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"You shouldn't play with your obstacles," Butters said, speaking from the ground.
Well the floor, Blue thought. Her right-hand man and bodyguard sat on a rickety crate, as he would not lower himself to physically sit on the dirty roof.
He leaned back against the wall, head tilted up to look at her. Giant thing that he was, he would have given away their position in a heartbeat—Bigfoot standing up on the roof of the building across the street, lurking during a police raid. Not suspicious or anything, she snarked, not that the special agents were looking across the street.
Blue mimicked him silently, not taking her hands off the binoculars or taking her eyes out of the lenses—earning her a burning look that bore into the side of her face. She rolled her eyes and brushed it off. "Oh, pooh. Our relationship has been off and on for five years now—more off, I will admit. It'll be fine."
Willpower, something Blue possessed in very small qualities. She couldn't help herself. Blue assumed taking the Heart would cause Nash to come after her. That he would chase her for stealing his evidence. She also knew the first place he would search was the apartment. She was a little sad that she would lose such a fantastic place; but she had such a splendid view of everything through the wide window.
Blue watched as Nash broke in—with help from complex security. He ran through the apartment, hurriedly opening doors and looking into closets—panic and anger pulsing, if the tempo of the vein in his forehead was any sign. Soon after, his little worker ants had arrived in their unfortunate white paper condom outfits.
One of them had been the person to find her little display, going to Nash. He came to the window, looking delicious in his tight, molding t-shirt and jeans, with his gun hanging in the shoulder harness hooked around bulging arms. He hadn't moved from his spot since opening the box.
Blue half expected for Nash to look up from the necklace at any moment and make eye contact with her. Disappointed, she frowned when he continued to stare at the case with hands crossed over his chest and chin tucked.
"I don't think he will ever forgive you for this one. His entire team, his bosses, the investigators from the museum— everyone realized who and what you were, and they let it go for him. And you betrayed him," he muttered, still watching her, assessing.
She shrugged. "Do you blame me?"
He shrugged back. "A little. Our word is everything and now yours is shit. Plus, instead of two prizes, we are down to one now."
"It's always been the game, not the prize, Butters."
"Sometimes." he murmured. At the soft ding signaling a notification, he fished his phone out of his pocket. He humphed, sliding one thick finger over the screen before turning it to show her the picture.
In stark letters, just like the old west wanted posters—only in technicolor, her face stared back. FBI's most wanted.