Sly Cooper and the Gang In: A Long Lost Love

CHAPTER 3

Sly sat in the bakery opposite FarFlight Tower, watching the sun crest over the sea of skyscrapers and other spiraling feats of architectural engineering. Paris's Master Thief tapped the hologram on the table and selected a generous tip for the overworked waitress as he prepared to leave. The donuts had been especially good that morning, but better still was the Tower's night guard rotation, which consisted of several bored-looking security workers who were ripe for bribing. He finished the last of his coffee and dusted the sugar off his suit jacket. He was due for an event. Or at least, he was due to spy on one.

He radioed Bentley an hour later, not bothering to tap on the audio processor embedded in his ear. Thankfully, he'd upgraded to the hands-free, thought-controlled generation of microchips the leading tech company had recently rolled out–and Bentley had made some useful . . . alterations. "I'm in position," he whispered, taking a drink from a suavely dressed waiter. LaTour stood about twenty yards below him in the midst of the high society drinkers, schmoozing investors for a new project his financing company had lent backing to last year. The rabbit slicked his ears back and straightened his lapel, squinting down at his peers through the silver monocle resting on his right eye. Sly grinned. "And the rabbit is in the trap."

"Good to hear it, Sly," the genius turtle drawled from his chair, safe on the outskirts of the city. Sly made a mental note to thank Bentley for upgrading their audio processors for long distances. "Now, the next part is absolutely paramount. LaTour has been investing in various startups, but lately, his bank accounts have seen a huge drain. I have reason to believe he's backing a project of enormous importance. And if I know anything about him, it's that he doesn't believe slow and steady wins the race."

Sly bit back a snort at the reference to the old-world fable and raised his glass at a passing gentleman. Polite. Ambiguous and polite. "What does he believe?"

"The more eyes you can get on a product the better. I predict he'll announce whatever he's been launching tonight, in front of all his deep-pocket friends."

"And you dragged me away from my coffee and original glazed this morning because some rich asshole wants to flash his coin balance?" Sly surprised a smirk at the lecture he'd get from Sylas if the old wolf knew he was here after his thinly veiled lie the other night.

A scoff sounded across their audio link, and he could practically hear Bentley push his glasses up his nose. "Puh-lease. Like I'd waste my time on a card slider." With careful investment, the inventor had made Sly's finances from the Cooper Vault last the past thousand years easily. "The import records for the Tower indicate LaTour's been moving massive materials through the doors. Their inventory is off the charts for an enterprise business, and highly suspicious, I might add. Whatever Carmelita was looking into, I'd bet my shell that has something to do with it."

Then let's see what this old hare has up his sleeve . . .

Murray waited outside in the limo they'd lifted from one of the Penthouse's collections, probably deep in a basket of burgers by now, if he was eating at all. Lately, he'd been complaining of a nervous stomach, and though Sly had his suspicions about whether it was nerves or depression, he hadn't poked at the hippo's thin excuse. They'd return the sleek black stretch in the morning, hamburger grease hopefully included. Considering the owner airlifted twenty similar vehicles to his 212th-floor parking garage, Sly doubted they'd notice it was gone . . . or that it was returned a little greasier than they'd left it. Besides, he figured, how else was one to arrive at a high society event?

LaTour took the stage, and Sly set his drink on the marble balcony, bracing his hands on the unflinching stone. This was it. What Carmelita had considered more important than her own safety, more important than coming home that night. More important than the hole left in his heart that hadn't filled in five years, and never would. And if LaTour had put her in some sort of danger . . . Sly's nails dug into the cold white stone.

The rabbit had to be more than a thousand years old. The veins in his arms were visible under his thinning fur, blue from the cell regeneration serum all the richest–or sneakiest, in Sly and the Gang's case–used to keep their interests in their near-immortal reach. Sly spent the first part of the hare's very clearly rehearsed speech studying the investor's counterparts, searching for any connections or alliances he could exploit. By the time he returned his attention to the rabbit, the patchy bunny was grinning and waving a hand at the tall double curtain behind him.

"It is my greatest pleasure to announce," he began in a highly affected accent, "the Interplanetary Trade Gate." On his cue, the two curtains fell, revealing an enormous architectural sketch of a two-part circular machine that appeared to generate extreme amounts of energy at its center. "With this machine, we will be fully prepared to venture beyond Earth's barriers and limitations, and reach out to our brothers and sisters across the stars."

Sly heard Bentley rake in a breath. A splat sounded across their audio link. Murray must've dropped his food. "Anything could come through that thing . . ." the turtle wheezed. In the background, Sly heard the scientist's computer keys already tapping. "A dimensional rift maker like that could transport goods to and from other worlds. It would infinitely increase trade and merchandising." His nasal voice grew extremely serious. "Sly, whoever owns this owns the world."

But Sly barely heard him. Something had caught his attention. With a thought, he activated his microchip and zoomed his vision in on the bottom of the architectural illustration. An owl insignia marked the right corner, with mechanical wings crossed in front of its angular face.