Undercover and Unhinged: The Misfits Crash a High-Society Gala, Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The air inside the vault was frigid enough to turn every exhaled breath into a cloud of white mist.

While McFinleyyy and Whizzley went to work on the inner safety deposit boxes with the frantic precision of seasoned safecrackers, Ye Olde Large Lad stood by the massive steel door, his immense frame blocking three-quarters of the corridor.

Dinkz leaned against the wall, checking the time on a gold wristwatch he definitely hadn't bought himself. “We’re running out of time, lads. If Vance wakes up from Susan’s snooze-button special, we’ll have company.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Whizzley panted, prying open a velvet-lined mahogany chest. Inside, row upon row of uncut diamonds caught the low halogen light. “Got it. Lord Ashford’s personal rainy-day fund.”

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the service corridor creaked open. Dinkz instantly raised his suppressed pistol, and Large Lad tightened his grip on the iron pry-bar.

Through the doorway stepped two figures in tailored dark coats.

First came The Govna, calmly adjusting a crisp silver silk tie. He swept his eyes over the chaotic scene with the mild disappointment of a headmaster entering an unruly classroom. Right behind him was Dannyboy, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, tossing a heavy keyring into the air and catching it with a leather-gloved hand.

“Put the pop-gun away, Dinkz, there’s a good lad,” The Govna said, his deep, rumbling voice echoing down the corridor. “We’ve secured the rear exit. The estate’s perimeter team is currently enjoying a batch of tea Dannyboy spiked with heavy-duty sleeping drops.”

“Earl Grey, actually,” Dannyboy added with a sharp grin, leaning against the doorframe. “Classy to the end. Also, I pinched the keys to Lord Ashford’s vintage Jaguar just in case our getaway van suffers a sudden bout of modest speed.”

“We don’t need the Jag, Dannyboy,” Sarah said smoothly, stepping out from the vault shadows, her green velvet dress completely spotless. “Salty is wrapping up his performance upstairs.”

“Performance?” Dannyboy blinked. “What kind of performance?”

“He’s doing the tango,” Susan replied, her voice drier than a bone in the Sahara. “In a dinner jacket two sizes too tight. With Lady Elara.”

Dannyboy stared at her for two solid seconds before breaking into a wide, disbelieving laugh. “Salty? The man who thinks fine dining is an extra slice of black pudding? You’re pulling my leg.”

“He was speaking French, too,” McFinleyyy chimed in, zipping the last duffel bag full of diamonds and sliding his reading glasses into his pocket. “Proper French. Marseille accent.”

The Govna raised a single eyebrow, quietly impressed. “Well. The old dog still has a few unexpected teeth. Right then, conversation over. Bags up. We move now.”

Upstairs, the orchestra was swelling toward its thunderous finale. Sgt. Salty, holding Lady Elara in a breathtaking, low dip, felt his earpiece click twice.

“Vault clear, Sarge,” The Govna’s voice rumbled in his ear. “The package is secured. Don’t kiss the lady.”

Salty smoothly hauled Lady Elara back onto her feet, stepping back with a crisp, practiced bow. “Un plaisir, Madame,” he said in his low, gravelly Marseille baritone, lightly kissing the air above her hand.

Lady Elara’s eyes narrowed with sharp intrigue. “You’re leaving already, Monsieur?”

“Duty calls,” Salty replied, offering a tight, enigmatic smile. “A gentleman never overstays his welcome.”

Before she could press him, Salty melted backward into the crowded ballroom, slipping behind a heavy velvet curtain and stepping out onto the wet terrace. In three seconds flat, he shed the borrowed dinner jacket, tossed it over a balustrade, and adjusted his tactical vest underneath.

He hit the gravel path at a brisk trot, meeting the rest of the crew by the estate’s side gate.

Dannyboy was leaning against the black getaway van, holding a pair of night-vision goggles in one hand and a half-eaten vol-au-vent in the other. He looked Salty up and down with a massive smirk.

“Bonjour, mon Capitaine,” Dannyboy purred in terrible schoolboy French. “Care to dance?”

Salty didn't even slow down. He grabbed Dannyboy by the back of his collar, shoved him into the back of the van, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Get in, you lot,” Salty growled, turning the ignition as the engine roared to life. “Before I let Susan put the rest of you to sleep.”

The Govna slid into the front passenger seat, settling his heavy coat over his knees as the van sprayed gravel and pulled out into the rainy Dublin night. He glanced over at Salty, who was busy rubbing gel out of his hair with the palm of his hand.

“Good work back there, Salty,” The Govna said quietly. “Though I hear your footwork was surprisingly light.”

Salty grunted, shifting gears as they merged onto the dark bypass. “It was tactical evasion. Nothing more.”

From the back seat, Dannyboy leaned forward between their chairs, grinning in the rearview mirror. “Whatever you say, Fred Astaire. Next job, you’re doing the bolero.”