The Federal Reserve Bank was a fortress of limestone and arrogance sitting in the center of the financial district.
"Cameras are on a sixty-second loop," Clara's voice crackled in my earpiece. She was back at the Ivory Tower, sitting in front of a bank of monitors, monitoring the bank's grid. "Do not sneeze. Do not blink. If you break the pattern, the silent alarm trips."
"Understood," I whispered.
I was standing in the elevator of the bank, dressed in a severe gray pencil skirt, a blonde wig, and thick-rimmed glasses. I looked like a paralegal.
Next to me stood Sienna. She looked like a billion dollars in a red power suit, holding a crocodile-skin briefcase.
"Shoulders back, honey," Sienna murmured, checking her lipstick in the reflection of the elevator doors. "You look like you're smuggling a ham. Relax. You're my assistant. You're supposed to be bored, not terrified."
"I have a gun taped to my thigh," I hissed.
"Fashion demands sacrifice."
Ding.
