Descendants of the Dragon, Book One: The Mandate of Heaven

Chapter 2: The Thief

It was a bad idea. It was a really, really bad idea being here, doing this. But at the same time, he couldn't deny that he relished the thrill, the rush, and the exhilaration of it all. It was certainly part of why he kept coming back to it.

But that was only part of it. He was here, because he had to be.

Aiden Zhensheng shoved his hands even further into the deep pockets of his thick jacket. It wasn't especially cold out on this day, but he often relied on baggier clothing while he worked.

The large red bus pulled up to the stop, and Aiden, along with fifteen others, piled in. The bus, as usual during this time of day, was packed. Passengers filled every single seat, leaving the rest of the crowd to stand wherever they could find room near one of the standing poles or handrails. One had to completely pop their personal bubble if they were to ride this kind of bus, but this was of no consequence to Aiden. In fact, he had planned on getting on the bus at this exact time of day, when it would be most hectic.

Within the three seconds it took to climb aboard, he had already surveyed the layout of the bus' interior and selected the optimal position. He wedged himself into the middle of the bus, where there was the least space. Most people tended to avoid cramped and uncomfortable spots such as this, but not Aiden.

He grabbed the overhead railing and braced himself for fifteen awkward, yet harrowing minutes. He had at least six people pressing up against him at all times, but that was perfectly fine. More than fine, in fact.

Fifteen minutes later, Aiden got off of the bus at his stop, hands casually dangling by his sides. Little details like knowing how to appear relaxed and nonchalant were far more crucial than most pickpockets realized. It was an adrenaline-fueled process, and if nerves were left unchecked, they could easily break out and give away one's cover.

He took several more buses within the hour, going through essentially the same process.

After his last stop, he walked a whole mile to a public toilet before he even trusted himself to take a look at all of the rewards he'd reaped. After closing the stall door behind him, he emptied the pockets of his jacket and spread his newfound little treasures across his lap. He'd pulled five wallets, three watches—two gold and the other what he suspected to be faux silver—, and three smartphones. All three phones were password protected, but that could be easily bypassed with the right software.

He guessed the watches could bring in at least a couple hundred. In the wallets, he'd gathered over two hundred pounds with the addition of multiple ID, credit, and debit cards. Those would be harder to deal with, but Ms. Addy, his sort-of boss, would handle all of that. As far as cash went, it was his to keep, and Ms. Addy would deal with the rest.

Several hundred for only an hour's work was something he hoped to one day get used to. Aiden felt the pleasant weight of the folds of banknotes in his fingers and had to suppress the rising delight of a job well done. It wasn't quite finished yet. So long as he still had items on his person that could be traced back to him, the job wasn't quite finished.

After waiting another five minutes until he was sure he was alone in the bathroom, he opened the stall door, making a beeline for the trashcan. He dumped the now-empty wallets into the canister. After splashing cold water on his face to calm his nerves, he exited the bathroom, his pockets considerably lighter, although they were filled to the brim with all sorts of loot.

It took the better part of the next hour to walk back to the apartments, but that was just the way it had to be. Ms. Addy was adamant about making it as difficult as possible for anything to be traced back to her.

Most kids his age complained a big game about hating school, but seldom few actually skipped, because skipping led to getting behind on lessons. Aiden was not most kids. He was currently on his twenty-fourth day in a row of skipping.