The heist was perfect until Milo shot the dog.

“It barked,” he said.

“It’s a Chihuahua,” I hissed, dragging him behind the hedge as the alarms screamed across the neighborhood.

Now we’ve got blood on the floor, a missing getaway driver, and a bag full of diamonds that’s starting to feel like a curse.

Milo’s got the aim of a broken Roomba and nerves like wet tissue paper.

“I thought you said this was low risk,” he muttered.
“It was. Until you committed dog murder.”

Somewhere behind us, someone yells.

We run.

The diamonds jingle like tiny, judgmental bells in my pack.