KNOCKOUT

X: GLASS JAW

A NEGATIVE TERM USED TO DESCRIBE A FIGHTER WHO CAN'T TAKE A PUNCH, WHO GETS KNOCKED OUT EASILY

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"IF EVERYTHING GOES ACCORDING TO PLAN, we'll be outta there lickety-split."

"You know." Dion taps his chin thoughtfully. "When we're old, this is gonna be a funny one to tell our grandkids."

"If we're not still in jail, you mean." Irene shoots her cousin a glare that would make the devil himself piss his pants.

But Doris just grins loosely, flashing his pearly whites. "Oh, have a little faith, cuz."

It was the day of the Astro Gala. On the other side of New York City, there were florists and event planners and chefs in overdrive mode, trying to prepare for the charity event of the season. On this side of New York City, there was a motley gang of assassins and thieves, dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, huddled over a table in a dim-lit attic, trying to prepare for the heist of the season.

"This would be so much easier if you just wanted one of the paintings up for auction," Irene grumbles, the dim light casting shadows across her brown skin. She had not been shy about sharing how much she'd rather be spending her Spring Break doing anything but this.

"What would be the fun in that?" Dion cocks his head. "Besides, you know the rules."

The Nikephoros family didn't have many rules in regards to their criminal activities, but one of them was: no stealing from charities, or else Uncle Lee would come and set your ass on fire. (There was a running bet in the family on whether he had meant that figuratively or literally.)

"We wouldn't steal it, moron." Irene rolls her eyes. "We'd just bid on it . . . but funny, how that's the first thing you think of."

Doris rolls his eyes right back at her. Turning towards the rest of the group, he paces like a drill sergeant. "Everyone got the plan? So when I give the go ahead, Zenon and Irene will head for the painting. Dion, Hale, and myself will head for the control room, and then—"

Irene waves her hand. "Yeah, yeah, we got it. If you go over it one more time, I swear I'll—"

"Well then, gang—chop, chop!" Dion claps his hands obnoxiously, cutting Irene off mid-sentence. She scowls at him. He doesn't notice, too busy grinning wickedly at them. "Let's go steal ourselves a Monet."

       By the time they arrive, the gala's already in full swing. Paparazzi line the entrance in rows outside The Pinnacle, holding cameras like rifles, shooting blinding flashes carelessly in every direction. Zenon follows Irene past them and to the entrance, where she shows an invitation, and a man immediately leads them to their designated dining table.

On the way, they pass by politicians, Wall Street bankers, CEOs, trophy wives, philanthropists—everyone who was anyone in New York's elite social circle was gathered here tonight.

They could relax until the auction, which was going to start near the end of the night—that was when they were going to steal the Monet. Due to the gala being tonight, they were banking on the fact that there weren't going to be any night guards on rotation.

So for the next few minutes Zenon sips her champagne as some of Irene's friends—all heiresses of one fortune five-hundred company or the other—come greet her and gush over her dress.

"Is that vintage Dior? Wow, you look amazing!"

And normally Irene would be gushing right along with them, but tonight, her shoulders are hitched and her smiles are tightly lipped, no doubt feeling tense and anxious just like the rest of them. Well, the rest of them excluding Dion and Doris, who were too busy enthusiastically playing some sort of car racing game on their phone.