The wind was ripping her hair about, hurting her forehead as she edged off the building. Why does it have to be raining? Nate better be right about this, she thought, diving off. The fiction cords licked her ankles, and chewed into the leather of her high-tops, solid. Click, that annoying thing that asked to be called Click, monitored her descent and gauged the deceleration. Floor 23. Mimi tinked the diamond-cutter off her belt and onto the window and went to work breaching.
She loved that sound. And the window was open for her. A slink and a wink and she was in.
The bar, first. A scotch never hurt a woman. Then the desk to give up its ghost. She found her info in the time it took to kill one drink, so she loitered to kill another. Style must be upheld, even if standards and security are not. Her parcel packed, she thought.
Then, for good measure, one more drink, making sure the lipstick left a perfect ring on the rim.
Out the window.
Falling faster than ever.
Flit! SHOOM! The base-shoot catches the air perfectly, like the larger model parachutes, but not as powerful. Her ass hits perfectly square on top of the Bentley, blowing the windows out and cushioning her fall. Roll off, brush the glass and blood off her face and she says, “Got it.” She opens up the recovered parcel and reads it. It was a particularly funny Calvin & Hobbes cartoon. The one where Calvin started off thinking he wished everyone was dead, but ended up thinking he wished EVERYONE ELSE was dead. He and Hobbes were just fine.
The night had not opened its secrets, yet she felt she understood the funny pages on a new level.