Page 88 of Executing Malice
I lean over and nudge her drink closer. “Drink. It’s getting cold.”
She takes it and brings it to her lips. I watch her take several slow sips. Her gaze drifts over the rim to where I continue to command her counter space.
“What happened to keeping a low profile?”
I pop the last of my Danish into my mouth and chew. “Not going to let anyone yell at you, Leila. Not going to happen.”
Her cup wielding hand lowers and she studies me with a quiet calm that makes her appear much younger than she is.
“I appreciate the help.”
I respond by nudging her Danish over.
I stick around for the remainder of the day. I park my butt in one of the uncomfortable, plastic chairs in the corner and work.
After the chaos of this morning, everyone else seems to be in a chipper mood. I get the odd side glance from the women, disinterest from most of the men. Not a soul tries to approach or make conversation, and that’s fine.
At her cubical, Leila is a distraction I hadn’t anticipated. I feel like a Golden Retriever every time his owner moves. I have to fight the urge to get up and follow her around the bank as she works.
It’s distracting. My entire being is so entuned with her every heartbeat that I am aware every time she breathes, my skin prickles. My fingers pause in their tapping. My gaze darts up to watch her do something as simple as scratching her nose.
There is the odd time when I glance up and she’s watching me. Her expression is pensive, curious, but still dark with that need from earlier. It does dawn on me that neither of us came and I’m feeling that anxious hunger deep in my gut as well.
“When’s lunch?” I ask her.
Leila shrugs. “I can take a break whenever I want, but since I came in late—”
I push to my feet and move to stand before her. “You need to eat.Where’s your lunch?”
She gestures to the door over her shoulder. “Staffroom ... wait, you can’t go back there.”
But I’m already rounding the desk and stalking through the flimsy door guarding all the money in Jefferson.
The last time I was here, I hadn’t come for the décor — thankfully, because there is none. The walls are bland white with a dark, flimsy table in one corner guarded by a single, wobbly chair. A few feet from that is a tiny fridge and freezer combo that barely comes to my hips. Not even a potted plant. Not a painting. I’ve been in prison cells that held more cheer.
I do eyeball the giant, steel door bolted into the left wall. It’s digital, I note. I half expected a vault wheel like a pirate ship. Instead, there’s a keypad mounted next to the door. I think the wheel would have been better. The simple pad can easily get hacked. Even from a distance, I know I can get in, in under twenty minutes.
But I won’t. Bank jobs aren’t my thing. There are easier ways to liberate money from bad people, like breaking into every account a company has after they bought a low-income building, upped the price and kicked out all the tenants to turn the units into condos for wealthy people.
It took all morning, but let’s see how they like having everything taken from them and redistributed to each person they tried to fuck over. I did include a note to the tenants to keep theirmouths shut. A media circus would only get lawyers involved and make keeping that money risky. Whether or not they listen to me is up to them. I did my part.
I ignore the vault and move to the fridge. Leila’s lunch bag I packed earlier is tucked neatly inside. I pull it out and turn to find her standing in the doorway, arms folded, lips pursed.
“You can’t be in here,” she says again.
Bag straps dangling from my fingers, I arch an eyebrow. “That is not what you said when I had you bent over the table.”
Her cheeks grow warm and pink under the sickly yellow bulb dangling overhead. “You are definitely getting me fired.”
I go to her and hook her waist with my free arm. She doesn’t resist when I yank her into my chest.
“Then you get fired. Do you think I’d let you struggle?”
She rolls her eyes up at me. “That is not the point. I need money.”
“We have money.”
Lots of it. Probably too much.
