[center][h1][b][color=fff200]The Heist[/color][/b][/h1][/center]

Emilio Valdez pressed his back flat against the mansion's wall, low lamplight spilling from the open window next to him.  The building, made of pink stucco with dark grayish-brown shingles, blended in well in the darkness of the Cuban night. Even as he watched, the lamplight winked out, leaving the surrounding buildings and the tiny ledge Emilio was on in total darkness.  Emilio tried not to think about the thirty foot drop to cobblestones should he slip.  

[i]Now for the hard part,[/i] Emilio thought, as he slowly reached out with his left hand to grab onto the right window shutter that was hanging out over the precipice.  His goal was to slide the big shutter over to his side and lay it flat against the wall so he could slip on by. In actuality, his hands were shaking so much that he ended up pushing the shutter closer into the window itself.  Thankfully the governor's servants kept the window latches oiled, so this one was no exception as it swung noiselessly inward.

Emilio bit back a curse.  Now the shutter hung inward at about a forty-five degree angle, still between him and the windowsill.  Change of plans then, he would nearly shut that windowsill and try to slip in through the other open side, though it looked to be a very tight fit.  

He froze as a guard down below shown a lantern all along the street just below him.  Waiting until the light source and its owner had gone around the building, Emilio eased himself along the ledge, gently using his left hand to keep pushing the rebellious shutter further closed as he went.  The moment of truth arrived far too quickly.  Emilio pushed the shutter flush with its sill, then pivoted ever so slowly onto one foot, the other appendage hanging out over what seemed like a black abyss. He turned sideways, carefully fitting both feet on the tiny ledge beneath him.  For a nanosecond, he felt like he was about to slip off and fall, but he managed to hop onto the windowsill with both feet at once.  Unfortunately, while his landing was silent, he brushed against the shutter, closing it fully in his passing.  

The resulting click made Emilio freeze for a full second.  [i]Idioso![/i] he thought.  [i]If anyone looks at the window, they'll see me.[/i]  With that in mind, he rolled off the windowsill into the room beyond....OOF! The drop was only about four feet but it did a number on the young teen's right shoulder.  Something sharp bit into it upon landing and Emilio really did bite his lip this time, chomping back a cry of pain.  In the darkness, he could just barely make out the offending item:  a high-heeled stiletto, overturned casually like someone had taken it off and thrown it willy-nilly.  [i]Puta rica![/i] he thought, viciously, holding his shoulder.  His hand came away dry so the stiletto hadn't caused more than just a simple flesh wound.  It shouldn't affect his mission any.  

Slowly, after listening for signs that someone had been alerted to his unauthorized entry, Emilio worked his way to his feet, avoiding the vague hazy moonlight coming from the half open window.  He had done it! Not thirty feet away to his right was a giant four-poster canopy bed, two forms draped over each other, barely visible:  the governor and his puta wife who Emilio guessed had been her stiletto that now had his shoulder aching.  

He made his way across the room, crouched low, to the strongbox parked next to an armoire made of fine dark wood.  Producing a set of lockpicks from his pants pocket, Emilio looked behind him at the sleeping couple.  Three failed attempts later and two sweat and anxiety filled minutes later, Emilio almost crowed his exultation as the fourth pick fit the lock.  He deftly found the right tension and raking angles and had the box lid open in no time.  He rested back against the wall, making sure it couldn't fall back, or forward, under its own weight (for the box was quite heavy even without the massive load of gold and jewels it contained therein).

As quickly as possible, Emilio lined his pockets with as much of the jewelry and gold nuggets he could fit in them.  There were several gold bars underneath that Emilio didn't dare filch.  The Cuban government had long since started stamping gold bars during the smelting process so that they were easily traceable.  

Forty minutes later, Emilio crawled out of the governor's doggy door on the mansion's first floor, slipping behind a finely sculpted hedge just as a guard patrol came by.  After the guard's lantern was out-of-sight, Emilio slipped out and was free to roam the city as he pleased....though quietly, lest his rival gang, Los Sureños, hear the jingling in his pockets and get the wrong idea.  

He walked up to the northern side of Trinidad, the poorer side, and twenty minutes later was knocking on the door of his secondary home and gang headquarters.  Faustina, the girl who opened the door for him, gave him a wide grin.  "Emilio!  You're late! We thought you'd surely never come back!"  She slipped a hand around behind him as he crossed the threshold, cupping his butt and giving it a friendly squeeze. His cheeks reddened as he hurried through the door all the faster.  She laughed but made no other remark as Emilio led her and two other members through the little flat to the main room where a large metal table took up the center of the room.  It was to this table that Emilio marched, emptying all of his ill-gotten gains with a triumphant expression.  The sound of all those jewels and gold bangles hitting the metal was like the sweetest rain they'd ever heard.  It was clearly enough to feed their families for the next six months, a year even, if properly apportioned. 

Faustina's overprotective brother, and gang leader, Pedro ran a hand over the assortment, lingering on several earrings.  Picking one ruby-studded piece up, he inserted into a preexisting hole in his ear and let the piece dangle crookedly before giving Emilio an equally crooked grin.  "You've made me a very rich man, Emilio!  Gracias!"  Not us, not "the gang", but "me."  Emilio sighed inwardly. Of course his efforts wouldn't be praised by this one.  Pedro was almost as much of a stuck-up puta as the governor's wife seemed to be.  It was no wonder he'd named their little band of thieves Buscadores de Oro (Gold Diggers).