Chapter Text
The mall is a glittering nightmare of Christmas cheer: fake snow drifting from machines mounted to the ceiling, wreaths the size of truck tires hanging from every available surface and a soundtrack of jingle bells on infinite loop threatening to drive me insane. I weave through it all, my eyes tracking the security cameras without actually looking at them. You learn to do that after a while. See everything, look at nothing. I pass by a line of screaming kids that snakes around velvet ropes like some kind of holiday torture device.
One of the elf leans down to an overweight child standing in the line.
"Hey kid, excited to meet Santa?"
The kid looks him up and down.
"How are you an elf if you already look forty?"
"How are you kid if you already have diabetes?
The kid's face crumples. He drops his ice cream and runs off crying.
Another elf gasp, in pure shock.
"Kevin! That's a child!"
"That's my point!"
I finally reach the store that I wanted: Velvet Avenue. The clothes here are as gorgeous as they are expensive. And even though I could never afford any of those in my wildest dreams, I found a different way. But careful, there are some very important rules that you need to follow if you decide to take that route.
Rule number one: act like you belong.
I slip a beanie off a display table and into my backpack in one smooth motion. The fabric is soft, expensive. Cashmere, maybe. The tag said sixty dollars, which is insane, but whatever. I keep moving, fingers trailing over a rack of leather jackets near the back of the store.
Rule number two: don't get greedy.
The jacket stops me in my tracks. It's gorgeous, butter-soft suede in this deep camel color, the kind of thing you see on rich girls walking their tiny dogs in the Village. Six hundred dollars, according to the price tag dangling from the sleeve. Six. Hundred. Dollars. For a jacket.
I glance around. The store is busy, shoppers bumping into each other with armfuls of gift bags and tissue paper. A tired-looking saleswoman is helping some guy pick out a scarf near the register. The coast is clear.
Technically, it's not stealing if they charge six hundred bucks for a jacket. That's just karma.
The jacket slides into my backpack with barely a whisper. I'm already turning toward the exit when I catch the sharp-eyed saleswoman from across the store, staring right at me. Our eyes lock.
Oh, shit.
"Hey!" Her voice cuts through the noise like a knife. "Stop right there!"
I freeze for half a second. Just long enough for my brain to catch up.
Rule number three... well, if you're gonna get greedy, be fast.
Then I run.
"Security!" she screams behind me, but I'm already out the door and into the main hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the polished tile. I dodge a woman pushing a stroller, leap over some kid's dropped shopping bag, and dive into the crowd. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
There's a bench tucked between a pretzel stand and one of those sad brochure displays no one ever looks at. I drop onto it, trying to look casual, like I'm just some normal teenager taking a break from holiday shopping. My hands are shaking as I grab a flyer from the rack, anything to hide my face.
Brighton Academy – NYC's Top Private School – Now Accepting Applications.
Great. Even the universe is mocking me.
"Hey! You! I see you!"
I look up. A security guard is rounding the corner, pointing right at me. His face is red, his radio crackling with static.
Busted.
I shove the flyer into my bag and bolt.
The guard takes off after me, but I've got youth and desperation on my side. I weave through shoppers, apologizing to no one, my backpack bouncing against my spine. The escalator is right ahead, packed with people, moving slow as molasses. No way through.
I glance back. The guard is closing in, and now there's a second one joining him from a side corridor.
Thinking fast, I throw myself onto the side ramp of the escalator and slide down like I'm on the world's most chaotic water slide. People gasp. Someone yells. I don't care. I'm halfway down when I spot the second guard at the bottom, arms spread wide like he's going to catch me in some kind of mall security bear hug.
Trapped.
My eyes dart around frantically, and that's when I see it: the giant Christmas tree towering in the center court below, covered in lights and ornaments and probably a thousand dollars worth of decorations.
For a split second, I hesitate.
Then...
screw it.
I leap off the ramp, arms flailing, and crash into the tree halfway up. My fingers close around a branch, and I cling on like a terrified cat. The tree wobbles. I wobble. Everything wobbles.
"No no no no!"
The base of the tree tips.
The whole thing topples forward in what feels like slow motion, and I ride it down like the world's worst rodeo. Screaming shoppers dive out of the way. Presents explode across the floor in a shower of glitter and wrapping paper. Somewhere behind me, I hear an angry voice shouting.
"That's it! I'm done! I don't get paid enough for this shit!"
"Kevin wait, come back!"
I hit the ground hard, tangled in tinsel and branches. For a second, I just lie there, stunned. Miraculously unharmed. The fallen tree is a disaster zone around me: ornaments shattered, fake snow everywhere, a mechanical reindeer still twitching and playing "Jingle Bells" on a loop.
The guard points at me, and charges through the wreckage.
"Hey! You stay right there!"
I grab my bag and run.
*******
The cold bites.
That's the first thing you notice when you step out of the artificial warmth of the mall and into the real world. The December air slaps you in the face, and suddenly the stolen jacket doesn't seem like such a great score. It's nice, sure (designer, suede, probably worth more than everything else I own combined) but it's not warm.
I walk fast through the shadows, my breath puffing in white clouds. The alley smells like garbage and something else, something sharper. Desperation, maybe. Or just New York in winter.
A trash fire flickers inside a rusted oil drum up ahead, and I spot them: my crew, huddled around the flames like moths drawn to light.
Paige sees me first. She's seventeen, all sharp angles and sharper tongue, warming her hands near the fire.
"Well, well. Look who decided to show up in designer."
Leah bounces to her feet, her face lighting up. She's fifteen and still has that puppy-dog energy, like the world hasn't beaten it out of her yet.
"Maddie! Oh my god, is that... is that leather?"
"Genuine pleather," I say, doing a little mock spin. "Thank you, Fifth Avenue."
Trey grunts from where he's crouched by the fire, cracking his knuckles. He's seventeen, broad-shouldered, and built like he could punch through a brick wall if he felt like it.
"You hit the mall again?"
Dwayne looks up from where he's nervously scanning the alley entrance. Sixteen, paranoid as hell, and usually right about whatever he's paranoid about.
"You're gonna get us all caught one of these days."
I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart is still racing from the chase. "Oh come on, cheer up. It's Christmas! Look, I even brought some gifts."
I drop my backpack and start pulling out the loot: canned soup, half a box of granola bars, some hand warmers I grabbed from a display near the registers. It's not much, but their faces light up anyway. Out here, you don't survive alone. You find your people, and you hold on tight.
Leah immediately grabs a granola bar and breaks it in half, sharing it with Trey without even asking. Paige pockets a hand warmer. Dwayne takes a can of soup and examines the label like it might be poisoned.
Then I feel it, that weight of someone watching. I glance up and catch Eli's eyes on me. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Nineteen years old and somehow the de facto leader of our ragtag group. He's the brains. The boss. Whether he likes it or not.
"That jacket's gonna get you noticed," he says.
I raise an eyebrow. "Maybe I want to get noticed."
The air between us goes tense. The others glance back and forth, waiting to see if this is going to turn into something. It doesn't. Eli just holds my gaze for another beat, then looks away.
Leah jumps in, changing the subject. "We've got a lead on a truck tomorrow. Big delivery near the docks. Warehouse guys, probably drunk on eggnog."
Paige grins. "We hit it quick, we're golden till New Year."
Dwayne mutters, "If no one screws it up."
They all look at me.
I smile "innocently".
*******
Later, we're back in the abandoned building we've been squatting in. It's a dusty, graffitied space with a cracked whiteboard, a faded couch that smells like mildew, and scattered sleeping bags marking our territory. Someone strung up Christmas lights that flicker on and off like they're having a seizure.
Eli stands by the whiteboard, holding a crudely drawn map of the warehouse district. The rest of us are sprawled around, eating, listening.
Every good heist has a plan. Every plan needs a crew. And lucky me, I've got the best.
"Alright, listen up." Eli taps the map with a marker. "Delivery truck arrives at the warehouse at eleven PM sharp. Two guards on duty: one outside, one inside monitoring cameras."
He draws X's on the map.
"We've got a five-minute window between guard rotations. Any longer and we're screwed."
I watch as he runs through the plan, assigning roles. Paige is on fence duty. She's the pickpocket, meaner than she looks and faster than your wallet. She flips her pocketknife open and shut while Eli talks, looking bored.
"Paige, you're on the fence. Cut through the chain-link at the east entrance, then disable the alarm box. You've got two minutes."
"I can do it in one," she says flatly.
"Take two anyway. We're not rushing this."
Leah gets distraction duty. She's the sweet talker, she could probabley get away with murder if she wanted to (although she would never hurt a fly). Security guards, cashiers, warehouse guys, they all fall for the dimples.
"Leah, you're the distraction. Walk up to the front gate, play the 'lost girl' routine with the outside guard."
She brightens immediately. "Ooh, can I cry this time?"
"Whatever works. Just keep him busy for three minutes minimum."
She practices her line, batting her eyelashes. "My car broke down and my phone's dead and I'm so scared!"
Trey grunts from where he's doing push-ups in the corner. "He's gonna help you or marry you."
Everyone chuckles. Trey is the muscle. Not big on words, but if things go sideways, he'll throw the first punch. And the last one. He once knocked out a security guard with a spoon. I still don't know how.
Dwayne is lookout duty. He's paranoid, twitchy, and always, always right. If he says we're being followed, we probably are.
"Black van just parked two blocks down," Dwayne mutters from his spot by the window. "License plate starts with a seven."
Everyone ignores him.
Eli continues. "Dwayne, you stay outside. Post up across the street with eyes on both entrances. If cops roll up, you radio us immediately. Two clicks means trouble, three means abort."
"What if I see unmarked cars?" Dwayne asks nervously.
"Then you click four times and we're ghosts."
And then there's Eli, the brains, the boss. He keeps us alive. Mostly by telling me what not to do. I listen. Sometimes.
"Maddie, you're the runner. You're fast, you're small, you know how to move. You get in first, grab the bags, load them up, and get them back to the exit point. You don't stop, you don't get distracted."
They say you can't outrun your problems. Pretty sure I've outrun mine more times than I can count. Speed's not just what I'm good at, it's what's kept me alive.
I give a half-salute. "Copy that, Captain."
"I'm serious. No detours, no 'one more thing.' In and out."
Paige nods. "No Maddie stunts."
I hold up my hands in mock innocence. "Hey, I'm offended. When have I ever...."
Everyone glares at me.
"Last month. The jewelry store," Leah says.
"The bodega two weeks ago," Trey adds.
Dwayne mutters, "The mall literally today."
I shut up.
Eli points at the map one final time. "Everybody clear? We synchronize watches, we stick to the plan, and we don't improvise." He pauses, looking each of us in the eye. "This is our last job before New Year's. We do this right, we eat for a month."
The crew nods. Game faces on.
"Tomorrow night. Eleven PM. No screwups." Eli's voice is serious, almost heavy. "This crew's all we've got. Let's not lose it over some stupid mistake."
The weight of his words hangs in the cold air.
It's risky. It always is. But one good score means food, gear... maybe even a warm place to crash for a while. That's what we're chasing. Not money.
Survival.