I try to shake loose, but he doesn't let go.

"Get off me."

"Hey," the stranger barks, "You heard her. Hands off."

"Lucas," Charity says, her voice edged with warning. "I'll call the sheriff."

I give another tug, and his hand doesn't budge. The stranger walks over, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, man. I really think you need to let go of her arm."

Lucas does let go, but shoves the stranger instead. He tries to, anyway. The other guy just sort of melts out of the way, pivoting on his feet and ducking back without losing his balance in a way that makes my stomach roll just to watch. Lucas stumbled past him, spins around and bares his teeth in a sneer.

"I wouldn't," the stranger says.

There's an excited undertone to his voice, like he means I wouldn't, but I hope you will. The way he's standing he looks like he could dash into movement at any moment, his hands already in loose fists, a kind of relaxed tension stilling his movements. He looks like a marionette hanging by invisible strings.

"Lucas," Charity warns. She has her phone in her hand.

He grumbles something to himself, turns, and stalks off.

"What's his problem?"

"He wants me to go to some stupid party," I tell this strange man, for no particular reason. "Thanks, uh, I guess."

"He'd have left anyway, wouldn't he?"

"Maybe, but I've never seen anybody actually stand up to him before."

"You will. Once high school is over that s.h.i.t wears thin fast. Once he's not a big fish in a little pond anymore, somebody will smash his nose in for that bulls.h.i.t. There's always somebody bigger."

He smiles, and I find myself smiling back. He sticks out his hand.

"Apollo Temple."

I shake his hand. "Seriously?"

"You're supposed to give me your name. Miss, can I have that Mocha whatever to go? I'm just pa.s.sing through."

"Yeah," Charity says.

"I'm Diana," I blurt out.

He squeezes my hand and lets his drop to his side, drops a twenty on the counter and takes the coffee cup.

"Of course you are," he says with a smirk, heading for the door. "See you around, maybe."

As he walks down the sidewalk, Charity and I both watch him.

"Wow," she says, to no one in particular. "He's hot."

Chapter 3: Apollo.

There's something wrong with me. My hands are shaking. My hands never shake. It's not the caffeine. I've barely sipped the Mocha-whatsit. It's too d.a.m.n hot for coffee, but it's actually pretty good. I can barely taste the coffee itself, it's more like hot chocolate, but that's beside the point. I knew from the pictures that Diana was good looking, but hot d.a.m.n, seeing her in person had an effect on me that I've never felt before.

Arousal, of course- one look at her eyes and the pink tinge in her cheeks and my c.o.c.k was throbbing. I wanted to get my hands on her, run my fingers through her hair, feel the warm softness of her body pressed against me as soon as I saw her.

The coffee is too hot but I chug it all in two big gulps and toss the cup in a garbage can, wondering if the scalding heat is going to peel off a layer of the skin in my throat. It feels like swallowing a mouthful of boiling water and I can feel it radiate the heat into my chest as it goes down, and sweat pops on my forehead.

I was looking for the girl. My intention here was to scope her out, see what she was like, if we could use her for the job. I need to b.u.mp into her a few times, get acquainted, work my charms on her a bit before I can begin the process of feeling her out, but what really interests me is feeling her up. She's like some exotic bird that perched on a wire and let me catch a glimpse of her before she flew off.

The friend wasn't bad, either, but plain next to Diana. She has that kind of s.e.xy they call the girl next door. She doesn't have to work for it, it's just there. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from turning around and heading back.

The boy p.i.s.sed me off. I know the type, even if I don't know the circ.u.mstance. I effectively dropped out of high school at fourteen, and its ways are not my ways, but meathead's whole att.i.tude screamed jock. That's a good name for him. Meathead. I'll have to remember that.

He must be somebody important, locally. He seems to be under the impression that he can get physical with a stranger and there will be no consequences. I could have taught him a lesson, but it was easier to get rid of him.

I have a feeling I'll be seeing that one again.

There was something in the way Diana looked at me, too. Those eyes, her eyes are amazing. I didn't notice in the pictures, or maybe it wasn't p.r.o.nounced enough, but she has heterochromia. You have to look to see it, and believe me, I was looking. Her left eye is hazel, almost green. Reminds me of a woman that lived with us for a while in Prague. A high cla.s.s escort. Dad had a thing going with her. She was hot, I mean ethereally beautiful, and smart as a whip. Spoke four languages.

She, uh, offered to be my first, if you catch my meaning. I thought that would be a little strange since she was sleeping with my father so I pa.s.sed. People probably fantasize about stuff like that. I don't usually turn it down but that was a special occasion. I don't think it had anything to do with why she didn't come with us. It was a temporary thing, they all were.

This whole deal is making me nervous. Dad keeps talking it up, saying it might be the end, we could look at retiring after this. He's been thinking about Argentina, too. We never really worked in South America, or at least he never did when I was with him. Or maybe Paraguay, someplace like that. He's got money saved up, payouts in Swiss accounts. This painting we're supposed to lift from the museum is worth a king's ransom.

It might be nice to live in one place, put down roots, have a home. I don't know what that's like. There's a girl or two in every port (every job, really) but I've never had a steady girlfriend, woken up next to the same person more than three or four times in a row.

You know, I could get used to a place like this.

Persistence is a weird name for a town. I don't know why you'd need to be persistent to live here, it's amazing. Cherry trees line the main street, and the oppressive shadows of skysc.r.a.pers are nowhere to be seen. Everything is so bright and open and airy, and even with traffic the air smells sweat and clean, not heavy and stale. Most of the work is in cities. I've spent most of my life sleeping in seedy motels.

Like I said, this is a special job. No motel this time. We're renting a house. It's about a six block walk from the main drag to the new place, and I enjoy it, breathing in the warm breeze as it kicks up. It gets hot here in the day, and humid, but something about it isn't so bad as the sticky, smelly cling of city air. I could get used to it.

The house we've rented is a three story Arts and Crafts style, built in 1920. It's a big box with a pitched roof sitting on top, and an attic equal in square footage to an entire floor. Living and sitting room and a dining room on the first floor (what the difference is between a living and sitting room, I have no idea) bedrooms on the second floor. It's a nice place.

I could get used to this.

The fence swings open and I walk around to the back yard. All of these houses have off street parking, meaning you go around the back. This one has a gravel driveway, gated off from the road, that rolls up to a detached garage. I look around for my father when I heard a whispering sound and spot a four foot long length of wood come sailing at me.

I s.n.a.t.c.h the bokken from the air. It's a sword-sized bundle of wooden lathes bound together with sinew in the shape of a blade. A moment after I catch the sword another one comes singing at my head, the sound of its pa.s.sing loud and heavy with the skull-cracking threat of a solid hit on my head. I duck out of the way clumsily, almost tripping, and barely get the 'blade' of my own up in time to deflect the next hit.

From then it's a dance. Dad swings, and I finally remember to use the forms I've been studying ever since he took me in after Mom died. The blades go clack clack clack until my hands are sore from taking the ringing impacts of his. .h.i.ts. I never attack, only defend. It's all I can do to keep his strikes off me, much less find an opening of my own. He's been practicing since before I was born. He claims he learned it in j.a.pan. All I know is he's good.

When I think he's about to give me a break he comes at me even harder and I have to awkwardly turn my sword-stick, point down and my wrist at a funny angle, to guard a blow that would probably crack one of my ribs. My grip isn't sure and the whole thing twists out of my hands and then I'm on my knees with the tip of his blade inches from my nose.

He offers me a hand.

"You let your guard down."

"Yeah," I pant, suddenly aware of how freaking tired I am. I bend to pick up the dropped bokken.

"You groan like an old man."

"Sorry."

"Never relax until it's over. Keep your head in the moment. What have I been trying to teach you?"

"Mindfulness."

"That's right. You must live completely in the present moment. People make mistakes, they do things they don't intend to do, because they let their own thoughts distract them. You were thinking about something else."

It's not a statement. He just knows.

"Yeah."

He leans his weapon on his shoulder. "You met the girl?"

The two are connected, and he knows it.

"Yes. Just a quick feeler, like we usually do."

"First impressions?"

"Smart, bold, good looking and doesn't know it."

From his expression I may as well have just read him the weather report.

He sits on the back steps and finally looks winded. "Remember, this is a job. When it's over we're leaving. Don't let yourself get too attached. I know how you are."

I've been hearing that for almost three years now, ever since Leanne. It's a sore spot between us, and he knows it. It was the first time I ever stood up to him, even if it was only temporarily.

"Forms, for an hour. Then get in here. We need to go over the job."

That means solo practice. Slowly, at first, I step through the formalized motions, like a pre-recorded series of dance moves. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. By the time I finish I'm swinging the thing around so fast it blurs, practicing attacks I wonder if I'll ever be good enough to use. Kendo, j.a.panese fencing, is like a game of chess where both sides are always in check. One mistake and it's over.

Somewhere Dad has a vault where he keeps physical prizes he's kept from some of the jobs he's done, and in that vault is a real life samurai sword, over four hundred years old, and he knows how to use it. There isn't one for me, but he expects me to know how to do this anyway. Later in the day we'll work on Aikdo, a similar art. It was devised by a j.a.panese master and resembles sword fighting without a sword, if that makes any sense. I can arm myself with a bokken and take a swing at Dad and he'll lay me out, almost without touching me.

I'm not that good. Maybe one day I will be, but I have more of an urge to brawl, to get my hands on an opponent. It would get me in trouble, except I don't get the chance very often. A gentleman thief that ends up in fistfights isn't a very good gentleman thief, now is he?

Soaked with sweat and winded, I trudge up to the house and leave both practice swords leaning up against the back wall. When I get in the shower and let the hot water sluice down my back, all I have to do is close my eyes and Diana's face floats in front of my eyes.

Get a grip, Apollo.

That's exactly what I do. My imagination fills in the details, as in my mind's eye she emerges from the ocean sopping wet and glittering in the dusk, and casually undoes the knot behind her neck that holds up her bikini and lets it fall wet to the sand.

It doesn't take long. I end up panting, leaning against the shower wall, unsatisfied but tired. My legs feel like overstretched rubber bands.

Everything is set up in the attic. By everything I mean a cheap folding desk, a laptop, a work table, and some other equipment in cases. In movies people in our trade always have all these fancy gadgets and magical gla.s.s cutting tools. What I wouldn't give for a pair of gloves that let me climb up walls. The truth is, if the only way to physically get at something is to dangle from the roof and grab it, there are probably other, easier ways.

I mean, I could have rappelled from the top floor of the hotel into Vivienne's room and nicked the necklace, then exited via the stairwells, but it would be dangerous and difficult when I could just talk my way into having a lonely, desperate woman let me into the service corridors. I hope Brittany is okay and gets her life turned around. It was Brittany, right? Brenda? Something like that.

Dad's got it all laid out.

"We'd have an easier time getting into the Smithsonian, or the Louvre," he announces as soon as I step up into the attic. "This place is built like a fortress. NORAD doesn't have security like this."

"So we're going to have to get in another way.

"We're going to have to get in another way."

"What is it we're trying to move?"

"Nothing big or heavy. It's called 'Man washing his hands'. A lost Vermeer. There's supposed to be a dozen more floating around out there, and some of Vermeer's paintings are actually the work of other artists. They found this one last year in the wall of a house, if you can believe that. The owners are putting it on display at this museum by arrangement with the foundation that runs it."

"What foundation?"

"Started by Ellicot Montclaire."

"Never heard of him."

"Guy started the Ace Chemical Company. Did gunpowder, then invented a bunch of synthetic fibers. Ellicot III runs the show now. He's got more money than G.o.d and this museum is a family tradition, which is why it's out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Not really the middle of nowhere. We're what, a half hour from Philly?"

He nods. "I suppose. Usually these things are more centrally located. That makes the proposition of moving it both easier and difficult. In a city there's traffic, construction, all sorts of problems we have to work around that keep us from moving the goods before somebody notices they're missing."

"Yeah, but out here we just drive away. So?"

"So that's it. Less traffic, fewer cars, higher chances of being waylaid or searched. This painting is basically priceless."

"Everything we steal is basically priceless. How much?"

"It's not really a matter of how much."

He stands up and looks at me, and he looks old. Maybe it's just the light in the attic catching all the lines and puffs in his face.

"What do you mean, it's not really an offer of how much?"

He sighs and leans forward, staring into the schematics on the table in front of him. He doesn't usually avoid looking at me like this. I can feel a nervous edge in his voice.

"The last job was sort of an audition. We're working on a contract, here. Think of it that way. I deliver the goods and the contract is fulfilled."

"Audition?"