Free The Fixes by Owen Matthews Page A

He’s a big guy, old, half asleep. He looks slow. He looks complacent.
    He looks like he has no idea what’s about to transpire.
    Paige raises her hand. Tenses up like Usain Bolt in the gold-medal race.
    â€œMark,” she says.
    â€œSet.”
    â€œGo!”

93.
    And they’re off.
    Paige and Jordan take off running. Haley’s right behind them. Eric hesitates a split second, watches Jordan body some preppy city douchebag to the ground. Watches the security guard perk up and take notice. Then Eric’s running too.
    Jordan peels left, to the Chanel mini store. Paige is at a rack of bras, snatching and grabbing. People are gasping. People are pointing. Staff are converging from every direction.
    Eric and Haley dodge past them. Let Paige and Jordan play decoy. They take the first escalator down to the second level. Jewelry. Cosmetics. Haley darts across to the watches. The sunglasses. Eric lets her have them. He’s going to the bottom.
    Another escalator. Shouts from above. Eric’s whole body is electric with adrenaline and terror. Opposite, on the up escalator, it’s chaos. An army of The Room staff running topside. The bottom floor is strangely serene when Eric touches down. All the crazy shit’s happening above.
    Eric looks around. Clock is ticking. There’s a wall of Gucci motorcycle jackets over there, a couple thousand dollars a pop. Eric hurries over. Tries to act inconspicuous. Pulls the first jacket he finds and turns to GTFO.
    (ERROR)
    The jacket won’t go. It’s tethered to the wall. Security measure. Eric drops it to the floor as a snooty-looking salesman comes over.
    (“Can I help you?”)
    Eric ignores him. Starts for the denim. Rag & Bone. J Brand. Nudie. Acne. True Religion. Eric grabs whatever’s closest, no accounting for style. Size. Taste. Just speed. The salesman’s still behind him. The salesman’s yelling now—
    ( “Excuse me!” )
    Eric doesn’t slow down. Eric doesn’t look back. People are staring, now. People are putting this together. Eric looks around for the exit. It’s ahead, to his right. Two hundred feet, maybe. Maybe a little less.
    Eric runs, arms full of designer denim. His feet struggle for traction on the polished floor, but he’s closing the distance anyway. A hundred and fifty feet. One hundred. The security guard’s by the escalators, out of position. He must have been heading upstairs to check out the commotion.
    Eric’s in the clear.
    Eric’s freaking made it .
    Eric’s just about ready to believe he’ll get out of this alive.
    Then the salesman blindsides him.
    ( Oof! )
    An insane body check.
    And Eric and his armload of jeans go sprawling
    d
    o
    w
    n
    to the polished floor.

94.
    The salesman falls too. The jeans go flying everywhere. The salesman claws and scrabbles at Eric’s ankles, trying to hold him back.
    (“No. You. Don’t .”)
    He’s red-faced and angry. This is a personal affront. Nobody comes into his store and pulls a stunt like this; no way, buddy boy. Not on his watch.
    Eric kicks himself loose. Scrambles away. The jeans are scattered all over. There’s no time to retrieve them.
    Eric stands up. Starts running. Looks back and the salesman’s tripping over his feet trying to continue the chase. As Eric watches, the salesman falls again, lands hard on the marble.
    Eric locks eyes with the salesman. The salesman pants for breath. Eric pants for breath too. Eric looks around, grabs the closest thing he can find—
    (a Burberry trench).
    The salesman looks at Eric like—
    ( Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare .)
    Eric stuffs the trench under his arm.
    Then he runs.

95.
    Chaos. Terror. Hysteria.
    Eric bursts out onto the sidewalk with the coat under his arm. There’s no sign of the others anywhere. No matter.
    It’s time to go.
    Granville Street is a zoo. Tourists off the cruise ships and Sunday shoppers, street