The Picasso Job - Audiobook

EXCERPT: THE PICASSO JOB, COPYRIGHT 2025. REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION

CHAPTER 1

Present Day
Folsom State Prison, Folsom, California, USA
September 18 – Ten Days Before Yom Kippur

Blueprints. The yard. A grown-over manhole cover.
Inside the license plate workshop at Folsom State Prison, Bijan “Renoir” Reza suddenly felt dizzy.
His head was spinning like a dervish, but not from the heat or the fumes. He'd gotten used to the smell and sounds of the stamp mill while putting in his four days a week.
He was sweating profusely as he separated the finished licensed plates that would go on to adorn the vehicles of the good people of California. Morales, the short and wiry leader of the Sureños gang, was about two meters away, chatting with his nine-toed gang member, and now Reza had overheard a snippet of conversation.
Had he been meant to? They had, after all, shifted from Spanish to English.
If so, it was a good way to pass a message. Much safer than a paper kite passed down the cell block. Reza was the leader of the prison's Muslim gang, so any interaction between him and another gang leader would be noted and dissected by the other inmates. Plus, since he was the one who had seen the need to remove that gang member’s tenth toe, relations between him and Morales remained frosty.
Reza forced his fingers to continue separating one plate from another.
The men switched back to Spanish, wrapped up their break, and walked down the conveyor belt.
Blueprints. The yard. A grown-over manhole cover.
The words rolled around in Reza’s heart like a beloved mantra.
Maybe his people had figured out how to get him out of prison and had paid Morales in drugs, cash, or information to make it happen. Ever since his wife had been killed, he had made a profession out of stealing art and antiquities, earning him the nickname “Renoir” after one successful heist. If his people were busting him out, they had a new job for him.
The last letter he’d received from his contact held a coded message about the recent heist of a Picasso painting from a Parisian museum. Using his network of underworld contacts, Reza had immediately tracked down one of the thieves who’d been involved and, through a combination of threats, promises, and intimidation, finally determined the painting’s location. His next job would undoubtedly involve stealing the Picasso from the bastard who currently had it.
But he'd need a crew—men who could end up as fish food.
His cellmate, Dakota Black, would be perfect. He was known around the blocks as “No-flak Dak” because he’d never back down from a fight. The kid had grown up around farm equipment and knew how to hotwire and repair vehicles; he was also a sculptor and had good hands. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, he’d blend in during the necessary cross-country drive. Even after a few years inside, Black still looked like the boy next door rather than a hardened criminal. Of course, all the men in prison claimed they were innocent, but Reza was inclined to believe his cellmate’s assertion.
He glanced around the noisy workshop, taking time to wipe sweat from his brow. The Mexican gang leader was still making plates, while an armed sentry paced the perimeter like a hungry guard dog. Reza would need to tread carefully.
His thoughts returned to his cellmate. Black also had a bad family life, so the promise of starting over in a new country would be a strong motivator—and it was unlikely anyone would try to track him down if he died in a “fishing accident.” Reza had already primed Black’s curiosity by asking him to review an L.A. Times article about the theft of the Picasso.
Of course, the plan would require a third thief. Maybe a computer hacker or security expert. A younger guy who could, like Black, blend in on supply runs. Be a lookout or getaway driver.
None of Reza's gang fit those criteria.
No worries. It was better to find a local once they got across country, anyway. The dark web was like a dating site for criminals. He'd find someone.
Someone expendable.
Like No-flak Dak.
 

CHAPTER 2

Library, Folsom State Prison

Dakota Black whipped open the prison's print copy of the L.A. Times, causing a loud snap to ripple through the quiet room. Sitting at a wooden table near the book stacks, he sipped his hot afternoon coffee and scanned the headline: THIEVES STEAL PICASSO PAINTING IN BOLD DAYTIME HEIST.
Broad daylight? That’s ballsy, Dakota thought, and read on, wondering yet again why his roommate had suggested he look at an article about last winter’s robbery.
At 3:05 p.m. on a sunny afternoon in late February, a trio of well-dressed thieves strolled up the broad staircase of the Musée National Picasso-Paris, looking like any other visitors to the stunning former palace.
Wearing long overcoats, the two men and a woman waited in the queue before passing through the metal detector, smiling and joking. The attendant taking ticket payments reported later that they looked like three curly-haired siblings or middle-aged lovers with an older brother. The man disguised as the eldest male had dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. Their eyes were light brown, but contact lenses may have been worn to throw off eventual pursuers.
Light brown, Dakota thought. The color of fallen leaves. He missed being outside when the leaves began to drop. After the brutally hot summers of Northern California, fall had been one of his and Jenny’s favorite seasons growing up. It was the perfect time to go boating on one of the nearby lakes. One of his beloved memories was her sitting beside him as he piloted her family’s old Nautique across the dark blue water up at Bullard’s Bar. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but her broad smile split her freckled face from ear to ear as her long blonde hair whipped in the wind.
God, how he missed her.
Until his life had been blown apart, he’d been a good student and varsity swimmer. After high school, he had planned to apply to the FBI and marry Jenny under the arched branches of a heritage oak tree on her parents’ farm.
Now, he hadn’t seen a leaf in five years. There were no trees in the prison’s exercise yard.
Instead, his scenery consisted largely of this corner table inside the Folsom State Prison library. The table was a wooden slab covered in stacks of law books and yellow sticky notes. A fluorescent light flickered and hummed overhead. A nearby guard scanned the stacks, alert for inmates passing contraband.
He returned to the article, which he thought was probably reprinted from a French paper with a movie executive in mind. It was the kind of story that begged to be shown on a big screen.
The French art crime unit concluded weeks later that the thieves used removable silicone masks to hide their true features.
Once inside the historic limestone structure, they split up. Five thousand of Pablo Picasso’s works were housed in the museum, which was designed with black-and-white tiled floors, graceful arches, and Renaissance frescoes. The closed-circuit TV footage captured the female quietly studying Picasso’s Woman in the Garden, a large metal sculpture, while the shorter man stood for long minutes before The Kiss, a cubist painting of a couple embracing. The older man seemed most captivated by a Blue Period self-portrait. Eventually, one by one, they slowly worked their way upstairs and into their respective restrooms.
When they emerged simultaneously at 3:32 p.m., their overcoats and fine clothes were replaced by loose-fitting black pants and shirts and they wore spine-chilling masks over their false faces and held 3D-printed ghost guns high in the air.
Patrons screamed as they fled the area. One broke a thin glass panel and pulled a lever, initiating the fire alarm.
Brandishing their plastic weapons, the trio of thieves ran into the nearby salon that featured Man With Sword, a large, TV-sized cubist painting, and yanked it from the wall. They removed Picasso’s abstract image from its frame and rolled the canvas into a tube shape, which they covered in plastic and secured with bands.
This process took less than sixty seconds.
A tap on the shoulder interrupted Dakota’s reading. He tensed, only to relax when he saw Bruno Baggett in his standard-issue orange jumpsuit. A member of Dakota’s prison gang, Baggett was a stocky white inmate with Mississippi roots, a dark-brown crewcut, and dull eyes. His body odor overwhelmed the library’s more pleasant old-book scent.
“Yo, Black.”
Even with his twangy gangster-style talk, Baggett was no threat.
“Hey, Bags. What’s up?” Dakota asked. His voice was a rough, deep bass, slow as the turning of the tides. He was self-conscious about it, as it had become rough and graveled after the accident. It had always been a tad bit slow. He liked to think before speaking. But now he thought his voice sounded like he was an old geezer who’d smoked three packs a day his whole life.
“Just wanted to swing by after my workout and say goodbye. I’m outta here tomorrow.”
Dakota gave Baggett a fist bump.
“Good luck, man.”
“Thanks.” Bags nodded at the law books. “I appreciate you giving me some tips to talk to my lawyer.”
“No problem. Was doing research on my case, and it sounded like it could apply to you, too. Glad I could help.”
“Me too. Catch ya later.” Baggett shuffled off, then turned, eyes boring into Dakota’s. “Dunno if I should tell you this or not…”
Dakota arched an eyebrow. “That means you should.”
Baggett glanced around the library, furtively checking to see what other gang members might be within earshot. Then he returned to Dakota’s side and whispered in his ear.
“You’ve been good to me, man. So, I gotta tell ya. A new fish, a bald mother with mean eyes black as coal, is asking questions about you.”
Dakota’s heart grew cold. “What kind of questions?”
“What you do in your spare time. Who your gang is.”
“What else?”
“How to get a shank.” Baggett stood motionless, letting that sink in for a few beats. “Bro, I think you be like a big-rack buck at the start of hunting season. You got a bright red target on your back.”
Before Dakota could say anything more, Baggett moved off toward the door.
Dakota stroked the scar on his neck as he nervously scanned the library. But after five minutes, he realized there was nothing he could do about the danger at the moment.
His eyes landed on the newspaper. All he wanted was to finish the six years left on his eleven-year sentence, get out of this hellhole, and land in a peaceful little town where all the neighbors watched the Niners’ football game together on Sunday. Even though he felt like the law had let him down with his conviction, he had no interest in becoming a career criminal.
His cellmate knew this about him. Which made the request to read the article about the heist even stranger.
He continued to read:
Museum CCTV captured the three masked thieves speeding out of the room and up the stairs to the open-air rooftop café. Before the guards arrived, a drone flew in, and the thieves used a specially constructed harness to attach the rolled painting to the unmanned aerial vehicle.
As the sentries closed in, each burglar leaped off the roof in a different direction. Using parkour skills, they vaulted, jumped, rolled, and climbed throughout the rooftops of Paris’s Marais district until they disappeared into the shadows.
The trio remains at large, and the painting has yet to be recovered. A five-million-dollar reward has been offered for the artwork’s safe return.
Five mil. A guy could start a new life with money like that.
Was that Reza’s play?
Dakota put the heist out of his mind. Someone was gunning for him, and he needed to stay alert.
Standing, he nodded to a guard and, together, they left the library. Dakota deposited the empty coffee cup and the L.A. Times in their receptacles.
As he left the library, he thought, Who wants me dead?



Five minutes after the art therapy session began, the hardened steel door slid open, revealing a face that froze Dakota where he stood.
What the hell is Cody Winters doing here?
Feigning ignorance, he kept one eye on Winters and turned toward the winged phoenix he’d just begun sculpting in Brazilian black clay, intense memories from five years ago playing across his mind’s eye in a flash.
The tangerine sun had just dropped over the coastal range, and the taste of Jenny’s strawberry lipstick lingered on his tongue. They were in his forty-year-old Ram pickup, driving home from making out, feeling the glow of being young and in love. They were laughing and singing along like pop stars to a dance song streaming from Jenny’s iPhone.
Then, suddenly, the blinding headlights of a blood-red Thunderbird engulfed them, speeding down the wrong lane on a country road so narrow it had no shoulder. A sporty blue Lexus blocked the other lane. The two cars were hurtling forward as if racing at the Indianapolis 500.
Swearing, Dakota shot out his right arm like a railroad crossing gate to protect Jenny while he aggressively jerked the steering wheel. The truck careened off the road, down the embankment, and into the unyielding trunk of an old Valley Oak.
Days later, he stood over Jenny’s closed casket, his fists clenched around the black titanium ring Jenny had given him. He’d failed her. He would never get to marry her or again kiss the freckles that dotted her forehead like stars.
Weeks later, at the Marysville QuickMart, the same blood-red Thunderbird had rumbled up to pump number nine, and Austin Winters had opened the car door.
Now, Dakota knew Bags was right.
Austin’s brother has come to kill me.
As Cody Winters paused in the doorway, Dakota scanned the room, his adrenaline spiking. The art therapy instructor who had taught him to sculpt was talking to a bulky inmate toward the room’s center, while, near the door, Dakota’s only true friend inside, Ray Corbin, sat at an easel working on a sketch. The rest of the rows were filled with at least twenty other convicts of all races, ages, and sizes.
As Winters’s foot crossed the threshold, Dakota hoped no one else would be caught in the crossfire.