over his eyes and nose. The kind of mask worn at luxurious masquerade balls: Short, colorful feathers sprouted out the top of the mask, and loops of jewels hung down from the bottom.
    On the desk in front of the stranger sat a copy of her book: The Monarch’s Reign . She could see that more than half of the books behind the stranger in the rows of shelves were also versions of her book. All of the translations and formats were there: hardcover, softcover, book club, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and on and on.
    A psychotic fan? Is that what this is all about? If nothing else, she was glad he was just an image on a screen. Actually being in that room would have been too much to take.
    â€œBetter?” the man asked, an almost gentle smile below the bizarre mask.
    â€œBetter? No, it’s not bloody better! You won’t get away with this,” Emily said, looking at the screen, but slowly reaching into her bag. The water had calmed her somewhat, at least enough to think. She slipped her cell phone out of the bag and attempted to dial without looking at it.
    â€œPlease stop wasting time. Your phone won’t work in there,” the man said, seeming disappointed rather than angry.
    Emily