Vivian Fox’s boots whispered across the polished floor, her shadow a fleeting ghost in the dim light of the hallway. The museum was still and quiet around her, the only sound coming from the subtle hum of air conditioning. The building itself was quite simple and basic, but the priceless artifacts contained under the roof gave the space a feeling of importance and antiquity.
It wasn’t the smallest museum Vivian had broken into, but it was a close contender. The sleepy little museum, located just a bit off the edge of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, held a quaint colonial charm. But it was also about to lose a treasure that had once bristled under the might of the Spanish Armada.
Her breath steady, Vivian moved with purpose, the weight of her compact duffel bag a reassuring presence at her side. She navigated the labyrinth of displays and plaques, each step taking her closer to the reason she was here. There was a certain thrill to this, a rush of adrenaline she found nowhere else…that she doubted anyone ever felt unless they, too, were a professional thief.
When she came to the room where her target was located, she slowed her step. The golden gleam of the coins beckoned from the end of the corridor, barely shining in the soft light of the museum’s after-hours ambience. Vivian could almost feel the weight of the coins in her palm, the cool metal speaking volumes of centuries passed. They were pieces of history, soon to be spirited away into the hands of someone who would hoard them rather than share their story.
That particular part of her job did bother her from time to time, but the pay often squashed that tiny, moral concern. It was a job—just another job—but one that came with the satisfaction of outsmarting systems designed to be foolproof.
She had done her part well. An hour earlier, tucked away in the shadows a block from the museum, she’d pulled up the inner workings of the museum’s security system via a portable hard drive provided by her client. In the back of a small van, she’d studied lines of code as she’d disabled alarms and blinded cameras. The security system had folded effortlessly under her expertise, a testament to years of honing her craft. It had seemed too easy, but Vivian wasn’t one to question good fortune.
This was no smash-and-grab; it was artistry, a game of wits played on a field of both technology and darkness. There was no clanging of breached doors or flashing lights on patrol cars to worry about—she’d made sure of that. Vivian prided herself on being a ghost; it was a talent that had some of the world’s most powerful and mysterious people seeking her out for jobs just like this one.
The display case loomed ahead, unassuming yet holding riches that empires had bled for. A small smile flirted with the edges of her lips. Everything was going according to plan, every contingency accounted for. She thought she might even set a new record tonight—in and out in under ninety seconds.
The glass case before her was the size of a shoebox, the clear walls guarding its treasure. She slipped her slender, gloved fingers into her jacket pocket and retrieved a small, leather-bound kit. As she unfolded it on the floor, the delicate array of picks and tension wrenches winked under the muted lights.
She chose her tools quickly, knowing their shapes and abilities intimately. She selected the right ones for the job, tools so well-designed that the lock she was about to pick would show no signs of having been tampered with. The box that she’d be leaving empty, however, was another story completely.
As the tumblers fell into place, a quiet satisfaction hummed through her veins. Each click was like music to her, like the applause of an unseen crowd. Good job, they seemed to say.
With a final click, the case opened.
She took a moment to admire the coins before plucking them out of the glass container. They were beautiful and relics of history, but they were not for her. They were destined for the private collection of a man whose obsession with Spanish gold had filled his vaults yet emptied his soul. A millionaire, yes, but a prisoner to his own desires…just like most of her clients.
Her client had provided access to the security system and even the museum network the coins were in. All told, Vivian had spent roughly five hours on this job—staking out the museum during opening hours, researching the security system and then disabling it, and now these few minutes spent on the actual theft itself.
Five hours, and she was going to net a cool eighty thousand dollars when all was said and done.
Vivian slipped a velvet pouch from her duffel bag, each movement deliberate and practiced. One by one, she transferred the coins—all twelve of them, having been rescued from the ocean floor twenty years ago. They spoke of conquests and kings, of storms at sea and the darkness beneath the waves. And Vivian felt proud to be holding them.
The pouch now heavy with its precious cargo, she tucked it securely into her bag. With the job done, she immediately turned back the way she had come, ready to melt back into the shadows. She strode back through the quiet, her footsteps making no noise at all, her body light and agile.
She left the room and turned the corner to head back toward the exit. She’d taken just a single step when she saw the three men standing halfway down the hall. They were dressed in basic police uniforms, and though all three were armed, none of them had their sidearms drawn.
Her mind raced, thoughts tangling like the wires she had so carefully navigated through in the security system. She’d knocked the security out and only two people on the face of the planet knew she was here. Her thoughts turned to the only possible answer: she’d been set up.
But why?
Her breath quickened, but not from fear. It was rage that tightened her chest. They had underestimated her if they thought she’d be an easy catch.
She pivoted, her previous exit now a trap. The backup route beckoned, a narrow passage between ancient artifacts and dusty shadows to her right. Vivian dashed toward it, her duffel bag snug against her side, the coins within a heavy reminder of the job half-done.
As she rounded a corner, the sharp scent of gun oil hit her nostrils, a metallic tang in the air. There, blocking her way, stood two more police officers. This duo did have their weapons drawn and leveled at her.
“Freeze!” the officer on the right commanded. His voice, firm and unyielding, suggested no discussion would follow.
But Vivian had faced down more than uniformed men with guns before. She had a bit of government training in the area, as well as over twenty years of kickboxing, Brazilian jiujitsu, and Muay Thai training. She assessed their positioning, adapted her plan in the span of a heartbeat, and prepared to act.
“Easy there,” Vivian said. Her voice was steady and almost conversational despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Let’s not do anything hasty.”
“Put the bag down and put your hands where we can see them,” the second officer barked, stepping closer, the muzzle of his gun an unblinking eye. Vivian was also aware of the other three cops, likely coming to the corner behind her within just another few seconds.
That was when Vivian made her choice. With a fluid movement born of desperation and honed skill, she lunged to one side, her action a blur designed to confuse and disorient. She feinted left, then spun right, her heel connecting with the lead officer’s wrist. The gun clattered to the tile floor, its metallic clang ridiculously loud in the museum’s nighttime silence.
The other officer lunged, only for Vivian to duck and weave through the gap his bulk created. In his lunging, Vivian deduced that whoever had sent them had instructed them not to shoot her. That simple knowledge gave her a huge advantage in the fight.
She darted past artifacts and dimly lit exhibits that blurred into indistinct shapes, her breath a ragged counterpoint to her footfalls. Shadows clung to the edges of the museum halls, offering up possible hiding spots.
“Stop her!”
The shout barely registered as she burst through a service door, her backup route a darkened promise of escape. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Two more officers stepped from the shadows, their outlines solidifying like nightmares given form.
“End of the line, Fox,” one of these officers said. There was a Taser in his hand, its electric hum somehow more alarming than the guns the other officers had held. Maybe they’d been told not to shoot her. But being tased was a completely different thing.
Vivian’s body moved on instinct. She launched herself at the nearest threat, her elbow swinging in a vicious arc. It connected solidly with the face of the first cop, clearly taken by surprise at her speed and fluidity. She barely heard him strike the wall and then crumple to the floor following her attack.
But by the time she was out of this attack, the other officer had already acted. He’d fired off the Taser, his face a mask of determination.
Pain erupted through Vivian, fierce and blinding. Her muscles seized, uncontrollable, as thousands of volts passed through her. Vivian hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, the world tilting sideways in a disorienting kaleidoscope. She’d never been tased before and had no idea just how badly it hurt. Even when the initial jolt was over, the pain radiated through her.
She heard the cops murmuring, heard the drum-like pattern of footfalls as they all converged on the spot where she’d fallen.
Cuffs closed around her wrists. It was a familiar feeling, a sound she’d heard before, but it seemed more final this time. Vivian lay there, gasping on the cold floor, a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. The scent of ozone lingered in her nostrils from the jolt that had taken her down.
Her vision swam, the once precise lines of the museum warping. As consciousness threatened to slip away, Vivian’s last coherent thought was bitter, edged with anger.
Who had turned the tables on her?