The rope would hold. Her timing ran perfectly even under the clock for the bag, tag and replace. High above, the Ambassador’s guests celebrated the New Year’s Eve ball. The music of the orchestra penetrated the reinforced shaft walls. Hovering five feet above the pressure sensitive floor of the Ambassador’s private vault, Anya Swift – recovery agent extraordinaire – flipped on the rope, tightening her abdominals, so she hung upwards rather than upside down.

The change in position made the ascent easier and reduced the chance of nausea. Shimmying up the rope, excitement skittered through her belly. The sweet scent of the vanilla lotion she’d applied earlier mingled with the saltier tang of sweat.

Hush.

Never get too excited before a job finished. Her butterflies would have to stay in their cocoons until the Fortunate Buddha could be returned where he belonged. Five minutes before her absence at the party could become an issue. Clearing security, as a disheveled guest may be overlooked, clearing security after a prolonged absence with a valuable stolen object in her possession invited trouble. One did not tempt the hands of Fate, for Fate possessed a mean right hook.

The weight of the idol pressed against her spine. Crafted of gold, the religious icon wore a ruby solitaire in its belly button. The value of theFortunate Buddha lay not in precious stones or metals, but the legend of good luck it brought to temple visitors who prayed while rubbing its ruby-studded belly. True or not, Anya’s job meant retrieving the Buddha from the hands of the thieves who’d removed it from the Taiwanese temple.

I am so taking next week to spend time working on my tan.

The inane thought might seem out of place under more ordinary of circumstances, but the inane kept her sane. The strong, tensile cord coiled into a compartment in her belt as she ascended. If not for the sound sensors, she’d whistle.

I can work on my tan, eat at the cafes on St. Ville Riches and maybe even read Mom’s last manuscript. I told her I would read it last week but it was Moscow and then Tel Aviv and then back to Morocco and, silly me, I left it at home–I am so…

The fuel spurring her inane thoughts sputtered out on an empty tank of shock. Halfway up the shaft, strung between the hatch and a hard place, she stared right into the lens of a slender, flat cam pressed into the wall. Casual surveillance would call it a rivet in the structure, but up close, the lens glowed with a faint red light.

An undocumented camera.

In the vault.

Staring right at her.

Anya considered her options. Slide back down the rope and put the Buddhaback or continue up and leave the party as swiftly as possible. Her watch vibrated a warning. The loop on the security cameras lasted forty-five seconds. Not enough time to descend, replace and ascend again.

The red light stared at her unblinkingly,

I am so screwed.

She could spare just five seconds for the mental debate. The memory of Max’s familiar face drifted across her mind’s eye. She’d seen him at the party earlier, but she came to Morocco for a job, not a flirt. Now she would have to combine both.

Anya continued her ascent, barely clearing the access hatch and closing it with the borrowed code before her watch signaled the loop ended. Every camera below recorded live once more.

Ready or not, Max. Here I come.