The
safe unlocks with a quiet click. Moving slowly, just in case there’s
a tripwire I haven’t disabled, I open the door and reach inside.
The chip rests in a foam-lined box. I ease it free and slip it into a
small pocket inside the gear pouch strapped around my waist.
Robbery
number sixty-three: success.
I close the safe, then start a
cautious trek back to the window. I’m careful to retrace my steps,
traveling the exact path I used to come in. So far I’ve bypassed a
laser tripwire net, a few pressure plates, and a motion sensor. Kind
of disappointing. I thought one of Precipice’s labs would be more
heavily secured, and I like a challenge. This room is too easy—just
four wide lab tables with thick, black tops, some data equipment on
the counters and the wall safe. A few terminals even provide a soft
blue glow to work by. Nothing to get in my way or force me into the
motion sensor’s path. Much, much too easy.
Which
means something’s wrong.
I
take a deep breath, trying to refocus. C’mon, Lexa. Time to
concentrate, girl.
It’s
no good; the nagging feeling I’m in trouble won’t shake loose.
The Quad’s businesses aren’t usually lax on security. Their
systems are top-notch and with the cops in their pockets, it takes an
audacious thief to break into a Precipice Industries building.
Honestly, I’m the only one crazy enough to take this job, but being
seventeen means I’m allowed to do stupid things, especially for a
good paycheck.
I’m
almost back to the window when a cool breeze ripples across my skin,
like the climate control system has started. Immediately, a blue
light clicks on in the ceiling and my whole body goes numb. The beam
has me flash frozen in place. Skies, what is this? Why can’t I
move? My mind’s screaming for me to get out of here, to run, but
it’s like my legs don’t understand the commands.
I
push against whatever is holding me still, willing it to leave me
alone. As if it hears my thoughts, the blue light turns off and I can
move again. It’s too late, though—the alarm starts shrieking. I
dash for the window and slide onto the ledge. My heart slams in my
chest, almost like it’s trying to reboot, which is bad since I’m
on the eighth floor and the ground is far below. There’s no time to
catch my breath, no time to calm down. I pat my gear pack, feeling
for the data chip in the little pocket deep inside. At least I got
what I came for. Making it home with my prize in hand will be a
different story altogether.
It
takes thirty seconds to test my climbing anchors, clip onto my
cat-line and swing off the ledge. It takes another thirty seconds to
rappel down the side of the brick building. The alarm is still
shrieking overhead. From the dark of the alley, each light that comes
on in the windows makes me move faster. At one point, a member of the
night watch peeks outside. I flatten against the wall. This is going
to be a close one. Maybe the closest yet.
A
bead of sweat runs down my chest, trickling its way into my navel.
It’s torture, but I stay pressed against the wall. Another bead
follows the first, then another. I want to wipe them away so badly I
have to grit my teeth to stay my hand. If I get caught…no, I can’t
think about that right now. I won’t get caught.
After
the guard moves away from the window, I punch the release on my
climbing anchors, jumping clear as they fall to the ground from the
roof. My cat-line comes down in a tangled wad. No time to fix it. I
shove the whole kit—anchors, line and descent vest—into the
saddlebag compartment on the back of my hover bike. She comes to life
with a gentle hum and the propulsions on the bottom glow a faint
purple. I special ordered that color because I like a little flash.
If I’m going to get caught, I’ll do it with style.
I’d
rather not get caught, though.
Sirens
wail in the distance, closing fast. Hunched over the handle bars, I
ease the bike onto the street behind the lab, then kick it into glide
mode. The shadows of giant skyscrapers bear silent witness to my
flight. In the clean order of Triarch City, I’m the one bit of
chaos those buildings and their perfect little occupants might
experience in the next week. Maren—the Quad’s leader—sees to
that. Square pegs like me don’t fit into her world order.
Which
is why the sirens are getting closer.
I
kick the throttle into flight mode as I enter the ramp to the
highway. The hover bike runs like molten glass and I streak down the
dark street in a burst of orange light. Streetlamps become laser
beams, their flashes the only indicator of just how fast I’m going.
This time of night, there isn’t much traffic; good thing, because
this run is dicey enough. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t like
endangering innocent people in the name of a job.
I
hazard a look in my side mirrors. Flashing lights give chase. Stars,
they’ve sent a hover tank after me. I have a jamming signal built
into the bike’s computer, which keeps them from seeing me on their
scanner. They have to rely on a visual search. Not easy to do—the
tanks have to fly much higher than my bike, and they aren’t as
fast. I have to hope speed’s enough to keep them at bay. My capture
would make the cops’ night, what with the reward and all. I shiver,
thinking about what awaits me in jail, especially since my boss
wouldn’t bail me out. I’d be on my own.
The
highway curves around the lake and I lean into the turn, zipping past
the last monorail station. Beyond the empty train platform, the road
stretches dark and cold, leading to the warehouse district on the far
side of the lake. Once I cross the bridge, I’ll be in the home
stretch. I hit the boosters and the hover bike lurches forward, the
thrusters throwing off a brilliant yellow glow that’s reflected in
the water under the bridge. The flashing lights drop back.
The
exit ramp at the end of the line comes up fast. I cut back on the
throttle and grind my way onto the side streets, taking a hard turn
between two steel-sided warehouses. At the end of the alley, I drop
the bike into glide mode and the thrusters change back to purple.
Another hard turn—more slowly this time—and the bike pops through
the narrow doorway into Turpin’s building. The metal door rolls
down automatically once I’m safely inside. Holding my breath, I cut
the engine so the cops won’t know I’m here. It takes a minute or
two for all the sirens to pass into the distance. When they do, I
permit myself a sigh of relief. Just the one.
I
pull off my helmet and toss it in the corner, where it clatters
against plastic boxes used to maintain our front as a snack foods
distributer. My boss likes to joke that we sell crackers during the
day and steal chips at night. Never found that funny, to tell the
truth.
“You’re
back early,” Jole’s voice echoes through the warehouse from the
overhead speaker.
“Ran
into a problem.”
“Huh,”
he says. “Guess that’s why the boss told me ‘full measures.’”
I
give the camera in the corner a put-out look. “Seriously?”
“Sorry.”
Grumbling,
I prepare to strip. My hair streams down my back, damp with sweat
earned during the chase. Pissed at the formality or not, it feels
good to peel off my leather jacket, boots and tight, black jumpsuit.
I hate the jumpsuit, always feeling like a wannabe ninja wearing the
thing. Occupational hazard.
In
my tank and boy shorts, I pad barefoot across the concrete floor to a
door marked “authorized personnel only,” and pose for the
security camera. Hand on my hip, I blow Jole a kiss.
“You
know your charms don’t work on me,” he says.
“Yeah,
yeah. Next time I’m out, I’ll pick up a boyfriend for you.”
“Really?
That would be great. I like broad shoulders and a nice smile.”
“Don’t
we all?” I ask. “Now, could you open the damn door?”
The
lock clanks open.
I
enter a pea-green hallway and stop when the door behind me relocks.
My skin crawls with the tingle of a full body scan before a light
flashes up ahead. We’re going all out with security tonight. The
boss must be feeling extra paranoid. What, does he think I’ve been
compromised. Or worse, copied? Who’d they expect? One of Maren’s
Bolt girls? Sure, she has an army of artificial humans, but it’s
too expensive to copy real people just for the sake of spying on
mid-level criminals.
The
scan finishes and a green light flashes. “See? Real girl.”
“That’s
what the cellular detector says,” Jole answers. “Keep walking.”
I
pass through the second door into a clinical white hallway—the
clean room—so Jole can scan me for electronic tracking devices. I
don’t know why, but the clean room always gives me the shakes.
Something about the whiteness of it. White floor, white ceiling,
white…
“Lexa?
Turpin wants to see you. Now.”
Jole’s
voice reverberates off the hard walls and shakes me loose from
whatever hold the white hallway has. I’m in trouble; that’s
enough to get my attention.
He
buzzes me through the last door and the smell of mildewed tile seems
like a reward after the night I’ve had. The locker room’s showers
keep the air humid; I can almost feel the warm water on my shoulders.
But no, a soak will have to wait, because Turpin’s summons has to
be answered. Sighing, I pull a pair of jeans and sneakers out of my
locker. “Now” doesn’t mean “right this second” when I’m
in my underwear, no matter how pissed off the boss is.
The
adrenaline has worn off and getting dressed takes a lot of energy.
Exhausted, I head for the stairwell with low expectations.
Turpin
lives on the third floor of the warehouse, and his digs look less
industrial than mine or Jole’s. The boss has carpet, even in the
hallway leading to his office, and old-timey wall sconces with yellow
light bulbs put off a soft glow. I pause before the heavy steel door,
trying to gather my excuses into a bouquet of half-truths before the
yelling starts.
“I
know you’re out there,” comes Turpin’s muffled shout.
Well,
of course he does. Cameras never lie. I push the door open, head
downcast, hoping he’ll think I’m being contrite.
“Oh,
cut the crap, Lexa,” Turpin says the second I cross the threshold.
He sits up straight in his antique leather chair, hands folded on his
wooden desk. “You wouldn’t know humble if it tackled your ass.”
Surprised
into laughing, I look up. Turpin glares back and asks, “What
happened tonight?”
I
choke on a laugh. What had happened? “I got in just fine, through
the eighth-floor window, like you told me.” Now for the tricky
part. “The laser cutter worked perfectly—but don’t tell Jole.
His ego doesn’t need stoking. Anyway, I found the safe, decoded the
lock, and took the chip. I was on my way out when I ran into a new
type of security protocol. I saw this flash of light in the ceiling
and was paralyzed for a moment. When I could move again, the alarm
went shrieking all to hell.”
Turpin’s
face becomes guarded. “I’ve never heard of a security measure
that paralyzes someone. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
I
glare at him—my imagination isn’t that good. “No. It was like
my feet were glued to the floor. I couldn’t move.”
He
takes off his glasses. So what if we can cure blindness; Turpin likes
anachronistic things more than perfect eyesight, which also explains
the wool sport coat and the gray hair even though he’s only forty.
“Maren
didn’t have anything like that when I worked at Precipice,” he
says. “I need to put out some feelers, see if I can’t figure out
what this new safety measure is.”
“Thanks.”
If anyone can find the source of the trip light, it’s Turpin. In a
previous life, he’d been a security expert. The best thieves are
always halfway legitimate, working right under the noses of their
marks. “So now what?”
“You
lie low for a few days.”
I
stare at the ceiling, supplicating to the crown molding for
intercession from this vile punishment. “A vacation! Maybe I should
screw up more often.”
“This
isn’t the time for sarcasm.” Turpin shoves his glasses onto his
face. “We’re close to cracking Maren’s defense systems and our
clients aren’t known for patience. Your little mistake may have
cost us weeks, maybe months. Do you want to explain to our employers
why we’re behind schedule?”
Oh,
Stars, anything but that. Being in the same room as our clients gives
me the creepy-crawlies and their bodyguards always breathe down my
neck like they’d enjoy sending me to the afterlife. “No, I
wouldn’t.”
“And
I trust you wouldn’t like the Quad to catch you, either, right? We
stole plans for the K400s. They may be early-gen artificials, and
obsolete, but they aren’t going to give us a pass on this. You want
to end up in their hands?”
The
ice in his tone matches the cold feeling in my stomach. Suddenly the
clients don’t seem so frightening. “Certainly not.”
“Then
you’re grounded until further notice,” Turpin says. “Jole could
use some help cracking the chip—that’ll be your assignment during
downtime. Find out what the K400 data can tell us about later models.
Until we make the handoff, stay inside.”
Holding
in a snort takes effort, but I give him a nice, obedient smile.
Turpin knows that working on tech is my least favorite chore. Helping
Jole is punishment, pure and simple. The sick thing is, I know I
deserve it. I failed.
“Yes,
sir.”
I
turn slowly and close the door with a quiet snap once I’m in the
hall. How did I mess up like this? I pride myself on being the most
careful “acquisitions expert” Turpin has ever had. With measured
steps, reeking of discipline for Turpin’s cameras, I stroll to the
locker room for my shower. Greeted once again by the smell of mildew,
I take a seat on the metal bench.
It’s
only then that I let go and punch the locker door.
New Adult / Women's Fiction / Chick LitDate Published: November 17, 2014
Catherine L. Hensley is a professional freelance editor and writer. From fiction and nonfiction manuscripts to academic pieces, she provides an extensive range of copyediting, proofreading, content editing, and writing services to a wide variety of clients located around the United States and abroad.
