A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  Brooke cleared her throat. “So I can’t help wondering, Cat, why you’re taking this job so personally.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Brooke, do you mind? Maybe you could psychoanalyze me at another time?”

  “Au contraire, I think this is the perfect time. Here we are, risking life and limb, to undo a job you already did. It just begs the question: why?”

  “What do you mean, why? It just wasn’t right, that’s all. And you know that.”

  Brooke was quiet a moment. The only sounds were the groan of our ropes, my breathing, loud and rhythmic in my ears, and the wind.

  “You know,” Brooke said slowly, her tone pensive, “now that I think about it, you’ve always been a little obsessed with making things right, correcting the past, that sort of thing. What’s that about, anyway?”

  “Brooke, cut the Oprah babble please.” A drop of sweat dripped into my eyes. It stung and blurred my vision. My leather gloves creaked as I gripped the rope.

  “Wait a second,” Brooke said. She stopped climbing and studied me. “It’s Penny, isn’t it? Your sister. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. That’s what this is all about. That’s what it’s always been about.”

  At the sound of Penny’s name, storm clouds gathered in my chest. Once upon a time when Brooke and I had been partners, and friends, I told her all about Penny. I regretted that now, naturally. “Brooke, stop. I do not want to discuss this. Especially not with you. And especially not right now.”

  But Brooke was on a roll. “Yes, I think that’s it,” she continued, with great excitement. “You always thought it was your fault that your sister died, I remember that now. So you think that by correcting other people’s mistakes, you’ll somehow be correcting your own mistakes.” She continued scaling the wall and musing to herself. “What do you call that? It’s like . . . redemption. Or, no—it’s atonement. That’s the word.”

  My left foot suddenly slipped off its hold. I let out a short grunt of surprise and gripped onto my handholds in panic, my heart in my throat.

  “Montgomery? You okay?” Ethan said in the earpiece.

  “I got it. No problem.” But my blood felt icy.

  I resumed climbing and cast a surreptitious glance at Brooke. She was looking at me with concern.

  Without further talk we reached our destination—the twelfth floor of Victoria Tower. And we did it—miraculously—without killing each other. The twelfth floor was our destination because this was where, according to Ethan’s intel, Nicole was being held. It was also the floor where the Fabergé was locked up.

  I sliced into the window with a glass cutter, scraping a large circle. We climbed inside and found ourselves in a dark, dusty room. Moonlight filtered in through the windowpanes. This disused room didn’t have any security per se, but once we got out to the hallway, we’d have to deal with CCTV security. We hooked ourselves up with anti-CCTV gadgets—with a twelve-foot radius, we wouldn’t be seen as we moved. We reviewed the map one last time although, truth be told, it was already committed to both our memories.

  First task: release Nicole.

  We moved quickly and silently through the labyrinthine corridors, vigilant for patrolling guards. I flicked a glance at Brooke. Joke time was over now that we were inside. And Brooke was a professional, just as I remembered. Everything about her actions was slick and perfect and practiced. My tension reduced slightly. We were in complete sync.

  At an access point we climbed up into the overhead vents. I gripped my fingers around the edge and pulled. My tendons tightened and shoulders burned as I pulled my weight up and into the ventilation shaft. I was in. Brooke followed. It was a dark, compact space and my knees pressed into the cold dusty metal of the shaft. We pulled down our night-vision goggles and begin clambering forward. I felt like a rat creeping through a science lab maze.

  We slinked through the tunnel until we reached the room where Nicole should have been imprisoned. But the shaft stopped just outside the room.

  We peered down through the grate. Two guards flanked the door. They wore flak jackets and carried submachine guns. One I was less worried about—the more muscular of the two. He wore a bored expression, his eyes moved little as he stared ahead. He wouldn’t be much of a problem. The other was more of a concern: his eyes were brighter, he looked around constantly, and there was tension in his body like a coiled spring. His weight was forward—the other rested slightly back on his heels.

  The smaller, more lethal one would need to be taken out first—the other could wait a few seconds. Brooke looked through the grate. “Dangerous one first?” she said.

  “The one on the left?”

  “Of course.”

  My heart omitted a beat as I levered the grate away. This was where a thief’s ability to be truly silent was tested. We looked at each other, give a brisk nod, and dropped down together from above. We dropped first onto the dangerous one, executing a partner shinobi ambush maneuver to take him down and render him unconscious. The second, as predicted, had barely registered our presence at that point, and even then, was not able to move his muscle-clad frame fast enough to prevent our attack. He went out cold, quite easily.

  I reached down and grabbed a key card from the guard’s belt and slipped it into the reader. There was a click, a small light turned green, and I pushed open the heavy door.

  Nicole sat in the middle of the tiny room on a wooden chair, tied up, gagged with a filthy rag, and blindfolded. She looked petrified, trembling in her chair. A quick scan of her face and body revealed no bruises or other visible injuries. Which was unexpected, but a relief.

  The room was lit with a single garish fluorescent strip-light and it was cold. The space was mostly bare, apart from some shelving with ammonia and cleaning supplies. There was a smell of bleach, and mildew from an old mop in a bucket.

  I pulled the rag from her eyes. She blinked and her gaze shifted between Brooke and me, her eyes wide with bewilderment. I untied the gag and Brooke put a finger to her mouth to indicate quiet. Nicole nodded.

  As Brooke worked at the ropes that bound her arms, I crouched down at Nicole’s feet to untie her. “Cat?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Cat is black ops,” Brooke said smoothly. “She’s been working with Jack. Top secret. That’s why you didn’t know anything about her.” I flicked a glance at Brooke. That was actually good. Nicole looked satisfied.

  We released her and she stood, rubbing her wrists. “What did you do about the guards? And how did you find me anyway? How did you get in here?”

  “Okay, no more questions. You’ve got to get out of here,” Brooke said.

  “Here’s a copy of the blueprint—can you make it to the Clock Tower? Right there?” I pointed to the map. Brooke was clipping an anti-CCTV mechanism to the back of Nicole’s jeans.

  “No, I want to help,” Nicole said earnestly. “That Sandor guy is crazy, you know that? He keeps mumbling about making things right and correcting old wrongs. I heard him say something about being worthless unless he can fulfill his quest. He’s completely fanatical.”

  I frowned.

  “I want to help you stop him,” Nicole said.

  There were a lot of reasons why this would not work. Nicole’s eyes were heavily shadowed; she was clearly exhausted. Not exactly the assistant I typically preferred. Besides, I generally did my best safecracking when I didn’t have an FBI agent hanging over my shoulder.

  “This is nonnegotiable, Nicole,” Brooke said. “You’ll meet us at the Clock Tower.”

  Nicole reluctantly agreed.

  “If we’re not there by three a.m.,” I told her, “then you’ll need to go without us. Here, this will help you escape.” I handed her a small pack that contained a rappelling harness and rope.

  “But wait until that time if you can,” Brooke added. “If you try to escape too early, you might raise an alarm prematurely.”

  Nicole nodded, understanding. As she disappeared I watched her with a warm flush of reli
ef, and pride. Whatever happened, she’d be safe now.

  A tiny barb hooked itself onto my heart. She’d soon be back in Jack’s arms. The truth was, he’d be a wonderful comfort. He always was to me.

  Brooke and I dragged the guards into the utility closet. Each man measured roughly the weight of an adult mountain lion, so we had to do it together. I leaned back and pulled hard on one muscle-bound arm while Brooke pulled the other. Together we dragged them into the utility room and locked the door. We climbed back into the ventilation shaft, using a grappling hook and rope. The grate scraped lightly as we slid it closed. We were in darkness, once again.

  The interminable crawl through the veins of the building began. After a short time my shoulders and thighs were cramping and I longed to stretch my back. Sweat clung to my neck and face, and I could taste the dust in my mouth.

  At last we reached our destination. Below us was a large grate. I crawled up beside Brooke, we took off our night-vision goggles and peered down through the grid into the lobby of the vault.

  We could see five security guards posted there, just outside the vault doorway. All five were fully armed, large as black bears, and ready to use whatever force necessary. I quailed; it would be impossible to take out five guards at once, without having one of them raise an alarm—or worse, fire up at us.

  But this was where Ethan came in. I flicked my earpiece and spoke softly “Okay, we’re in place. Over to you.”

  There was a crackle and I heard Ethan’s voice. “Check.”

  I held my breath and waited. Everything inside me was wriggling and jumping and sparking, but I had to hold it all back. Would this work? I wondered. Would we get caught?

  And then, the silence was pierced by the high-pitched whine of an intruder alarm.

  My heart leaped. Perfect. Right on cue. There was a cacophony beneath us—guards barking into walkie-talkies, orders being shouted, rapid boot steps. I hoped Ethan would be able to make a clean escape, as planned, after setting off the entry alarm, and make it up to the Clock Tower.

  Brooke had the better vantage point. She signaled to me: three guards left. Okay. We could deal with that.

  Brooke was the better shot. We agreed, using sign language, that she’d take out two guards and I’d do one. For this, we were using tranquilizer darts. They were microlight darts loaded with an ultrafast tranquilizer. Virtually painless and unnoticeable by the target.

  We aimed for the neck and fired. Brooke shot her two in rapid succession. I missed on my first try.

  “Shit.” I aimed again, and got him. But now there were going to be several seconds of time lag.

  Brooke’s two guards went down. Mine shouted in alarm. “Hey, what the—”

  He glanced around urgently, then looked up, eyes wide, and raised his gun. We backed off in panic. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut. And then . . . flump. We peered over the edge. He was out cold on the marble tiles.

  We dragged the grate away, and Brooke dropped silently down. I waited above, watching as she approached the massive steel vault door. The iris scanner was embedded in the wall beside the door.

  There were various ways of bypassing an iris scanner. A fake was naturally the best—a printed contact lenses. But a super-high-resolution photograph could do it, too.

  Unfortunately we did not have the time nor the opportunity to make either of these things happen. So Brooke was going with an old-school method: disabling the control panel. She assured me she could do it.

  I held my breath as she attempted it. It takes a watchmaker’s touch to penetrate a control panel. She lifted the cover of the sensor. I could see her shoulders tense. She exhaled smoothly, controlling her breathing, and examined the exposed panel. My stomach tangled and twisted like a rope. But I watched with admiration as she manipulated the wires with a deft touch. She was doing a good job.

  But good was suddenly not good enough.

  A piercing alarm blared. A steel cage ripped up through the floor, surrounding Brooke. My heart choked as the bars of the cage rose straight up and crashed into the ceiling, plugging into steel receptacles, locking with a sickening clunk. Brooke was frozen. Her face was pale and turned upward, registering her utter entrapment.

  Chapter 38

  Boot steps thundered a rapid approach. I frantically replaced the grate that covered the air duct, concealing myself from view. I peered down through the thin slats and my breathing was shallow. I tasted coppery blood in my mouth; I must have bitten my tongue when the alarm went off. Half a dozen guards burst into the foyer and aimed a bristle of Heckler & Koch MP7s at Brooke. “Freeze! Hands up!”

  My heart pummeled my rib cage as I watched, hidden, unable to do a thing. Brooke stood unmoving, facing the squadron. She held her hands up, face impassive. They all stayed like this for a minute in a horrible tableau. Then Sandor arrived. He strolled into the room with a face that was murderous and hard. He cast a disgusted glance at the unconscious guards and stepped over them. He approached the steel cage and fixed those hard eyes on Brooke. I could see his face clearly; I imagined that it was me he was looking at with that vicious gaze. It was the stare of a man who could snuff a life with a finger snap.

  Sandor’s nostrils flared as he crossed his arms. His posture was ramrod. He cast a completely different picture than when I’d first met him. My memory slid back to the loose-spined, round-shouldered, geeky and earnest boy-man I’d first met in the diner. How could one person be so elastic? It was like witnessing the metamorphosis of a soft, furry caterpillar—but not so much into a butterfly as a dragon.

  Except it wasn’t a transformation. The innocent Sandor had been a fake. And the fact that I hadn’t seen that made me feel angry—and very stupid. I thought I was better than that. My guts twisted with fresh doubt about my capabilities.

  “What the fuck is this?” Sandor said. His tone was quiet, seething. Like a tarp pulled taut over a writhing vat of scorpions.

  Brooke stared at him without blinking. She folded her arms deliberately over her chest, then shrugged. It was a slow, deliberate movement. She was the picture of indifference, which was the polar opposite of how I felt at the moment. I noticed, however, that her fingers, tucked beneath her crossed arms, were stick straight. With this I knew she was as distressed as I was.

  Sandor narrowed his eyes. They were locked like this a moment, then he placed a call. With curt instructions, biting off each word, he commanded the cage be released.

  After a moment’s pause the cage unhinged with several metallic clunks and sank down under the floor. He reset the security system by gazing into the biometric eyepieces. The vault was armed once again.

  “Well, it was a nice try,” he said to Brooke. He smiled, showing his teeth. I’d never noticed just how pointed his canine teeth were. The back of my neck prickled. “Bait and switch, was it?” he asked. “Too bad you weren’t so adept at escape as your partner.”

  At this statement I felt a slight softening of the muscles in my shoulders and back. Good. Ethan hadn’t been caught. That was something, at least.

  The guards were shifting, murmuring. “What do you want to do with her?” one of them asked. I was desperate to know the very same thing. Panic rose in my chest as I wondered what was to stop them from killing her on the spot.

  At that moment I heard a faint click in my ear, as Ethan returned to the line. “Stay calm, Montgomery,” he said. He’d resumed a safe position, somewhere inside Westminster.

  Sandor examined Brooke. “Tell me, Miss Sinclair—how did you decide who would be the decoy and who would do the job, between you two? I’m surprised Miss Montgomery didn’t insist on being the one down here doing the dirty work.”

  Brooke said nothing, but she showed a flicker of a frown.

  Sandor smiled. “Yes, Brooke, I know you’re working with her. I know the decoy was Cat Montgomery. Please do not deny it.” He paced a small, slow circle around Brooke. “Although I must say, I’m surprised she recruited you for this job. I was under the impression
you two were rivals.”

  Brooke shrugged. “You seem to have a lot of questions about Cat Montgomery,” she said. “Interested in her whereabouts, by any chance?” Brooke loaded this question with meaning. She raised an eyebrow.

  Sandor stopped pacing. My heart was slamming itself up my throat. Sandor stood still and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Are you proposing a deal, Miss Sinclair?”

  She examined her fingernails. “Maybe. It seems to me we have some things to discuss.” She looked at him. “Is there somewhere we can go? This vault room is lovely, of course, but I’ve had a hard night and I wouldn’t mind a drink, someplace to put my feet up, perhaps. You must have somewhere more comfortable than this place. Oh, and I’m starving.”

  The other men shifted, watching their boss for a signal. Sandor scowled, apparently weighing his options. “All right,” he said at last. “Let’s go.”

  Sandor turned and strode from the room. The guards handcuffed Brooke and frog-marched her away through the steel double doors. I watched, frozen in place, as the entire party exited, boots echoing on the marble floor.

  I allowed myself to breathe. And smile. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

  “No Sandor,” I whispered as I gingerly lifted the grate away once more. I heard Ethan chuckle softly in my earpiece. “Not the old bait and switch. The bait, switch . . . and switch.” I flicked on my anti-CCTV device, lowered my rope and dropped silently to the floor.

  Brooke’s capture had been part of the plan. In the old warehouse, she’d laid it all out. “They’ll think I used a decoy to distract their attention. They’ll think I then made a mistake, which triggered the alarm. Once they’ve cleared me away they’ll feel secure about having foiled our plot. And in you go, Cat.”

  I chewed a fingernail as I listened to her plan. “You’ll be putting yourself at major risk,” I’d said.

  “I can handle myself.”