Yen felt like he was getting boxed in. Literally and figuratively. Of course, the little Chinese guy would be the one to be stuffed in a cash carrel for their job in Las Vegas. And now they�ve put him in a duffel bag.

But what the hell. A job�s a job. Being hidden in a duffel bag was preferable to being killed by Terry Benedict. Or hunted down and jailed by that hot European woman.

Yen wiggled his toes experimentally. After training in Chinese acrobatics his entire life, Yen had no trouble with the cramped space. He had been put through much worse in the course of his acrobat training � sometimes he had to go for days without ever sitting down.

The guys called him the �grease man.� Yen felt like something had been lost in translation, because his jobs never involved grease or oil or lube of any kind. He made sure of that. He had tried to talk to Rusty about this once, to try to understand exactly what the term meant, but then Rusty had just cracked up, laughing his ass off.

Yen � although the reaction had pissed him off � had let it go, because he didn�t care that much. And Rusty rarely laughed like that, so Yen decided to let the man have his moment.

Still, Yen had no idea what �grease man� was supposed to mean.

How many hours had passed? Yen wondered how far this soccer team was traveling, anyway. Rusty and Danny should�ve picked him up by now. But then again, Yen learned a long time ago, from his mom, that you couldn�t trust white guys in suits. Rusty and Danny were nice guys, great thieves, but as far as Yen could tell, they still fell into that category.

Yen shifted a little, trying to keep his spine straight, and munched on an Oreo. He could wait. He still had five candy bars.