Code Name Heist (Jameson Force Security 3)

But he won’t give that to me. Probably not ever.

So I nod. “Okay. Let’s try to work together.”

“Fine,” he mutters, then spins on his heel toward the staircase. He silently disappears down it, just the way an expert thief would.CHAPTER 5SaintFive years ago…

I watched her for six nights, and yes… I realized that was considered stalking even if I was sitting at an outdoor pub and she kept returning to the same spot night after night.

Sure, her beauty captured my attention as she walked down the London street in a black trench coat with black stiletto boots, which added an impressive four inches to her already tall frame.

She was elegant, exotic, and sexy. In the first few moments of observation, it was clear she was up to no good. The average person wouldn’t notice because she was subtle about it. But as I sipped at a pint and pondered my life, I noticed how observant she was to her surroundings.

A thief’s greatest asset, which I immediately recognized.

She cut down a side alley that intersected a small art museum on one side and The Bank of England on the other. If she were a thief, I couldn’t tell what she intended to rob, so I followed her. I stuck to the shadows, stayed thirty yards back at all times, and eventually stood in a darkened doorway as she positioned herself under a window at the museum. She had made the cameras on the roof, but wasn’t concerned about being seen, as a small parapet on the corner blocked the view of the window she stood under. She’d clearly staked the place out at some point, which meant she was a high-end professional.

For two hours, she did nothing but stand in the same spot and watch the comings and goings of the street traffic around her. Tucked into an alley, she kept an eye on the streets that bordered either side.

She never saw me, though.

The next night, she examined the window, running her fingers along the edges. I couldn’t tell much about it from where I stood in the shadows, but, after she left, I made my own perusal.

It was a metal frame, held together at the corners with screws. It could be easily disassembled except for the layers of old paint over it.

The next night, she returned with tools and started chipping at the paint. She did that for three more nights, diligently cleaning up her mess before leaving.

During the day, I was curious as to what she might be after. She was clearly a professional, same as me. I was unemployed, spending lazy days roaming London, eating mediocre food but drinking excellent beer. The museum was small, off the beaten path, but it held an impressive collection of modern works.

My best guess was she was after either the Klimt or Modigliani, both displayed in the particular room with the window she kept working on, neither protected by extraordinary measures. It was a small gallery with lots of tiny rooms that relied on a couple of night guards and exterior cameras. I hadn’t detected alarm wires on the windows, and I was sure she’d made the same discovery before she decided on the window as her entry point.

Tonight, she was making her move. She waited until nearly three AM to start taking the window apart. I’d checked earlier—all the paint had been scraped away from the screws and seals.

From the dark recessed doorway in the alley, I watched her approach the window. Dressed like a thief in black leggings and a black turtleneck, she had her riot of dark curls held under a black knit cap, which she pulled over her face, leaving only her eyes visible. I hadn’t been close enough to her yet to determine their color.

From the backpack, she pulled out a screwdriver and manually worked on each joint, removing the screws holding it together. She worked slowly and methodically, making sure not to make any noise. It took her about two hours to remove the frame since she periodically took breaks. I suspected it wasn’t because she was tired, but because she knew the guards’ routes or saw them moving within the room.

With the frame disassembled, the woman easily removed the bottom portion, glass and all. She set it on the ground, leaning it up against the building. After pulling a small fabric satchel from her backpack, she slung it over her shoulder.

Quiet as a mouse and graceful as a panther, she hoisted herself onto the windowsill and slithered inside.

Moving to the window, I stayed to the side of it. I didn’t appease my curiosity by peeking inside, but I could imagine what she would be doing, making clean cuts inside the frames to remove the paintings.

I did constantly check my watch. At the two-minute-and-twenty-second mark, I heard movement. To my utter delight, the black fabric satchel came through the window first, then she dropped it to the ground. I reached over and picked it up, waiting for her to come out.