Page 1 of Brazen Criminals

Prologue

RJ

I’mthelastoneback to the house, which is the first sign the plan failed.

The second sign is the yelling bleeding through the front door.

Shoving the heavy wood aside, I stride into the living room, letting my sopping wet bag slump onto the floor. I can clean it up later. My tech is already beyond salvation.

Trips whips around to glare at me, his blue eyes pure ice, like our carefully laid plan imploding is solely my fault. “Where the fuck have you been?” he growls.

Ignoring him, I head into the kitchen, tossing my helmet onto the counter before grabbing a hand towel to squeeze some of the water from my coils. Today is definitely not wash day.

Trips follows me. “RJ, seriously man, you were supposed to be first back.”

I twist around, trying not to snap. Trips reacts to fire with fire, so I need to be water—considering the fact I’m dripping on the kitchen floor, I should be able to make that happen. “I was fishing my laptop out of the Mississippi. Oh, and the comm box, and the police scanner, and I don’t know, a few thousand dollars of equipment. You’re lucky I’m a solid swimmer.”

Trips paces, yanking at his red-brown hair like pulling it out might salvage this shit show. Spoiler alert—this gig is unsalvageable.

The absence of Jansen’s perma-grin shocks me as he trails us into the kitchen. Trips turns his rage against the happiest of our little band of thieves. “You—what the fuck were you thinking? You boosted a Porsche. Literally the worst possible getaway car you could have found. It was even red, you fool.”

Jansen pulls out his hair tie, his blond hair sweaty at the roots as it flops down around his shoulders. “I had the fob. How could I not take it? I didn’t even have to hotwire the thing.” He shrugs and springs up to sit on the kitchen island, his legs swinging like we didn’t almost lead the cops to our front door. “I can drop it at Tao’s at seven. He’ll strip it. We’ll get some cash. It’s a shame we can’t keep it.”

Trips sighs, giving up on scolding the unrepentant. “Where’d you stash it?”

“Campus parking lot by the McDonalds.”

Gripping the edge of the counter, Trips stares at his hands. “Walker. Tell me something good.”

Walker joins us in the kitchen, still looking like the good Asian boy he was pretending to be, his black hair parted on the side and his fake glasses perched on his nose. He tries ruffling his hair back to normal, his face grim. “I don’t have anything good to report. Shit got crazy before I could verify it was the piece we were looking for.”

Trips clenches his fists. “So no art, no computers, and cops fucking everywhere, practically up our asses.”

We all stare at the floor for a minute. I’m making a puddle.

“How much are we out?” Walker asks.

Trips rolls his eyes back, reading numbers behind his lids. “We lost the commission, and we were counting on that to fund our next job. How much for new tech, RJ?”

The puddle is getting ridiculous, so I walk to the sink and ring out my shirt. “Almost ten grand.”

“Fuck.” Trips’ll be hitting the heavy bag hard tonight.

“We’ll get some of that from the car,” Jansen points out.

My shirt no longer dripping, I turn back in time for Trips to squeeze his eyes shut, fists tight enough to shake. “We’re short almost $25,000.”

“And the cops got close. Too close,” I say.

Jansen hops down and grabs another towel, wiping up my puddle. “Remind me why we’re still going to college? We’d save a ton if we didn’t have to pay tuition,” he says, the towel sweeping under my feet one at a time.

“It’s good cover and gives us time to make mistakes,” Trips reminds him.

A hint of Jansen’s usual humor flashes in his eyes. “Mistakes like today?”

Trips flips him off.

I shoot Jansen a “cool it” look. “So we need money,” I say.

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