Page 36 of Femme Fatale
Selene
Iglanced at Zeke. Was he really going to help me rip off his father?
Above us, the sky was black velvet, not a single star. Just that far-off, fake glow they called Vegas light, bleeding over from the Strip, and the low, secret hush from the irrigation canal running along the lot. That was all.
The building came into view, and the adrenaline kicked in. There was no turning back, only moving forward, accepting the good and the bad that was heading our way.
Joker and Spade hit the ground first, guns out, moving low in a practiced crabwalk. I let them get ten yards up before I followed, Zeke at my back. Even his breathing was disciplined—no steam, no panic, just the steady hiss of a machine built for war.
Aces waited at the bikes, the Ducati idling with all lights killed. She was chain-smoking, fingers twitching on the clutch, head ona constant swivel. She’d painted her nails that morning: seven black, three red, a countdown for each woman on the crew. I wondered if she ever expected to have all ten by the end of a job.
Glitz and Nines hit the service entrance like they were born for it. Nines carried the laptop hugged to her chest, cord trailing to a black box the size of a lunch pail. Glitz palmed the door, found the deadlock, and dropped to her knees. The drill was a whisper, not a whine. The tumblers went soft in thirty seconds, and the alarm light flicked green.
Tempest watched the rear, hands in her vest, one foot propped on the base of a loading dock ramp. She looked relaxed, but I knew better. Every nerve in her body was cocked and ready to fire.
We entered on a silent count. Joker led, Spade swept left, and I went high, rolling over the reception desk and landing in a crouch with my piece out. Zeke followed, keeping his bulk low and his profile hidden. Glitz and Nines ghosted in, with Nines already working a tablet to blind the cameras while Glitz set a plastic explosive, the size of a candy bar, on the interior steel door.
I felt the sweat slide down my back. The space inside was cold, but my skin burned. I wiped my palm on my jeans and signaled Zeke to the right. He nodded, then cut behind the rows of security cages, moving like a panther despite his size. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there; the change in air pressure, the faint creak of vinyl, the way my own muscles tensed in response. We were synced, bodies tuned to the same threat frequency.
Joker and Spade took the first two guards in a blur. The men never had a chance. Joker swung a telescoping baton and hit the first one just above the ear, dropping him in a twist of bone and blood. Spade did hers even cleaner: a chokehold, then a knee tothe throat. The guard’s gasp was smaller than the sound of the baton bouncing off the linoleum.
Glitz peeled back from the door, fingers splayed, and made a “tick-tock” sign with her wrist. I checked my watch: 02:19. We had less than seven minutes before the loop Nines ran would start to look suspicious.
The first steel door opened with a hiss and a click. The smell of new money and bleach rolled out, and behind it, the next obstacle. A hallway lined with what looked like repurposed bank vaults, each one tagged in black marker. Old, Private, Overflow, Trash. The one we needed was at the end. "SAFE #1," stenciled in angry letters, a relic from before Jack Smalls went digital.
I took point, Zeke covering. We didn’t say a word. I knew he was watching my six, felt it in the hairs on my arms.
At the last door, Glitz took over. The thermite charge was ready to go, a red cylinder with a patch of sticky goo and a strip of match-head fuse. She pressed it to the hinge, lit it with a battered Zippo, and stepped back.
The burn was fast and furious, molten metal pooling at the base. The smell was electric and chemical, like a dentist’s office set on fire. Thirty seconds, and Glitz kicked the hinge. The door dropped like a guillotine.
Inside, bundles of cash, stacked on rolling carts. Enough money to buy a senator or a Vegas judge, or to put the Harlots into a new tax bracket for life. I wanted to laugh, but all I could do was curse under my breath. "Fuck me," I whispered, and then Zeke’s hand was on my shoulder.
He pulled me back just as a shotgun blast tore through the doorframe.
We hit the floor, and I rolled behind the nearest cart, heart rattling in my chest. Joker returned fire, two shots tight and professional, but there were more guards now, three at least, advancing through the hall with faces hidden by riot gear.
"Nines, where’s our loop?" I barked into my mic.
She answered, voice flat and calm. "You’ve got three minutes. Then the feed goes live."
Spade crawled to my side, breathing hard. "We’re boxed in. Back exit’s blocked."
I peeked around the cart. Zeke was already moving, a blur of black as he darted into the side room. I counted the bodies. One guard down, but two more flanking the vault. They were using the lockers for cover.
"Smoke?" I asked, and Joker tossed a canister over her shoulder. It landed, rolled, and hissed out a cloud of gray that spread fast in the tight air.
I waited for the guards to cough, then popped up and fired. One dropped, shot in the shoulder. The other turned and fired back, a wild spread, but Zeke tackled him before he could squeeze again. They hit the ground hard, and Zeke used his whole forearm to crush the man’s windpipe. It was over in a second.
Glitz shouted from inside the vault, "Cash is packed. Need muscle!"
Zeke and I went in, rolling duffels, each heavier than sin. The money was dense, humid, and I could feel the greed sticking to my skin. We worked in silence, but our hands kept brushing, wrists locking as we cinched bags and slung them to the door. I caught his eye, and for a second, everything else fell away. It was just the two of us, high on adrenaline, alive in a world that wanted us dead.
Joker hustled in, face slick with sweat, and grabbed a duffel. "Time, boss."
I checked my watch. Less than ninety seconds. "Out, now!"
We snaked back the way we’d come, the corridor filled with haze and the reek of burning steel. Aces was on comms, hervoice tight. "Security’s inbound, two black-and-whites. Thirty seconds."
