by Paula Cox
As expected, the bank manager had asked Tyler to stay in the lobby, since he didn't have security credentials to see the boxes. Miranda glanced at her watch, chewing on the inside of her cheek. He'd be creating a diversion soon.
About three minutes after he left, Tyler would go up to a teller. He'd ask where the closest bathroom was and disappear around the corner. Maybe he'd spend some time in the restroom, if busybody tellers were watching him. It'd be a few minutes before he could sneak out of the restroom and sneak off down the hallway. Close to the bank's side exit, where Legacy tellers went to go take a smoke break, a bright red box jutted from the wall. A quick pull, flashing lights, and an alarm.
Her grip on the clipboard tightened and her heart pounded in her chest. She made vaguely appreciative grunts and 'uh-huhs' at intervals when Mr. Cross lulled in conversation or showed her something of import.
They went through three security doors, each one opened by his ID badge. The last room was rather large with the walls lined in a grid-like pattern, thanks to the safety boxes' faces. There was enough coldness in the air to make Miranda feel as if the air conditioner were on. The light splashed across the silver walls, catching the textures in the faceplates.
In the middle of the room, a rectangular table squatted made of metal and painted a shiny black. Atop the table, a fat three-ring binder laid open. It was flipped open to a piece of paper that possessed a chart. The date, a teller's signature, the patron's signature, and the number of the box accessed spread across the sheet. Unable to help herself, Miranda glanced over the spreadsheet. The last time a safety deposit box was opened was yesterday in the afternoon. Someone by the name of 'Deidre Baxter' had opened her security box.
Mr. Cross stood off to the side while Miranda eyed the faceplates of the deposit boxes. No names were scrawled across the boxes. Obviously, for safety matters. There were numbers that corresponded to the holder. The list of patrons, and their numbers, existed in a master list elsewhere. Still, Miranda couldn't help but wonder if one of the boxes – or maybe many of them – belonged to Peter Delaney.
She could feel Mr. Cross's stare on her back. He was waiting for her slew of questions. He must have prepared daily for inspections, simply to show off his managerial skills. She puttered back to the table at the center of the room. Well, he probably expected her to ask questions. “Who has access to these safety boxes?”
“Only my most trusted and most senior tellers,” replied the man, chest puffed out in pride. He set his shoulders and seemed to stand straighter, as if he were a commander about to be given another badge.
“And they all sign the log?” She tried not to sound bored as she glanced over the sheet, once again. Not that looking at the spreadsheet helped her, in any way, but it assisted her role as inspector. There was no way to confirm whether or not Pete had a security box until they weaseled into the system. It was the same system she used at the Legacy bank and, short of stealing a random assortment of boxes, was pretty secure. Few were allowed without clearance and, those who were allowed, were supposed to sign the log. If they didn't, the security tapes would act as a back up.
“There are also various security cameras surveying this room.”
“Good, good,” muttered Miranda, absently. She clicked her pen and lifted the paper, pretending to mark something down on the clipboard. Her pen scrawled across the paper in little, scribbling circles.
A flickering light caught Miranda's attention a split second before the keening alarm blared through the air. The lights dimmed, emergency lights flickered, and an automated voice mechanically sputtered across the intercom.
“That's the fire alarm,” gasped Mr. Cross, eyebrows furrowed and concern dotting his brow. His gaze swung to the red box clinging to the wall, close to the ceiling. He shook his head and motioned back toward the stairs, “We'll need to return to the ground floor. I'm so sorry, Ms. Groves.”
“Don't be sorry, Mr. Cross. These things happen.” Miranda tried to hide her relief as she followed the bank manager up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Upstairs, the bank tellers were calmly instructing the patrons out of the bank. Customers lined out the door, a child cried, verbal worries lit through the air. As they crested the stairs, Miranda watched the older man from the corner of her gaze. His attention flickered around the lobby, obviously attempting to spot the disastrous flames or telltale signs of smoke. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. That didn't erase the danger. A fire in the bathroom, a burning electrical wire, a trashcan in a bathroom. Any number of things could cause the bank, and the valuables inside, to go up in flames.
For the moment, he forgot her presence and bustled toward the concerned, exiting patrons. Miranda didn't mind. His worries for his customers gave her the split second she needed to peel away from his awareness. In the mild chaos, no one noticed as she sneaked behind the teller desks in a half-bent crouch. She carefully picked her way around abandoned office chairs, intent to not make any noticeable sounds. Though, with the blare of the fire alarm, it would be immensely unlikely anyone would hear her drop a piece of paper or step on a fallen pen.
Finally, she made her way to the end of the desks. A wall stretched before her, hung with neutral decor. Her eyes flickered to Mr. Cross's office, his door wide open and his nameplate shiny in the flashing lights. She glanced to the front door. Tellers peered around the bank, making sure everyone was out. She ducked down just as the bank manager glanced across the tellers' desks.
“Hey,” a hiss caught her attention. She looked around, wildly seeking the source. Finally, her gaze fell on her partner in crime. Tyler squatted down inside Mr. Cross's office, out of sight of the tellers and manager. He peered to the front door before his gaze whipped back to Miranda. He motioned for her to cross, “C'mon, c'mon. We don't have a lot of time!”
Miranda, in a half-crouch, jogged across the bare expanse of floor, feeling more vulnerable than ever. The overhead flashing lights and alarm were drilling into her head, coaxing a migraine from the darker synapses of her head. She couldn't bother to concentrate on that, though. She had a job to do.
As soon as she ducked into the office, Tyler – after checking the lobby of the bank – shut and locked the door when the last people filed out. She wasted no time, trudging over to the bank manager's computer. The monitor whirred to life as soon as her fingers touched the mouse.
The screensaver flickered and the desktop sprawled before her. Mr. Cross, despite all of his gold star security measures, didn't use a password. Well, that was quite a few points off the overall inspection, figured Miranda, as she point-and-clicked.
By the office's window, which peered into the depths of the bank, Tyler squinted through the blinds. Though far off in the distance, he heard the scream of fire engines roaring closer. The empty bank felt eerie, especially with the lights flashing. He tried to ignore it, though his own headache nibbled at the sides of his brain. Joining the cacophony of sounds, Miranda's keystrokes clattered through the air. It set his teeth on edge and irritated his nerves, but little could be done. They needed information on Pete and this was their best bet.
He couldn't still the anxiety gnawing away at his thoughts. The increasingly nearing sirens were not helping him, any. He jolted when the printer growled.
Glancing over his shoulder, Tyler hissed, “Did you find it?”
“I didn't find anything about Pete, but there's someone of interest,” replied Miranda as she mentally goaded the printer to spit out the papers faster. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her ears thought she could hear the firefighters just outside the bank, smashing their way through the windows. She stilled her anticipation by turning back to the computer and fumbling through the other files.
Something orange flashed on the task bar. Miranda's curiosity guided her into opening the bank manager's e-mail application. She glanced at the inbox header – wrinkling her nose seeing Mr. Cross's unread number in the triple digits – before her gaze drew to the e
-mail subject titles:
Memo: New Procedures for Signing Into…
Reminder: Please Reset Your Password….
(no subject)
Miranda's eyebrows shot up. Every other inbox message had a subject and remained unread, so an empty and read header looked somehow suspicious. Her gaze flicked to the sender's column.
“Mir, they're at the door. We need to take off.” Tyler's words shattered her concentration. He moved across the office, peeking through the blinds. After confirming the coast was clear, he threw up the blinds and struggled against the window's locks.
“Okay.” Quickly, she scribbled the e-mail address down on a post-it note. She closed out of the files and programs, before hopping off the chair. Outside the office, heavy footfalls and barked orders echoed around the bank. Her heart jolted to her throat. She snatched the papers from the printer just as Tyler swung the windows outward.
The voices drew closer, the barked orders becoming more irritated. They were going to figure out it was a false alarm, any second now. Miranda's stomach twisted at the thought of being caught in Mr. Cross's office. She scrabbled out the window, trying to ignore the feeling of her stockings catching and tearing on the windowsill. Tyler's broad hands caught her by the waist, helping her up and over the barrier without a word exchanged between them. He climbed out after her, closing the windows gently behind him.
They moved in tandem, in a half-crouch jog to the back of the bank. Everyone had their attention on the front of the bank, watching the firefighters enter. They parked out back, just behind the dumpster. The heat of the day grazed over their flesh, coaxing nervous sweat down their backs. Miranda's hands, slicked with sweat, gripped her clipboard to her chest. She hoped the fresh printouts weren't smudging.
Both of them rounded behind the dumpster, trying not to inhale the stink surrounding it, and shot into the car. Miranda sunk into the seat as Tyler jammed the key into the ignition. The engine puttered to life, but with the excitement at the front of the bank, would go easily unheard. Despite the adrenaline raging through his veins, Tyler forced himself to pull the car gently out of the back drive.
Silence filled the car as they rolled through the back streets of San Marta. Miranda's fingers worried the edges of the paper, still trembling from her burst of adrenaline. Her skin tingled with a mixture of glee and shame. They had pulled it off! At the cost of her integrity. Similar feelings of joy and guilt tickled at Tyler's thoughts. Round and round, his happiness and rue danced, manifesting itself as fidgety fingers on the steering wheel.
They were one step closer to proof of Pete's transgressions against the Blacksteel Bandits.
“We did it,” sighed Miranda, eyeing Tyler from the corner of her gaze. A grin tugged across her lips and something hot stirred in her lower belly. The way they had worked together, seamlessly, sent an overjoyed prickle through her body.
The atmosphere in the car changed. Relief still strewed across the air, but something heady and sweet laced between them. Tyler swallowed heavily and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel. The plastic creaked under his grip. His heart rate spiked as fantasies poured into his excited synapses. Focusing on his surroundings, Tyler realized he had driven them out of the city. It was a scantily wooded area, but – judging from the amount of dirt on the road – very scarcely used. Opportunity gleamed in his mind's eye.
He pulled off to the side of the road, skillfully tucking the car away behind a line of trees.
“What are you–” Miranda was cut off as the sounds of Tyler's seat adjustment cranked through the car. His chair pressed back as far as it would go, he eyed her with his dark, lusty gaze. Her heart shuddered, reading his mind.
She tossed the clipboard onto the dash, before climbing into Tyler's waiting lap. He caught her by the lips in a fervent kiss, his erection already stiff against her thigh. She gasped, her mind a flurry of hormones and adrenaline. Her fingers curled around his jaw, her fingertips stroking his jawline. Her hips rolled and rollicked against his groin, coaxing his cock to harden and press into her thigh.
A grunt escaped his lips, his sensitive erection throbbing beneath the thin layer of dress pants. His fingers, driven only by lust, scrabbled up Miranda's skirt. The fabric of her stockings teased at his tactile senses. Hotter strings of pleasure tickled at his groin. Her thighs slid by under his fingertips until he found the crevice of her upper thigh and torso. His fingers trailed along her stockings and she trembled beneath his touch. Finally, he felt her panties beneath the frail fabric.
Without warning, Tyler punctured her stockings and hooked his thumb around her panties. Heat intensified in his gut as he realized Miranda was already dripping wet. He leaned back, enjoying the view of her moist, swollen pussy lips peeking out from her stockings. His free hand fumbled with his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping them.
Even drunk on pleasure, he knew they didn't have much time. It just took a bicyclist on an adventurous journey to ruin their moment. His cock sprung from the folds of his pants, his bulbous head almost slamming right into Miranda's bared slit. Only his thin strain of self-discipline kept him from immediately thrusting into her.
It didn't matter. Her own body keened for sexual satisfaction. Her hips rolled forward, feeling the heat of his dick against her. She braced herself against his shoulders, her nails digging into his shirt. Miranda dropped her weight onto him, immediately engulfing his erection in her hot, wet pussy. Excitement clawed up her body. Anyone passing by could peer in. Sunlight filled the windows, filtering in hot, making the interior boil.
A tremor raked over his body, the molten heat of her insides clamping on his pleasure receptors. Miranda desperately bounced up and down on Tyler, his girth grazing her excited nerves. She gasped and moaned, her heart slamming in her chest. Beneath her, he shuddered and twitched, bringing his hips up to meet her erratic movements.
Pleasure and heat filled the car, pressing down on their bodies. Sweat fogged the windows and dampened the air with moisture. Beneath them, the vehicle rocked and squeaked. The heat squeezed at them, coiling around their cores. Tyler's fingers dug into her hips, slamming her down harder and harder. His balls tightened under her soft, jigging thighs. He inhaled sharply, pleasure tingling into his brain and searing over his body. Her muscles milked and pulsed around his cock, taunting his sensitive flesh.
The heat crested over his barriers, slamming into his groin. Tyler seized and moaned, throwing his head back as he spilled liquid heat into Miranda's throbbing sex. She gasped and whimpered, her body slowly becoming harder and harder to command. His cum licked at her insides, tickling her most sensitive nerves. Her thighs trembled, her pussy throbbed, her lower tummy clenched tightly. Miranda's moans spilled from her lips as she braced herself against Tyler's shoulders.
Clenching her eyes, she threw her head back and slammed down, one final time, on Tyler's still-hard cock. A satisfied moan split across her lips. The heat of release melted through her body, like wax hardening over her bones. Her body trembled under the sudden force of her pleasure. She rollicked atop Tyler until his arms clamped firmly around her body. Her tremors sifted beneath his muscles. Until, finally, her body spent and slumped against Tyler's chest.
In the heat of the car, he stroked her back gently. She mewled and shifted against him. The pleasant glow of a job well done filled the car.
So far, the day had gone completely in their favor.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Back at the motel room, after a well-needed shower, Miranda and Tyler continued their investigation. He paced the length of their room, occasionally glancing through the blinds while she sat at the small table. It was unlikely anyone would come looking for them. Even if they had, the motel had their name as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, a couple of newlyweds enjoying a trek across the country. Short of eyewitnesses, Miranda and Tyler seemed to be in the clear.
Well, unless that bank manager wised up, though, luckily, Miranda had already handled that suspicion with some cockamamie 'family em
ergency' excuse. He didn't know what she planned to do if they ran into Mr. Cross during their stay in San Marta.
When Miranda sighed and leaned back, Tyler turned to her. “What did you find?”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose, reigning in her fluttering thoughts. For the last hour, she had tugged apart the information they had. Her mind had strung the facts out in her mind, knotting pieces together until her thoughts were a tangled mess. So many strings of thoughts puttered about her synapses. She motioned to her printouts, when her thoughts were reasonably organized. “This woman, Francesca Munoz, deposits a hefty check about three days after Peter withdraws a lot of money.” She moved over to her laptop, where Pete's account glowed across the screen. “I've pored over Peter's files so much, I nearly have them memorized.”
Tyler seated himself next to her, leaning heavily on the table as he stared at her computer screen. “So, you think this woman, this Francesca Munoz, has something to do with Peter?”
“Maybe,” Miranda sighed, resisting the urge to rub at her eyes. She had no clue. The seedy, underground dealings with the less-than-reputable were lost on her. Trudging on, she clamped to the only other information she had gathered. Pointing to the papers, she tapped her finger on a specific name. “There's a secondary on her account, Paul Larson. Sound familiar?”
