Chapter 2 Semi-Heist

Eight PM on the dot and I was already shoving my diner apron under the counter. Ruby shot me one of her signature looks, the one that said she knew I was up to no good but had decided years ago it wasn't her problem. I just winked and made a beeline for the back, grabbing a to go bag of two croissant and a mini pizza I made from the leftovers in the kitchen, all for dinner.

The "staff bathroom" was a glorified closet with a leaky pipe that sang show tunes, but it had a lock, so I shimmied out of my uniform and into the denim pants and a black black lives matter hoodie I kept balled up in my backpack. I wrestled my stupid red hair into a tight bun and stuffed it under a black beanie, then did a quick wipe-down with a makeup remover pad until my face was a blank slate. See? Boring. Forgettable. Just another nobody in a city full of ‘em.

I slipped out into the back alley where the diner's warmth vanished, replaced by a dumpster-scented chill, a beat-up bike relaxing on the wall. That looked like it would fall apart if you stared at it too hard.

Shield Security’s front was all shiny glass and a receptionist who looked like she’d stab you with her manicure, the few times I've walked past her wasn't a good few times.

For some reason she hates me. It was either my clothes or my shoes, my cheap perfume.

I glared at her oblivious head and proceeded to go around the back, past the overflowing dumpsters, was a service door that was supposed to be alarmed. Key word: supposed to be. Blaine was cheap. The alarm was a dummy box, just a plastic shell to scare off amateurs, and the actual lock was a piece of crap I had open in under ten seconds.

The hallway inside was all concrete and the persistent hum of the dying fluorescent lights. When I got to the third floor on the left. I punched in the code Blaine had texted.

Sometimes I wondered how he got shield from a one room agency to what it is now. The guy is too paranoid for encrypted apps but dumb enough to send this stuff over regular text.

I shook off the cold and walked in

“Cutting it close,” he said, not looking up from his laptop, by his side was angel, of my his workers he favored.

“You try crossing town at this hour,” I deadpanned, leaning against the doorframe. “So what's the job?”

He finally looked at me, his eyes doing that gross slide down my body he probably thought was subtle. “You clean?”

“Do I look like a cop, Blaine? Just tell me what to steal so I can get out of this depressing hole.”

He smirked and turned the laptop around. On the screen was a grainy photo of a necklace. It was a heavy gold chain with a pendant of a coiled panther, its eyes glowing with what had to be emeralds.

“It's called the ‘Midnight’ for reason I consider obvious.” Blaine announced, puffing out his chest like he’d forged the thing himself. “Belonged to some old-money socialite who pissed off the wrong people. Our client wants it back. It’s sitting pretty in a penthouse over at the Rosydale. Top floor, of course.”

From what I suppose this was, whoever took the photo didn't do justice.

I leaned in, studying it. The security in those glass palaces was no joke. Bet that I'll know because I've gone to places like that before, with awful lot of motion sensors, fucking pressure plates, the whole paranoid works. “Top floor? You got the blueprints? Alarm schematics?”

“It’s all on this.” He slid a thumb drive across the table to which I insert into his laptop and went through. “Client provided everything. Seems they had an inside man who got cold feet, so your job is to be his hands.”

I glanced back at the photo one more time. “How much is this worth anyway?” He did say socialite and whenever that title is in, you should know it costs more than your life.

“I don't think you remember any of the rules before your were hired, do you?” He asked with a glare.

I shook my head. “Forget I asked.” It's against the rules to ask questions like that, he and the clients are afraid we'll just sell their shits and disappear.

“Fine. What’s the split?”

“Standard. Sixty-forty.”

I let out a short, harsh laugh. “For a high-rise gig like this with an anonymous client? Try eighty-twenty, or I'mma sell this shit once I lay hands on it.”

Of course he knew i was joking.

I'm okay with battling my students loans, I don't want another one

“Seventy-thirty, and that’s my final offer, Rhodes. Don’t forget who gave you this shot.”

A risky shit by the way. I'd die and he'd keep the entire hundred.

And this asshole knows I know he was using me, because I was small, fast, and had never been pinched. I scowled but nodded. “Fine. Seventy-thirty. But if this intel is garbage, I’m taking it out of your cut. You have my account number.”

“Bye, Angel.” I was out the door and back in the alley before he could get another word in. I hailed a taxi and pointed at my direction.

The Rosydale Tower was a giant glass needle trying to prick the sky. I parked two blocks away in a paid garage, taking the stairs down to the street because no one ever puts cameras in the stairwells. I walked the rest of the way, blending into the small night crowds.

I found a twenty four hours coffee shop with a decent view of the tower’s main entrance and ordered a black coffee, then plugged the thumb drive into my phone using a cheap adapter from my backpack. Going through the details one more time.

The socialite was out of town for a week, and the client had even provided the code to disable the penthouse’s internal motion sensors. All I had to do was get past the building’s perimeter security.

Which, according to this, had a blind spot. A service elevator in the parking garage used for furniture deliveries. Its camera was on a loop from 2 to 4 PM daily, some lazy security guard’s shortcut.

I checked the time. 10:47 PM.

I finished my coffee, left a tip that and headed for the garage.

I hope this goes well tomorrow.