Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies by Barbara Silkstone

disappeared up the side of the North by Northwest building and into the shadows on the third floor ledge, covertly entering in order to open the street exit door for me. Within minutes he was back on the ground and I was entering my first burglary. So far so good, no alarms.
    He nodded his head motioning me to enter. “Now we become invisible. Travel silently with the night.”
    “Cut the drama,” I mumbled through the cat hood.
    He waved me on. The suit seemed to be getting even tighter and the mask didn’t line up with my eyes; I felt like a kid in last year’s Halloween costume. Half blind I stumbled over his heels. The landings went by, slower and slower… fifteen… sixteen… I was burning up inside the spandex. Maybe climbing the outside of the building wasn’t such a bad idea.
    My energy was sapped. I stopped on a landing, clutching the rail. The suit had become a portable steam bath. I was soaked and did not feel the slightest bit sexy. My panting echoing in the staircase resembled an old asthmatic dog. Six-inch numerals on the door showed me I was on the thirtieth floor. A mere twenty-one to go. Suck it up, you wimp. I pushed off and caught up with the skinny mountain goat on thirty-five. An eternity later we reached the fifty-first floor. My calves and thighs spasmed. I fell forward on the landing. Sexy belly wiggles under the laser beams were no longer a possibility.
    Leech cracked the door and peeked in. “All clear.”
    I slipped through the door after Leech. We were in a corridor illuminated by night lighting. Butts against the walls, we inched our way to the offices of the Cowboy Pension Fund. Leech fiddled with the lock on the huge gallery doors and they rolled open. We stood side-by-side scanning the room for movement. Dim indirect ceiling lighting cast a faint bluish tone.
    Leech reached into the bag strapped to his waist and threw a fistful of white powder into the room. The dust filled the air. The room was layered with laser beams, starting a foot off the floor with a new layer about every foot up to the ceiling. Not on my most bendable day, in my sexiest mood, would I be able to accomplish the under and over shimmies to negotiate my way into the gallery and back out with the bronze bronco.
    Leech motioned to me. He put a finger to his lips and pointed upward to remind me of the possibility of audio sensors. He mouthed some words but my eyeholes were misaligned again and I didn’t catch it. I shook my head and mouthed for him to repeat.
    We stood on the threshold in a pantomime argument. If we were on camera we were providing a nifty vaudeville act and plenty of time for security to arrive.
    It was then I remembered a little trick I’d learned in London. The first sensor glowed red just inside the door. I bent down and spat on it. The glow went out.
    I wouldn’t have thought it possible to look dumbfounded wearing a Batman mask, but my partner did. He threw a second fistful of powder. No beams. The lasers were shut down. Leech blew me a kiss in admiration.
    I tiptoed to the bronco’s podium, raised the statue a hair, and held my breath waiting for the sound of a siren. Blessed silence. I was officially a cat burglar. Or a bronco buster. Or both.
    Planting my Keds firmly on the floor, I lifted the statue. It was more awkward than I expected. It slipped from my grip but I got control of it just before it hit the floor, the same instant my heart slammed into my throat.
    Leech was doing a touchdown dance on the threshold. Idiot.
    The red laser beams popped back on. I looked to my right and then my left. I was surrounded by a cross-hatch of crimson jail bars. So much for the lifespan of my particular brand of spit.
    Leech knelt and spit on the sensor. The beams stayed on. He tried again. No effect. I was trapped behind a maze of laser rays. The statue was less than a foot thick but heavy and getting heavier.
    “We’re gonna have to make a run for it. Slide the statue to me,” Leech staged