Treachery in the Highlands (Hot Scots: Prequel)

Chapter One

Joey

The city sprawls out below me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows. I crouch on the edge of the rooftop, wearing my trusty leather jacket as I lean forward. My gaze locks onto the pawn shop nestled between a bodega and a laundromat. Bingo.

"All right, Finnegan," I mutter to myself. "Let's see what we're working with here."

I pull out a pair of compact binoculars, scanning the building's facade. Two cameras, one above the door and another at the corner. Child's play. The streetlights flicker to life, casting pools of sickly yellow that barely penetrate the gloom. I drum my fingers on the concrete ledge as I weigh my options---take a chance on this shop, or head back to the dump I call home.

You know what you want to do, Finnegan. Why are you hesitating? Just go for it, dumbass.

I stand, stretching my arms above my head. The wind whips around me, threatening to throw me off balance, but I've danced this jig too many times to falter now. As I make my way across the rooftop, in my mind, I tick off every step of the plan. Disable the cameras, pick the lock, slip inside. In and out in ten minutes flat. Easy as it gets.

But a nagging doubt creeps in. What if something goes wrong? What if this is the job that finally catches up to me?

I shake my head, banishing those thoughts. "Get it together, Finnegan. You've done this a hundred times, at least."

Now that I've given myself a mini motivational speech, I'm ready to go. My movements are fluid and practiced. Every step, every gesture has been honed by years on the streets. I'm a ghost, a shadow, invisible to all but the most observant eyes.

And in this city? No one's watching that closely.

Just as I reach for the fire escape ladder, a memory ambushes me, as sharp and unwelcome as a knife to the gut. Foster home number...what was it? Four? Five? The details blur, but the ache remains even after all these years.

"You're nothing but trouble, Joey," Mrs. Whoever-She-Was had sneered, her bony finger jabbing my chest. "A petty thief who doesn't care about anyone but himself. No wonder your parents left you."

That old crone had been right. I am a thief, and all I steal is trinkets. It had been sweets---candy bars, mostly---that I coveted all those years ago. Now...the candy has become bracelets and lockets. Nothing much has changed. Yeah, I'm pathetic. But tonight, that all changes. One last score, the biggest yet, and I'm outta here.

I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat, and take several slow, deep breaths until the old anxiety fades away. Ancient history, I assure myself, but the words ring hollow.

My hands clamp around the cold metal of the ladder as muscle memory takes over. One rung, two, three...I descend with the grace of a cat burglar which, I suppose, is what I am. Maybe if my parents hadn't kicked the bucket, or if my foster mother had stuck around, I wouldn't be scaling buildings in the dead of night.

But they did scram. And here I am, a product of New York's unforgiving streets, about to rob a pawn shop.

My feet hit the alley pavement with a soft thud. I pause, listening for any sign that I've been detected. Nothing but the distant wail of sirens and the ever-present hum of the city.

"All right, Mr. Finnegan. Time to prove what a petty thief can do. It's showtime."

I slink toward the back of the pawn shop, my movements a fluid dance of shadows and stealth. Every step is calculated, my body instinctively avoiding loose gravel or anything that might give me away.

You're good at this, a traitorous voice in my head whispers. Wonder what Mom and Dad would think of their little boy now?

I grit my teeth and hiss, "Shut up and focus on the job."

Maybe I should worry about why I'm talking to myself, but I shove those thoughts aside.

As I reach the back door and hover my hand over the lock, I can't shake the feeling that somewhere out there, two ghosts are watching me with disappointment in their eyes.

I shake off the phantom disapproval and get to work. The lock is a simple tumbler---almost too easy. I work the mechanism deftly as I feel for the sweet spots, and within a minute, two at most, I hear the soft click that means I've accomplished my task. As I slip inside the shop, the darkness embraces me like an old friend. The air is thick with the musty scent of forgotten treasures and broken dreams, things normal people had to pawn to feed their families. Shadows loom large, cast by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through grimy windows.

The item I'm looking for wasn't pawned by a poor person. Nope, this little beauty is way too pricey for that.

I navigate the cluttered aisles with practiced ease, my feet finding clear paths where others might stumble. Glass cases loom on either side, their contents glinting dully in the low light. The antiquated security system might as well have been designed by a monkey. I disable it swiftly.

While I search for the item I want, I can't help but imagine how different things might have been. In another life, maybe these clever fingers would be saving lives in an operating room instead of picking locks and disabling alarms.

But that's not my story, is it? This is who I am, and there's no point in denying the truth. A bad seed never grows into a flower.

Just as I'm about to start my sweep of the shop, a sudden vibration in my pocket nearly makes me jump out of my skin. My heart races as I freeze, listening intently for any sign that the noise has alerted someone. Silence, that's all. I exhale slowly, fishing out my phone with trembling fingers.

The text on screen sends a shiver up my spine: Did you really think you could get away from us, Finnegan?

Aw, shit. How did Fulvio Barbieri find me? I covered my tracks like a pro---or so I thought---but now Damiano Zanetti's enforcer has hunted me down. I wish I'd never met anyone in the Zanetti crime family. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the glowing screen. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when I'm so close to getting out of the Zanettis' clutches.

I hover my fingers hover over the phone, itching to reply, to tell Fulvio where he can shove his threats. But I know better. Engaging will only make things worse. I shove the device back into my pocket, trying to ignore the way it suddenly feels like it weighs a tone.

Focus, idiot. You've got a job to do.

I force myself to breathe, to push aside the panic threatening to overwhelm me. The familiar weight of my lockpicks in my hand grounds me as I move through the shop, my eyes scanning for the most valuable items. Then a glint of gold catches my attention. Jackpot . I carefully lift the delicate gold chain of the diamond necklace, removing it from its velvet nest. The way it catches the faint light is...kind of beautiful. The necklace probably cost a small fortune. Just what I need to fund my escape.

While I'm slipping the necklace into my satchel, another vibration nearly makes me drop the bag. My heart races as I fumble for the phone, dreading what I might see.

Ticktock, Finnegan. Hand over the proceeds or...

Fulvio will murder me. That's what he means. But he'll do that anyway. My pulse accelerates, and my breaths shorten. No one crosses the Zanetti family.

Another message appears on screen: I'm coming for you now, Joey boy.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and zigzag through the shop, heading for the back door with adrenaline surging through me with a sharp burn. The weight of the stolen necklace feels like a noose around my neck, but I can't afford to leave it behind. It's my ticket out of this mess. As I burst into the alley, the cool night air hits my face like a slap. I pause for a split second, ears straining for any sign of pursuit.

But I can't hear anything.

I sprint down the alley, my footsteps echoing off the brick walls. My mind races faster than my feet. How did Fulvio find me? I'd been so careful, covered my tracks like a pro. But clearly, I'd slipped up somewhere. A car engine roars to life nearby, and I instinctively duck behind a dumpster. The stench of rotting garbage assaults my nostrils, but I barely notice as I press myself against the slimy metal.

The car engine grows louder, headlights sweeping across the mouth of the alley. I hold my breath, praying to whatever god might be listening that it's just a random passerby. No such luck. The car slows to a crawl, tires crunching over broken glass and debris. I risk a peek around the edge of the dumpster---and my blood runs cold. It's a sleek black Audi.

Fulvio's ride of choice.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," a familiar voice calls, dripping with false cheer. "You can't hide forever, Joey boy."

I bite back a curse. How the hell did he find me so fast? I scan the alley, desperate for an escape route. The fire escape I used earlier is too far, and there's no way I can make it without being spotted. My gaze lands on a rusty ladder leading up to the roof of the adjacent building. It's a long shot, but it's my only chance. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. The moment Fulvio's car passes the dumpster, I spring into action. My feet barely touch the ground as I sprint for the ladder, my heart pounding so hard I wouldn't be surprised if Fulvio can hear it.

"There you are, you fucking rat!" Fulvio's voice booms behind me, followed by the screech of tires.

I don't look back, focusing all my energy on climbing. The rusted metal bites into my palms, but I ignore the pain. I haul myself up the ladder, my muscles on fire, sweat drenching me. The sound of car doors slamming and footsteps pounding the pavement below only spurs me to go faster.

"You can't run forever, Joey boy!" Fulvio's voice echoes off the brick walls. "Damiano wants his money, and I aim to collect---one way or another. You shouldn't have swiped those greenbacks from us."

Yeah, lifting that money had been dumb. But I needed cab fare to get to the pawn shop.

The moment I reach the rooftop, I sprint across it. My breaths come in ragged gasps. The cool night air whips against my face as I leap to the next building, tucking into a roll as I land. The impact jars my bones, but I can't afford to slow down.

Behind me, I hear grunts of exertion as Fulvio and his goons chase after me. They're in better shape than I expected, but I've got desperation on my side. I vault over an air conditioning unit, my feet barely touching the ground as I sprint across the rooftop and leap to the next building, my heart in my throat as I soar through the air. For a moment, I'm suspended between earth and sky, caught in the liminal space between freedom and capture.

I zigzag across the rooftops, vaulting over vents and ducking under clotheslines. I need to get off the roof. Luckily, I glance down to see an open dumpster full of garbage bags. I leap off the ledge, sailing down for a relatively soft landing. Climbing out of the dumpster, I dart down a narrow alley with my pulse pounding in my ears. The shouts of Fulvio and his goons echo behind me, growing fainter as I increase the distance between us by leaps and bounds.

As I weave through the labyrinth of back streets, my feet seem to run on autopilot. Years of navigating these urban canyons have etched the map into my psyche. Left, right, duck under a low-hanging fire escape, vault over a chain-link fence. My lungs burn, but I can't afford to slow down.

Glancing back, I can't see any evidence of my pursuers.

After a quick trip to another pawn shop, one that's actually open this late, I get rid of the necklace. Fortunately, the shop owner isn't picky about provenance. Now that I've got fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket, I huddle in another alley while I book a trip on my phone, choosing the cheapest fare available and the first available flight. That takes me across the Atlantic to...

Scotland.

That'll do just fine.

Twelve hours later, I stumble off the plane at Inverness Airport, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The cheap fare had gotten me an equally cheap, uncomfortable seat, and a bonehead beside me who shared his whole boring life story with me.

I stretch and yawn as I exit the plane. The crisp Scottish air wakes me up as I exit the terminal, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of New York City. I pull my leather jacket tighter around me, suddenly grateful for its battered warmth.

"Welcome to Scotland, jackass," I say to myself, scanning the unfamiliar landscape. Rolling hills of green stretch out before me, dotted with ancient stone buildings that look like they've been plucked straight out of a fairytale. It's beautiful, sure, but it's also completely foreign. I feel exposed and almost...vulnerable.

Nah, that's bullshit.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I flinch, half-expecting another threatening message from Fulvio. Instead, it's a notification from a local news app I downloaded during the flight. My eyes widen as I read the headline.

Recent Excavations at Dùndubhan Castle Uncover a Treasure Trove of Priceless Artifacts.

As I climb into my rental car, visions of piles of money dance in my head. I hadn't planned on stealing anything here, but I can't resist the siren call of snatching some loot. Oh-ho, yeah. This country just might lead me to the score of a lifetime---and get Fulvio off my ass for good.