Mr Jones of the manor farm. Locked hen-houses. Extremely drunk. The popholes left unlocked. Lanterns light dancing side to side. He lurched across the yard. Boots kicked off. Left at the back door. One last glass of beer. Reaching to the barrel in the scullery. Walking. Making his way to his bed. Mrs Jones was snoring.
There I was. Running away from one of the highest security museums in the world. Mona Lisa in hands. Ricky was next to me, clutching his radio, communicating back to home base. How? How did four regular teenage kids, manage to steal the most famous painting in the world? I don’t know. Yet, here I am, my feet barely skimming the ground. I turn. The guards that were chasing us have stopped and turned around, moving their way back to the museum. This is it. I tear around the corner, yelling for Ricky to move faster.
I see our getaway car in front of us, the boot is open and I yell at our driver. She’s an exchange student all the way from Poland, needless to say, shes a terrible driver, but we didn’t have many choices. I throw the painting in the boot and shut it.
“step on it!” Ricky screams