As I drove over the Manhattan Bridge in a gold Rolls-Royce on my way to help steal a moving subway car, Yusuf Amir, my friendly neighborhood billionaire playboy, was trying to buck up my courage.Īfter all, as part of Yusuf’s continuing quest to please his father back in the Persian Gulf, I had already stolen a military helicopter off a yacht in the harbor (before blowing up the ship with the chopper’s rockets) and commandeered a small tank from the Department of Homeland Security (before reducing a squad of police cars and tactical vans to charred husks along the East River Drive).
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