My first stop was the HVAC room. I checked the map Viper sent—there were three ways to access or escape the basement without setting off a single motion sensor if things went sideways and I needed to disappearusing alternative routes. The ductwork was wide enough for a person if you didn't mind tight spaces.
Next, I scouted the perimeter of the building. The external cameras were wireless, with battery backups, but nothing Viper couldn't loop. Plus I had the jammer. But the jammer would trigger the security to start looking for an intruder, so looping was a better option.
I doublechecked their angles, timing the way they blinked to transmit data every ten seconds. I walked between them, like an animal that had evolved to survive only in the margins. I sprayed water from time to time. I was totally in my role.
Then I made my way inside, carrying my power sprayer. Nobody asked what was in it. The only person who looked twice was a security guard with a shaved head and a ring of sweat on his collar. He nodded once, let me pass.
The ballroom itself was as advertised—too bright, too cold, and full of event stuff preparing it for tomorrow. I ran a handheld scanner along the baseboards, pretending to check for bugs. The scanner was real, but so was the transmitter in my palm—broadcasting a local signal that mapped every Bluetooth device in range. Two phones. One keycard. Three radio mics.
From the ballroom, I went into the gallery proper where the painting would be unveiled.
On the wall opposite the entry to the gallery was a safe-room door—an after-market vault with four digits, custom-cut into the drywall. That's where they'd keep the painting until showtime once they move it from the basement to this floor. Then, it would be set up for viewing prior to the guests entering the gallery. It was supposed to be moved back to this very same vault after the event until Castellano's people took it away, but that wasn't going to happen.
I found the service entrance behind the kitchen, traced the path from there to the vault room. The cameras in that hallway were painted to match the ceiling, but the LED was visible if you knew where to look. I'd checked it all before but you never knew with these kinds of events. Sometimes, extra security measures were added at the last minute and I didn't want to rely on the outdated information.
Last but not the least was the basement where I stashed the forgery behind the tiles of the utility closet.
By the time I walked out, the afternoon shift was just arriving. A pair of women in skirt suits, one short, one tall, both trying too hard. They never even slowed down, and I was invisible to them. No one would remember me if asked.
At the curb, I dumped the canister in the trunk of the van, took off the gloves, and texted Viper via a secure app we had on our burners that everything was ready for tomorrow.
Tonight, the painting would be checked again. There would be no issues with it. But tomorrow… Well, tomorrow would be another story.
Viper replied with
Can't wait to see you work
Damn right.
Neither could I.
Gala nights in Mid-Wilshire were always the same.
A crowd of pretty faces with too much money and too little shame, all converging on a building made to outlast them by centuries, all waving for the cameras or for the passing by fans with their phones up in the air.
Security wore black-on-black, earpieces jammed deep, badges too shiny.
I wore one too.
The polyester and the fake beard made my skin itch, but I ignored it. I walked with the careful boredom of someone who was paid not to care.
Viper did a clean job of hacking into the event organizer's system and adding another name to the list of contracted guards. There were two different companies hiring for tonight, so not all of the guards knew each other. It was perfect.
Inside, the place was already humming. Chandeliers that looked like crashed satellites hung overhead, refracting light into diamonds. The floor was a grid of motion—servers balancing flutes of champagne, women in sequined gowns drifting from one gossip pod to the next, men in tailored suits pretending not to notice each other.
I kept my route slow, looping the perimeter of the ballroom. Nobody saw me, but I saw everything. At some point, I found my mind drifting to the other night, to that strange sensation of a female body behind me on a bike. I thought back to all the encounters with women in the past. I'd never given a ride to anyone.
The client—Kimberly Holt—was the first.
Fuck.
I shook off the thought and focused on the task.
Target was in the middle of a circle near the bar, holding court. His hairwas blonder than the photos. The suit fit him well. He took care of himself physically and was in great shape. He laughed at all the right moments, shook hands with a grip that dared you to squeeze back. On his left wrist, a watch with a sapphire face glinted every time he raised his drink.
He was working the crowd for tomorrow, not tonight.
Dominic Castellano hadn't shown yet, but his rep was easy to spot. He was a middle-aged man who wore nervousness like cologne and checked the time every minute. He stayed close to the gallery entrance, eyes glued to his phone, probably watching the world markets for aftershocks.
