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"SANTA BABY, SLIP A SABLE UNDER THE TREE. FOR ME. BEEN AN AWFUL GOOD GIRL."
There's no time to even be pissed about the song choice before she answers with a breathless demand. "What?"
"Ay, bitch."
It's that cute fucking nickname they'd taken a liking to, cut with the warning of what she can already see flashing in the rear view mirror. Loose strands of hair whip out the open window, obscuring her vision, but as she peers over her shoulder with flushed cheeks and a trembling lip, the red and blue lights dance across too many skewed silhouettes. Fast. Fuck.
"What?" she snaps again.
"I've got your route," Claws mutters in her ear, as if she's right beside her—not 850 feet above. Their lookout. "You're hot on 48th and 52nd. Head to 9th on 49th. Take that left and head all the way to 37th."
Those are the directions. Her pulse quickens; her head spins. Those are his fucking directions. No.
No, no, no.
Something in her chest tightens, a knot of anxiety and dread nearly paralyzing her. This isn't a fucking game anymore; it's that calculated, manipulative warfare that had reeled her in, kept her trapped, tethered her to these nobodies of New York City.
It comes quickly, too quickly, like whiplash across icy cheeks, striking her back to the moment and the masterpiece of a fucking heist that could still fall apart.
Her fingers tighten around the phone. That piece of shit fucking burner.
Of course.
"Right." She swallows, nods, gathers all the bits and pieces of a plan that is seconds away from shattering. "49th. Stay on 49th."
Cadillac glances at her. Briefly. One second. It almost scares her how quickly he reacts, taking the left on 49th, as if her words are law.
Yes.
When he tears his phone out, her gaze streaks across the muddied vision of metal gates and barricades and what should be the blazing icon of Radio City Music Hall. They drift, riding the sidewalk on the left side, and they skitter, jerking and stumbling the wrong way on a one-way street—all the way to Sixth Avenue.
"Bang," Cadillac suddenly clips out, already clutching the burner to his ear. "We're hot on 48th and 52nd."
Her heart skips. "Claws."
"Bitch, seriously? I hate that he gave me that name."
Because Blue named them all. Blue gave them names, a reason, a vengeance. Blue gave them a Christmas dream.
"What else?" she asks, ignoring the slight huff, the disdain, that dramatic sigh that this bitch could trademark.
"City is finally black." Something wistful withers through her voice. "It's... kind of pretty from the top of the rock."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Silence.
Between them, that silence simmers, stirring the unspoken string of words into a deafening thunder. There are a million fucking questions on the edge of her tongue, threatening to unravel, but as she spares another glance at Cadillac, they die.
This will work; it's just going to hurt like hell.
"We deserve this," Claws says softly. "We really do."
Everyone is a little bad. Everyone thinks they deserve something. Everyone has flaws. Everyone fucks up.
She's just worse.
"Yeah. We deserve this."
"Sorry."
Another sharp sound tears through the night, and Cadillac hisses, jerking the steering wheel to send them swinging through an intersection.
Light.
It's a flicker, a flash, a veil of moonlight still glinting across spikes and crystals and—
"Time."
"Right." Claws starts, her breath hitching and her voice softening, and... and then she's back, exhaling shakily, "It's 22:32."
"Okay. Get out. Now."
The sounds descend, surround them, swallow everything—shuffling, the stutter of an engine, a curse, a cry, sirens, sirens, sirens... fading into the darkness, blinking away and blinking between and blinking, blinking... blinking...
"Star."
Inhaling deeply, Star hangs up, turns to him, and smiles. "Blue is at Lincoln Tunnel."
Cadillac snickers, and in the darkness, 3 million crystals seem to reflect in his eyes, shards of icy light and cold betrayal. "Yeah?"
☆
**As Rick and Morty so clearly emphasized, there is no such thing as a heist without a double-cross... or a triple-cross... or something like that. 😈🔪
YOU ARE READING
TOP OF THE ROCK
Mystery / Thriller"Some people want to destroy beautiful things," he said slowly, "but some people just want to steal them." ☆ [completed FIRST draft] a holiday heist in which eight strangers attempt to steal...
