Heist Royale (Thieves’ Gambit #2)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Thirty-Four

One of these days, I was going to make it a few months without doing a job that required pretzeling myself into a trunk or cabinet or, in this case, a suitcase.

Noelia’s oversized hardback suitcase was more soundproof than I’d expected. I couldn’t hear a damn thing beside the wheels whirring over the floor and muffled voices. Contorting my arm, I pressed my com deeper in my ear, tuning in to the conversation outside.

“Ms.Webster,” a voice over the com said. I tried not to shift in the suitcase.

“Afternoon,” Noelia said, South African accent on point. I imagined her and the person outside shaking hands.

“I’m Dr.Warlen. It’s delightful to meet you. Just, wow.”

“Hm?” Noelia said.

“Oh, it’s just…you were the one who turned grayscale color theory on its head. Stupendous, absolutely stupendous.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” Noelia said smoothly. We’d borrowed some identities from real Noelia and Mylo look-alikes in the photography community, a safer way to guarantee getting access to the facility. Reclusive but renowned vintage photographer Noelia—or Vanessa Webster—and her assistant, Darren, a.k.a. Mylo, had looked quite the part in their artsy black turtlenecks and fraying boho scarves when we left. However, we weren’t expecting anyone to be invested in any of the cover stories…

“You know, you’re a lot younger than I thought.” The man laughed, his giggle a touch testy.

This was already going downhill.

Mom’s voice cut into the feed. “Make a jab about sexual harassment. If you make it awkward, he’ll drop it.”

Noelia hmm-ed, and I imagined the pained smile she was putting on. “Are you saying you like that?”

There was a breathless pause, and I imagined the dude was sweating .

“Oh, no, not at all! That wasn’t what I meant, Vanessa. Ms.Webster.” Dr.Warlen broke into an uncomfortable laugh. “Um, let me show you around. You and Mr.Thomas, right?”

“How do you do?” I imagined Mylo smiling and shaking his hand in turn.

“That’s a rather large overnight bag,” Dr.Warlen noted. I swallowed, knowing even though he couldn’t see me, he was definitely looking my way.

“He’s the best and brightest assistant I could ask for, but a bit of an overpacker. Half of my travel fund goes to checked baggage,” Noelia said. Someone slapped the suitcase, and I would’ve jumped if I’d had the room.

“Do you want someone to take that to the suite for you?” Dr.Warlen asked. “It looks a bit heavy—you probably don’t want to haul it around during the tour.”

“Oh yeah, super heavy,” Mylo complained.

Prick.

“They even charged us an overweight luggage fee on the cable car up,” he added.

“Apologies.” Dr.Warlen let out an exasperated sigh. “The cable cars that run up the mountain and to the station are owned by a third party. They’re so finicky, no one would use them if there was another way to get to the retreat. But it’s worth the hassle for one of the most stunning views in the country. How inspiring is it to wake up overlooking a cliff and a glistening waterfront? You can get some of the most majestic shots of your career just by rolling out of bed.” He snapped. “Oh, speaking of the cable car. The station closes at sunset, so I hope you have everything you need from the city. Also our cell service can be a little iffy up here. Not that we don’t love the seclusion.”

“We read the email,” Noelia assured him. “We’re just excited for the retreat experience.”

“Superb! Then let’s get started.” Dr.Warlen summoned someone named Leo to take Mylo’s suitcase away before beginning the commune tour.

“I’ve got some special equipment in here,” Mylo told Leo. “Be gentle with this.”

Leo promised to do just that.

Leo was a liar.

I’d never been prone to motion sickness, nor did I think I could get dizzy when all I could see was black, but the way Leo was jerking and jostling me around was making me question all of my life decisions. The journey couldn’t have been more than six or seven minutes, but by the time Leo shoved me to a stop and I heard a door slam, I was dangerously close to Jackson Pollock-ing all over this suitcase. I couldn’t get myself out of there fast enough.

The suite was as modern and artsy as you’d expect from a mountaintop communal artist colony. I tumbled out onto a white fur carpet. Holding my stomach, I stood to take in the metallic-accented furniture, paneled wood ceiling, a digital fireplace crackling with multicolor flames. An honestly gorgeous collection of black-and-white portraits covered the walls, but no one in their right mind was looking at those first. Not with the all-glass wall window offering the most spectacular view I might ever see with my own eyes.

I approached the wall, clear enough that I almost thought I could walk through it. The lights of the city below were just starting to glow under the incoming dusk. The water, still and sparkling, reflected the darkening orange and reds in the sky. Suspension lines from the cable car station stretched down toward the city, and one last car was currently making its leisurely way back up toward the retreat. The view was nearly so perfect, it looked like I was suspended in midair, but a sliver of rocky ground below the window assured me that this was just the edge of a precarious cliffside. The sheer drop had to be, what, over a thousand feet?

My phone buzzed. Reluctantly, I took my eyes off the scenery.

Kyung-soon

15 min. Stalling.

I tucked my phone back into a pocket and rubbed my chest. Everything was going to be fine.

The key-card lock on the door chimed. I ducked behind the canopy bed, but quickly stood upon hearing Mylo’s groan.

Leaning against the door, he glowered. “I. Hate. Art.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure art hates you too.”

“Dr.Warlen is taking Noelia to the gray room. Where they keep a bunch of gray candid shots, so they can compare all the different types of gray. Because there are a hundred different types of gray, and that’s important.” He shook his head in disbelief, patting his pants until he found a folded sheet of paper and a pen. Kneeling at a coffee table between two white fur couches, he opened the paper. Blueprints I’d found were already etched in my mind, but frustratingly the rooms weren’t labeled.

Mylo circled one box, the suite we were obviously in now, and drew a line toward another space in the adjacent wing.

“We’re in the housing wing right now. According to Dr.Warlen, vintage prints and reels are located here. I didn’t get a good look at it. It’s off-limits to newbies, but I’m sure a few people were flitting around in there.”

“Makes sense.” I traced the blueprints, already planning the fastest route through the corridors to get to the room. “Can you cover me while I get there?”

“What do you think I’m here for?” He stood, running a hand over any unruly touches of hair. “You heard from Kyung-soon?”

“She said she’s stalling. Let’s hope she can do that long enough.”

He gave me a goofy smile and poked my shoulder. “Look at you guys, not pretending you’re pissed with each other anymore.”

“Shut up. Let’s go.”

Mylo left first. Seeing the hall was empty, he beckoned me out. I let him stay a step ahead of me. At the first hint of a suite door opening, I dipped into the space between two wire sculptures. Mylo was quick to intersect, stealing the woman’s attention with a question about looking for a place to meditate. He angled his body in a way that naturally made her turn her back to me, and I carried on down the corridor to another safe spot. He let her go, and we carried on. Rinse and repeat anytime we ran into another artist along the way. In no time at all, we were in the next wing. I held back in an emergency stairwell, com on while Mylo used the key card he most assuredly swiped from Dr.Warlen to enter the vintage films room.

Through the com, I heard the door swing open, and a smattering of pleasant conversation abruptly drew to a halt. “Who the hell are you? This is restricted access only.”

“How did you get a key card?”

“Jamie.” Mylo introduced himself. “Your names?”

Some hesitation. “Philly. That’s Molly.”

“Philly and Molly, you’re right where Dr.Warlen said you’d be. He asked you to show me around the microfilm room.”

“Us? Why us?”

“I dunno, you’d have to ask him. But he’s giving my boss a tour now. Do you want me to tell him you said no?”

“No, it’s…it’s fine. We can come back later,” Molly, I’m assuming, said.

Peeking out of the emergency stairwell, I watched a lady in an oversized sweater and a guy in overalls escort Mylo back out into the hallway. Overalls was especially careful to pull the door tight behind them. So focused on it in fact that he didn’t notice when Mylo silently dropped the key card into the pot of a tree by the door. Once they were out of sight, I retrieved the card and slipped into the restricted room, flicking my com to mute in the meantime, since Mylo and Molly’s conversation on deterioration rates of different film types was a bit more distracting than helpful right now.

It was dim in here. About half a dozen individual viewing stations wrapped around three of the walls, with leather chairs and wide screens wired to DVD players, VHS players, and even old-fashioned film projectors. Black curtains divided each space. Shelves here and there displayed stacks of film and discs, along with manuals on film preservation and restoration. The only windows in here were slender and high, just below the ceiling, prohibiting sunlight with black tint.

My gaze settled on a tall black shelf across the room. According to the floor plan…

I traced the back of the shelf, feeling carefully. My fingers caught on a dip in the wood. Pulling, the shelf unlatched, and it swung in on itself.

Bingo.

If the first room was dim, then this one was pitch-black. I squinted, trying to get my eyes to adjust. But the second I stepped inside, a puddle of light beamed down on me, drenching me in my own private little circle of luminescence.

In glow-in-the-dark lettering, a sign on the back of the shelf door caught my eye.

Warning! Light-sensitive film stored here. Do not overexpose.

Light-sensitive film and assassination footage.

I took a baby step forward, and the beam of light followed me, courtesy of a whole layer of motion-sensor lights sitting like bats on the ceiling. Neat, I guess.

About a dozen rows of metal shelves, each around seven feet tall, were spaced unevenly through the room. Approaching one with my beam of light following, I noticed the hand cranks on the side. With ease, I turned one, and the shelf jerked into motion so fast it jumped. An aisle opened between two shelves. A paper note was taped at around eye level.

Sensitive hand cranks. Be careful—

Lot of good a hand-scribbled note did in a near-blacked-out room, but whatever. A glow-in-the-dark plaque on the shelf read A-001 THRU B-056 . My target was in the K s, so I crept through the dark room accordingly until I was cranking the shelves over to create a new aisle where I needed.

Metal film canisters were arranged in messy stacks from top to bottom, little white tags stickered to the side of each canister labeling them. Thankfully, all the canisters seemed to be in order. I didn’t have time to scour through all this film.

At the very end of the aisle, bottom shelf, I picked up film reel K-905. Identical to the rest of the film canisters, but oh, what secrets could be recorded inside. If I’d had time, I might have borrowed one of the projectors in the next room over and found out for myself. Another time, perhaps.

Film in hand, I slipped out of the dark room and started to push the shelf door back in place. I had about twenty minutes until the cable car station shut down for the night. It was just enough time for Mylo to fake a medical emergency and smuggle us down to the city. I was about to com for him to circle back for me, but a crackling sound at the window shut me down. There was a buzzing and a pair of feet pressed against the glass. Someone was breaking in.