Ellie

What nobody ever tells you about wearing a police uniform is how goddamn heavy it is!

Although, in the interests of honesty – I've never actually had a conversation with anyone about wearing a police uniform. Still, by the time I'd shucked on those big, black, ugly boots, which have gotta weigh a pound each on their own; put that belt on, and filled up the assortment of pockets and straps that never seemed to end, I must have had about 20 pounds worth of kit strapped to my body. Oh, and that's not even mentioning the gun on my waist, or the billy club, truncheon thingy.

I used to think carrying my bag around was bad enough! But at least I could wear a skirt…

I caught my reflection in a shop window as I passed and barely recognized myself. My hair was pulled into a tight bun, like a schoolteacher's, or a headmistress, my uniform was intentionally ill-fitting, and I had a tattered navy blue rucksack slung over my shoulder. I wasn't wearing no makeup, but makeup designed to make me look like I was wearing no makeup. Convoluted, right? Still, I had to admit, the whole effect worked. I doubted that anyone would recognize me, and that was the most important thing.

Roman had watched with dismay as the Russian makeup girl Maya sent round painted my face. She didn't say a word, other than the occasional da, or grunt, but she transformed my face until I was as plain as the day is long. I looked away from the window. I didn't want to see myself like this. And besides, the more I saw my reflection, and the uniform I was wearing, the more I realized how crazy this plan was.

I wish you were here, Roman.

But he wasn't. He was the distraction. Maya's plan was complicated, and had more moving parts than the US Army's Cold War plans to invade Russia. Which, in a sense, was what we were doing. I grinned. An Irish-American-Russian coalition against, well, the Russians… Who'da thunk it?

Get it together, Ellie.

The plan was simple. Conor and Roman distracted Victor. Maya got the kid, and I – well, I knocked over the domino to bring Victor's whole empire crashing down. And, perhaps, get Alexandria back on a path to civilization. It was a pretty big task. Especially since I didn't have the faintest clue as to how the police worked. It hadn't even sounded easy in the back of the limo. "Oh, just saunter into Alexandria's police logistics center, somehow break into a heavily guarded evidence locker, find my old rucksack and get the story out…"

Yeah, right.

I gulped, straightened the name badge on my uniform, which read Ellie Wilkins, and stepped through a set of sliding glass doors into another world. Logistic center was in a business park on the outskirts of town. It was barely more than a warehouse with an office attached. I was banking on the fact that Alexandria's finest, the cream of the crop, probably weren't posted out here. It would be the bottom percentile from the police academy, the washouts, support staff, and the other flotsam and jetsam that made up a modern police force. Still, it was a gamble.

I handed my badge to a bored looking officer. It was the part that I had been dreading. To my eyes, the ID card looked fine. Laminated, a picture that looked suspiciously like the one I'd sent off to the DMV, the works. I had no idea what hat Maya had pulled that particular rabbit out from. As with the uniform, I didn't want to ask… Luckily, the officer's eyes were dead. He barely scanned it before waving me through.

I was in.

My fist clenched in satisfaction the second I rounded the nearest corner. I found myself in a concrete, breeze block corridor. It was hardly the stuff of Ocean's eleven… I didn't imagine that anyone would be writing screenplays about this heist. I hoped not, anyway.

"Come on, Ellie," I mumbled to myself, searching a patchwork of signage for anything that resembled the words evidence room.

"Hey, lucky lady," a man's voice wheezed from above my right shoulder. "I haven't seen you around these parts before."

I froze.

No! You made it this far!

I chose my words carefully. "Oh, you know, bureaucracy," I chuckled, setting my hands on my hips as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "Paper pushers up top, that kind of thing. Right hand doesn't know what the left's doing."

My heart thundered like a pack of wild horses as I waited for the man, whoever he was, to tap on my shoulder, tell me to face the wall and stick my hands behind my back. The game was up, I knew it.

Except, thankfully, it wasn't.

"Oh, don't I know it! The man chuckled. "Say, you don't look like you've been here before. Can I help?"

My eyes were fixed to the wall, doing a merry dance as I panicked. In the end, it was what saved me. The sign for the evidence room was worn away, painted over and then scratched out, and then stuck on with a paper label. Best and brightest, my ass.

"No," I said lightly, spinning on my heel. "I'm all good. Thanks for your help." I smiled at the man as I forced each of my legs to move in turn. He was a beast of a man, perhaps verging on three hundred pounds, and just a shade over 6 foot tall. Unlike Roman, though – it was all fat. He even had crumbs of icing sugar on his dark blue shirt collar that screamed the fact that he'd been eating doughnuts to high heaven.

Come on, buddy, I chided to myself. That's what they're expecting. You gotta be better than that.

"Colin," he offered to my disappearing back. "Don't worry about it."

"Thanks Colin!" I called back. I was pretty sure he hadn't got a good look at my face. Still, a guy like that didn't strike me as a shining example of police skill. I was in. In, and on my way. Part one, check.

I walked past the evidence locker twice, grabbing a folder off an empty desk the second time. I buried my head in it as I walked, doing a full recce out of the corner of my eye. It was pretty much as we expected – manned by one aging Sergeant, bald-headed, and a beer belly to boot. He sat behind a plexiglass screen, and commanded a full view of the evidence locker's small waiting room.

"Shit." I cursed, under my breath, ducking into an empty conference room. There was no going around him, no avoiding him. It was as we had suspected, but no less galling for the forewarning. I needed a way past and fast.

I checked my watch, a cheap, ugly black Timex, noticing that my foot was jittering uncontrollably against the floor. Any time now, Roman and Conor would be going head-to-head with Victor and his men. I didn't have a second spare, not a moment to lose. I wanted to sink into a black hole, anything to get me out of this situation. There was so much riding on it, so much pressure, that I felt I might crack underneath it.

Except that wasn't an option. I couldn't let Roman put himself in danger for our baby, especially not after last night, and do nothing to help. I was better than that, stronger. There had to be a way out a solution. I just wasn't seeing it I rifled through the big square leg pockets on my uniform and pulled out to the lock picking device. It taunted me. I was so close, yet so far. It was nothing, really, just a piece of plastic that looked like a credit card, attached to a wire, and then on to a small black box.

It was a very little thing to put a whole lot of faith in. If it didn't work as advertised, I suspect that I was going to jail for a very, very long time.

My fingers brushed against a small cardboard box. It felt unfamiliar, and I closed my fingers around it out of idle curiosity. But it was just a pack of cigarettes – nothing useful. I spied a gray metal trashcan in the corner and tossed it in. It landed, danced on the rim, and then plunged inside, nestling on a cushion of shredded paper.

Nothing useful.

Nothing useful?

I stared at the trashcan, wild eyed, as the beginnings of an idea began to crystallize in my mind. It couldn't work. Surely it couldn't work.

But it might, and it wasn't exactly like I was brimming with other ideas. I rushed to the trashcan, never more excited to see something so mundane in my entire life. I fished out the pack, opened it up and pulled out a cigarette. I stared at it like a Native American might have a Pilgrim – I'd never so much as held one in my entire life, despite the fact I'd spent my life in newsrooms, around people who smoked more often than they breathed clean air.

"Only you could be this uncool, Ellie," I murmured to myself as I searched for a lighter. "You're fucking a goddamn hitman, and you're still the most naïve, uncool girl at school."

I placed the trashcan as close to the nearest smoke detector as I could without raising suspicion. After all, I figured, if I left it in the middle of the room and set it on fire, someone was bound to get suspicious. I pulled most of the bundle of shredded paper out and shoved it into a supply closet. I was trying to cause a distraction, not burn the whole goddamn warehouse down…

"Here goes nothing," I said, holding the lighter under the end of the cigarette and flicking the flint.

It sparked, but didn't catch.

"Dammit, Ellie," I swore. "You can't even get the catchphrase right."

I sparked it again, and the cigarette burst into flame, the same dull oranges the setting sun. I laid it gently in the trashcan. I didn't trust myself to actually flick it in. This wasn't the movies. I watched, mesmerized, as the rest of the shredded paper curled into flame.

I darted behind the door, flicked the magnetic catch keeping it open, and hid behind it. The last thing I wanted was anyone actually smelling smoke… That would scupper my plan before it even got going. The smoke floated upwards, a tornado in reverse, and tickled my nose.

But the alarm didn't go off. Of course it didn't go off, because why would anything go right for me this week? I stared at the smoke detector, willing its stupid, tiny little electronic brain to do the one goddamn thing it was designed to do – detect.

At long last, a wail echoed throughout the building. A piercing, cinematic screech that punctured my eardrums and had me clutching my hands to my ears. But now, the smoke smelled like success. I peeked through the tiniest of cracks in the doorway, staring down the corridor to where the evidence locker lay, waiting for someone to stumble out and head for the parking lot. Finally, he came, and my stomach did a backflip for joy. The balding Sergeant practically waddled down the corridor, and I could hear his grumbles over the screech of the fire alarm.

It sounded like success. The second he disappeared out of sight, I stomped the fire in the trashcan out, shoved the rest of the shredded paper back in on an impulse, to hide what I'd done, and darted down the corridor, lock picker in hand.

* * *

I swiped the small piece of black plastic. The lock beeped once, but flashed red.

"Shit."

I tried again, but got the same result. This time, the red LED flashed twice, as if in warning. I suspected that if I got it wrong the third time, either I would be locked out, or an alarm would sound. And if it did, my day would go from bad to very, very bad. I stared at the lock picker, boiling over with impotent rage. "What's your problem, you useless piece of –. Oh." My mouth went very small. I felt smaller, and couldn't resist a glance around to make sure no one had seen my mistake – even though if had someone seen it, I'd be in a hell of a lot more trouble that I was already.

I thumbed a small switch on the side of the box, and felt a satisfying mechanical click reverberate through the device. It beeped twice, and a string of numbers danced across the screen, like a motel alarm clock restarting. And then, five letters. READY.

Heart in mouth, I brought the card attachment back up to the locking unit. My hand trembled. This was it. If this didn't work, then for all I knew I might be signing Roman's death certificate – and mine. I swiped.

The lock beeped once.

It flashed – green.

I was in. Really in.

But my task was only just beginning.