BigSaltyDog

Chapter 5 The hideout was an old, disused boathouse on the banks of the Grand Canal. It smelled of damp timber, diesel fumes, and the lukewarm takeaway fish and chips Dannyboy had insisted on picking up on the way back. 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 practi...

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 fig...

The vault door was three feet of solid, cold steel, tucked away at the end of a corridor that smelled faintly of polished mahogany and high-yield panic. While Sgt. Salty was currently executing a life-or-death tango on the floor above, the remainder of the crew had assembled in front of Lord Ashford’s prized possession. They looked less like an elite breach-and-clear squad and more like a collection of misfits who had taken a wrong turn on the way to the pub. McFinleyyy was crouched at the electronic keypad, adjusting his reading glasses with one thumb. “Right then. State-of-the-art cipher lock with a secondary biometric tumbler. Very fancy. Very expensive.” “Can you open it, or do I need to hit it with something heavy?” Ye Olde Large Lad rumbled, towering over him like an oak wardrobe in a tailored suit. He was currently holding a leather-wrapped iron pry-bar with the casual ease of a man holding a newspaper. “Hit it with something heavy and we’ll trigger the silent al...

Chapter 2  The scene was, by all logical accounts, a disaster. Through the massive arched windows of the grand ballroom, the Irish rain lashed against the glass like angry, microscopic fists. Inside, the sheer opulence of the Ashford Estate’s gala was a nauseating smear of gold, crystal, and diamonds. Sarah and Susan, having ditch the damp wool for those dangerous silks (the green velvet and black mesh, respectively, and yes, Sarah’s utility pouch was tucked exceedingly well), were already moving through the crowd, radiating a collective composure that made actual royalty look fidgety. Sgt. Salty, however, was having a difficult time with his ‘blending.’ He had managed the transformation from mud-caked SAS remnant to a ‘Continental security consultant’ primarily through the sheer, brute-forceapplication of a borrowed dinner jacket (which Susan swore was a size too small, and Salty swore was ‘aerodynamic’) and a severe, almost geological application of hair gel. But noth...

The heavy oak doors of the Ashford Estate weren’t meant to open for a man wearing combat boots with a split sole, but Sarah had a knack for making stubborn timber cooperate. With a soft, metallic snick, the side entrance clicked open. She slipped through the shadow of the rose trellis like ink dissolving in water, holding the heavy brass handle to stop the latch from echoing down the courtyard. Beside her, Susan was already inside, crouching low against the mahogany wainscoting, her fingers lightly tapping a silent rhythm on the frame of her silenced Walther PPK. Susan glanced back through the gap in the doorway, her dark eyes narrowing. “He’s running late.” “He’s not late,” Sarah whispered back, adjusting her hair clip. “He’s just loud.” Right on cue, a muffled, wet crunch echoed from the gravel path behind them, followed immediately by a sharp, strangled hiss of swearing that could only belong to one man in the British Isles. Sgt. Salty burst through the opening sideways,...