Undercover and Unhinged: The Misfits Crash a High-Society Gala, Chapter 5
Chapter 5
The heavy mahogany chest rested in the centre of a battered wooden table. Under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb, the diamonds and antique jewelry practically blinded everyone in the room.
Ye Olde Large Lad leaned over the loot, poking a massive ruby brooch with the tip of his iron bar. “Right then. What’s the split? I reckon I get an extra five percent for lugging this box through the rain.”
“You did five yards of carrying and three minutes of complaining, Large Lad,” McFinleyyy said, wiping his glasses with a microfibre cloth. “The heavy lifting was done by my diagnostic tablet.”
“Excuse me?” Dannyboy chimed in, leaning against the doorframe with a chip hanging out of his mouth. “Who slipped the knock-out drops into the guards’ Earl Grey? I practically saved us from a bloodbath. I’m claiming artistic credit.”
The Govna sat quietly on a wooden crate, pouring himself a measure of Irish whiskey from a flask. He looked over at Sgt. Salty, who was standing by the workbench, aggressively scrubbing the remaining hair gel out of his buzzcut with a rag.
“Salty,” The Govna rumbled smoothly. “You’ve been remarkably quiet since we hit the canal. Something on your mind, or are you still reliving your big dance moment?”
Salty tossed the rag onto the workbench and turned around. His face was set in that familiar, stone-hard scowl that usually meant someone was about to get a chewing-out.
“We aren’t fenceing it,” Salty said flatly.
A collective groan echoed through the boathouse.
“Oh, here we go,” Whizzley sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Salty’s moral compass is acting up again! Sarge, we just pulled off a world-class heist!”
“Lord Ashford didn’t buy those jewels,” Salty growled, stepping up to the table and leaning his heavy hands on the wood. “He seized them three years ago when he foreclosed on Mrs. Higgins’ family estate in Galway. The woman is eighty-two, lives on a pension, and Lord Ashford put her heirloom pearl necklace and her mother’s diamond tiara in his vault to flex at dinner parties.”
Sarah cleared her throat, adjusting her green velvet sleeve. “Salty, darling, we are criminal operatives, not a mobile charity unit.”
“We’re Misfits,” Salty corrected sharply. “There’s a difference. We steal from the bad guys, but we don't keep old ladies' memories.”
Susan, who had been sitting quietly on an overturned kayak cleaning her Walther, paused. A faint, knowing smile flickered across her face. “He’s right. The tiara looks dreadful on Ashford anyway.”
The Govna took a slow sip of his whiskey, evaluating the room. He looked at the gleaming chest, then at Salty’s unwavering gaze. “So. What’s the tactical plan for the return leg, Sergeant?”
At 3:00 AM in a quiet suburb of Rathmines, Mrs. Bridget Higgins was awakened by a suspicious noise coming from her front porch.
Clutching her heavy knit cardigan around her shoulders and brandishing a solid brass poker with the lethal intent of an Irish grandmother defending her property, she crept down the stairs and peered through the lace curtains of her front door.
Standing on her front lawn in the drizzling rain was a terrifyingly broad man in a tight dinner jacket, a tactical vest, and wet combat boots. Beside him stood a dashing man in a leather jacket holding a massive cardboard box, and a tall man in a tailored suit holding an umbrella over everyone.
Mrs. Higgins yanked the door open three inches, keeping the safety chain firmly engaged. “Who’s there? I’ve got a poker and I’m not afraid to use it!”
Sgt. Salty immediately stood to attention, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Good evening, Mrs. Higgins,” Salty said, his voice dropping into that absurdly polite, low Marseille-tinged baritone. “Apologies for the late hour. Special Delivery.”
Dannyboy stepped forward, setting a large, ribbon-tied box on the porch mat. “Compliments of the Ashford Rehabilitation Society, ma’am.”
Mrs. Higgins squinted through the gap. “Is that… Salty? Salty from the parish clean-up?”
Dannyboy burst out laughing. Salty shot him a look that could have melted armor plate.
“It’s Sgt. Salty, ma’am,” Salty said stiffly. “We… recovered a few items that were misplaced during Lord Ashford’s recent audit. Your mother’s tiara, the pearls, and the Galway rubies.”
Mrs. Higgins gasped, unhooking the chain and flinging the door wide open. She looked at the box, then up at the crew standing in her garden. Ye Olde Large Lad gave her a polite little wave from behind a rose bush.
“You stole them back?” she whispered, her eyes wide with shock and delight.
“We reallocated them, ma’am,” The Govna corrected smoothly, tipping his hat. “And as for Lord Ashford, he is currently occupied with a very confused security guard, a loop of football highlights, and a distinct lack of diamonds.”
Mrs. Higgins looked at Salty, whose face was turning a subtle shade of crimson under the porch light. She reached out, patted his cheek with a frail, paper-thin hand, and smiled warmly.
“You always were a good boy, Salty,” she said softly. “Even if you do look like a bouncer at a rough pub.”
“Right,” Salty grunted, taking a step back toward the van. “Mission complete. Let's get out of here before she offers us tea. I can't take any more tea.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Higgins called out as the crew piled back into the getaway van. “I’ve got loose-leaf Barry’s Tea and a box of Jacob’s biscuits inside!”
Dannyboy paused at the van door, looking back longingly. “Did she say Jacob’s biscuits?”
Salty grabbed Dannyboy by the collar, hauled him inside, and slammed the slider shut.
“Drive, Large Lad,” Salty ordered, slumping back into his seat as the engine roared to life. “Drive before they make me dance again.”
As the van sped away down the quiet Dublin street, the Misfits laughed, the rain kept falling, and Sgt. Salty quietly leaned his head against the window, content that—at least for tonight—the job was done right.
Comments
Post a Comment