You were in or you were out. The four of us were in on a preplanned heist with specific targets by an unknown mastermind. That's what the hologram was all about; they were plans. Why did we agree? We were being offered money, fame, and an adventure. I wanted all three.
This next year will be preparation for the biggest thing that any of us have ever done. Bigger than most people will ever attempt in their lives. I'm working harder than anyone. Being the youngest and least experienced, I have something to prove. I've been warned that I have the hardest part in this plan later on and I couldn't let the other three doubt me. But still, I don't know why the show master, the guy who planned all this, would choose me. I was never a success. I just hope that guy sees something I don't.
We're in Paris, France to prepare for our first show. I know now that Haley/Henley is Henley Reeves and hasn't been Daniel's assistant since an event that she won't mention. She's now solo and puts on magic stunts for a paying audience. Bald Guy (aka the mentalist) is Merritt McKinney, who used to be somebody in magic, but got cheated. Now he appears wherever he can in hopes of a comeback. But, now we're all someone else. As a team, we're the Four Horsemen and we'll soon be the biggest names in entertainment.
Stealing wallets is something I can do and I'm good at, but this time it's different. People, my teammates, are counting on me. And I have one mark; a Frenchman named Etienne Forcier who'll star in our first show for no other reason than his bank. The Credit Republican of Paris is going to be robbed by none other than us. And it starts with me.
We got two hotel rooms for the few days we're staying in Paris. One for Henley, one for us guys. It's a three-bed room with a couch and a TV, which is pretty decent for one of the cheapest hotels in Paris. Sadly, our few days in this city are purely prep work and it's the last day.
"Jack will get Etienne Forcier's signature from his credit card," Daniel says, handing me a playing card. It's the two of hearts. Daniel's sitting on his bed, papers splayed around him in piles. He stops rifling through his paper for a minute to point to the card I'm holding, "Copy it on this card with a Sharpie; he'll pick it during the show."
"He can't see your face," Merritt says from the couch, he's been reading some weird book with a face on the cover or something.
"I thought he wouldn't remember it," I reply, flipping the card into my pocket. Merritt had said earlier that he would make sure that the Frenchman wouldn't recognize us later at the show. I go through my suitcase for a Sharpie.
"Well, he'll recognize the guy who stole his wallet. It's something people tend to remember," Merritt tells me, not looking up from his book and turning the page.
"No one ever sees me take it," I raise an eyebrow at him.
I would never be that sloppy.
"He won't even notice that it's gone." I slip the marker in my pocket and head towards the door, grabbing my leather jacket.
Daniel opens his mouth to say something, but I can guess what it is (and I'm not a mentalist).
"No, I won't steal anything," I sigh, pulling on my jacket. "It'll go right back into his pocket. Can I go now?"
For some reason, when I told Daniel about my adeptness in pick pocketing, he assumed I stole for a living. Which actually isn't true; I usually do it for an act, but lately it's been a bad habit.
"Sign it in the middle," Daniel adds as I walk out.
Etienne Forcier is out on his daily commute. We have his routine down to a T. That was the first couple days. It's stalker-ish, I know, but necessary. I catch him buying his newspaper at a stand and note that he put his wallet in his inside pocket of his suit jacket. Damn. That won't be easy.
Usually, to get a wallet out of that pocket, I need to be face-to-face with the person. Having a conversation is the easiest way to do that. But, that's going to be hard for me, not knowing any French except for: 'bonjour', 'pardon', and 'merci'. Guess I'll wait for the right moment…
I casually follow him a good few meters behind. Luckily, Paris is similar to New York. It's older, but there are still lots of people on narrow sidewalks and it's easy to become invisible. He likes to stop at 'Pomme de Pain' for a sandwich at lunch. That's where he's heading now, I hope.
After walking a few blocks, the dark-haired Frenchman turns into a small shop with bright green awning. 'Pomme de Pain'. When I enter a few seconds later, the door closes with a jingle. No one looks up. There's a soft chatter of French in the room and it smells like fresh bread. Everything is green; the walls, the tiles, and the tablecloths. The sun reflects through the window, bathing the room with a warm glow.
I get behind Etienne in line; I don't want to tip him off by not buying anything. I listen to him order in front of me so I can repeat it with the accent. 'Donnez-moi un sandwich au jambon, s'il vous plaît.' I murmur it under my breath a few times, not wanting to sound American. I've been using this trick way too often this week.
Mister Forcier pays and I watch him tuck his wallet back into the left pocket on the inside of his jacket. That's still shitty. He steps aside and waits for his order.
"Bonjour. Donnez-moi un sandwich au jambon, s'il vous plaît," I say, approaching the counter.
"Je pense qu'il est très populaire aujourd'hui, mais non?" The lady asks. Fantastic.
I nod, not smiling, and hand her the Euros. Smiling too much is very American. She hands me my sandwich. "Merci," I say.
I'll take a seat behind Etienne, who is now seated at one of the tables near the window. He took his jacket off! Yes. His suit jacket now hangs on the back of his chair. I sit down, our chairs back to back.
My phone vibrates; I'll have to check it in a second.
I hold my sandwich in my left hand and reach for the pocket with my right. I bring my hand back clasping the wallet. I take out his credit card with 'Credit Republicain de Paris' advertised on one side. I flip it over to look at his signature. It's simple enough to replicate. I quickly copy it onto the two of hearts card with a Sharpie. I compare the two signatures; they're identical. Mission complete; I slide the wallet back into his pocket with the credit card inside.
I check my phone. Daniel left me a text. 'Don't take any money. Did you get it?'
'Yes, I got a sandwich. Do you want one, too?' I text back. Now what should I do? Go back to the room? Sleep? Eat? No, I'll more likely get another job.
'Good, you're joking. I'll take that to mean that it went well. I'll see you when you get back.'
Now he'll be expecting me. I guess I'll see what he's got.
Surprisingly, Daniel didn't want me to do anything. I get back, everything is as it was before I left forty-five minutes ago; Daniel on his bed, Merritt on the couch. Neither of them even looks up when I come in. I place the card on Daniel's knee.
"Good boy," Merritt says from the couch.
"Have you even done anything?" I ask.
"Not since you left. And it has been great," Merritt replies, smiling to himself.
"Okay, you, you're supposed to be getting ready for tonight," Daniel demands, pointing at Merritt, "and you can… do whatever," he tells me.
"What's tonight again?" I ask because I honestly don't remember. Maybe I was sleeping when he thought he informed me.
"We're robbing the bank."
"Right, that's cool."
It's dark out, the streetlamps are lit. The street is calm in the cool air. There's a bridge for the French transit train going above us. Nothing is happening; I mean it's one in the morning and I'm exhausted. I wait in a SUV across the street from Merritt, who is mounted on a motorcycle, decked out in a police uniform. We're waiting for the armored truck going to the Credit Republican of Paris.
I've been sitting in this black SUV for… about an hour. I have the radio on softly, French pop music is playing. I kick my feet up on the dash and glance behind me at the stacks of fake Euros. It occurs to me that I don't know how Daniel came by the fake money.
Why did I jump on this plan anyway? I'm clearly stealing here; I'm obviously breaking the law. Not to mention the money fraud. I'm rethinking this. So, I'm in on this plan to… Join the Eye? That's what the other three seem to think. Or this could be a plan to get into jail, but there are easier ways to do that.
The Eye is this secret organization the supposedly guards the secrets for real magic. That's very far-fetched; I don't really believe that. However, they only let a few people join every few decades. Our plans seem to be coming from them. We could be working for a psychopath or a genius.
The plans come gradually as we complete orders. Thankfully, none of it seems idiotic. These plans are brilliant; there aren't any flaws. Plus, a lot of these schemes are to get back at bad people who've wronged innocents. Maybe that's why I'm going along with this.
Normally, I'd be nervous, but that was the first thirty minutes of waiting. I'm kind of dozing off now. Not even the energizing music keeps me from closing my eyes. I end up zoning off until Merritt radios me.
"Jack, get ready."
I startle myself awake, looking around outside the SUV. Coming up the road is a large white truck, a bus really. It's the only thing moving, the white headlights blazing a trail along the road. As the truck comes to a stop at the intersection, Merritt takes off his helmet. I turn the key to start the car and watch as the driver of the truck falls asleep on the steering wheel. Sometimes Merritt is a little scary.
I pull the car around to the back of the truck, and put it in park. Merritt demounts and walks over. I roll down the window.
"You ready?"
"Sure," I murmur as I climb out, grabbing the keys. Merritt and I open the back doors of the truck to see Daniel and Henley sitting in the middle of the money. Daniel and Henley were able to get in the truck by hiding in the false bottom of the cart that held the money. They were already inside it before the truck even left. And when the truck came to a stop at the correct intersection, Henley drugged the guard. He's now unconscious on the floor.
"Hello, boys," Henley says, standing up and climbing out. Daniel, holding a block of money, follows.
Daniel gets right back to giving orders. "Now, we need to replace this money," he holds up his chunk. "With the money in there," he points to the car. I dramatically pop the trunk door with the remote. "Put the good money in the bags," He says.
It takes us five minutes to make the switch. Finally, the fake money is on the crate in the armored truck. Under the money; the card I signed and the ticket stub identical to the one that Etienne will have at our first show in Las Vegas. Also hidden in the money is some flash paper triggered to light around the time we perform; that's how it'll disappear. The real money is in our car, safely in multiple duffel bags.
Luckily, for our shows we got a benefactor, Arthur Tressler, who doesn't ask too many questions. He let us borrow his private jet for our week in Paris. The airport security might've asked questions about our numerous suspicious duffel bags.