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Whoever said “to die would be an awfully big adventure” had probably never been shot at by seven armed security guards.
Harper Barton was all for adventures, but as a bullet zinged past her ear and through the window at the end of the hall, she figured getting shot was an adventure she could live without.
There weren’t supposed to be armed guards. When she’d been given the dossier on this job, Johansson had promised her security would be light and the retrieval would be a simple smash and grab.
She ran full tilt towards the large window, its glass now fractured by the bullet. None of this was part of the plan. Nor had any of her contingencies included jumping out of a window two hundred feet up.
Being the professional she was, she decided to just roll with the punches, because the alternative clearly involved her taking a bullet to the head.
Thanks, but no thanks.
She lunged for the broken glass panel, wrapping her arms tightly around herself and turning her shoulder towards the pane. If she remembered the layout of the building properly she would hit a catwalk below the tower. If she was wrong, she’d be dead.
Harper tried to never be wrong.
Wind lashed at her clothes as she fell. She held her breath and waited for impact, and a second later she landed hard on the brick outcropping just below the tower. Before she was able to get her bearings she rolled a few feet too far and over the edge of the roof, starting a steep slide down the tile.
She bit back a swear, not wanting the guards to hear her voice. With her layers of black clothing and the balaclava she insisted on wearing, they would have a hard time knowing she was a woman. Getting out of this situation alive would mean keeping that ace up her sleeve, and flying under the radar.
Women were so often overlooked as criminal masterminds.
Planting her feet on the sloped tile she was able to get enough traction to halt her slide, coming to a stop at the very edge of the roof. Below her there was a steep drop down to the cobblestone courtyard and a slew of fancy valet-parked cars.
The museum gala had drawn all of Bogota’s upper crust. None of them would be too thrilled to have a dead body crushing the hood of their nice ride.
Harper was all too ready to oblige them by not falling to her death.
She scrambled back up to the catwalk, using the tiles for grip.
“Alto ahí,” a deep voice shouted in Spanish.
Harper had left her Spanish phrase book in her other tactical turtleneck, but she doubted he was offering to lend her a hand.
As she got her feet under her on the catwalk, a bullet ricocheted off the stone.
Seriously, dudes? These guys couldn’t let her have two straight minutes without gunfire? You’d think she had stolen something incredibly valuable.
She smirked to herself.
Running away from the tower, she headed directly towards the main hall of the museum where the gala was taking place. Harper had only glanced at the banners for the event, but considering what she had grabbed from the artifact vault, the theme of the event was Really Expensive Trinkets We Found in the Jungle.
As soon as she was out of sight of the tower she started to strip off layers of clothing. First went the mask, sliding down the side of the building and off the edge of the roof to the parking area below. Next she dumped the turtleneck, revealing the low, scooped neck of her favorite little black dress.
Blending in was key, and the dress had been part of plan C or D. She’d wanted to avoid running into any civilians at all, but she wore the dress under her other clothes just in case. A black dress allowed her to fit in just about anywhere, no matter how casual or formal the rest of the guests were dressed.
Each layer Harper shed made her feel lighter, like she was leaving behind anything that might draw the guards to her. Their shouts had become distant, giving her the distinct impression they were looking for her in the wrong place. Their misdirection wouldn’t last forever, but she’d be damn sure to take advantage of it while she could.
She withdrew the stolen artifact—a small jade amulet carved with the image of a jungle cat baring its teeth—and slipped it down the front of her dress. Probably not the ideal place to store something worth more than most Silicon Valley CEOs made in a year, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Shaking out her long dark blonde hair from its ponytail, she shucked the last of her tactical gear and sprinted towards the front wing of the museum. It was easy to tell where the bulk of bystanders would be from the well-lit entryway and the faint sound of live classical music.
Her dress, a short black cocktail number that had fit reasonably well under all the rest of her clothes, hitched up on her legs and she ran. No one had yet to design a dress to be worn for marathons, so until that day Harper just had to deal with showing a lot too much leg.
If anyone below was looking up they’d probably get an eyeful, but she was counting on no one looking up.
That was sort of the major crux of her escape plan.
The rooftop catwalk ended so abruptly Harper tried to skid to a stop, but she’d taken one running step too far, and suddenly there was nothing underneath her except a hundred foot drop to Splatsville, population her.
