Undercover and Unhinged: The Misfits Crash a High-Society Gala
With a soft, metallic snick, the side entrance clicked open. She slipped through the shadow of the rose trellis like ink dissolving in water, holding the heavy brass handle to stop the latch from echoing down the courtyard. Beside her, Susan was already inside, crouching low against the mahogany wainscoting, her fingers lightly tapping a silent rhythm on the frame of her silenced Walther PPK.
Susan glanced back through the gap in the doorway, her dark eyes narrowing. “He’s running late.”
“He’s not late,” Sarah whispered back, adjusting her hair clip. “He’s just loud.”
Right on cue, a muffled, wet crunch echoed from the gravel path behind them, followed immediately by a sharp, strangled hiss of swearing that could only belong to one man in the British Isles.
Sgt. Salty burst through the opening sideways, panting softly, looking less like an elite operative and more like a butcher who had stumbled into an opera house. His heavy tactical vest was strapped tight over a black wool jumper that was already covered in cobwebs from the perimeter wall.
“Mind the rug,” Susan murmured without looking at him, pointing a gloved finger toward a centuries-old Persian runner. “It’s silk. You bleed on that and the housekeeping staff will kill us before the guards do.”
Salty stopped mid-stride, hovering one mud-caked boot an inch above the ornate carpet. He glared at her, wiping a bead of rain-water off his nose with the back of a scarred knuckle. “I didn’t bleed on the wall, did I? I got over the top. The glass on the coping was a bit enthusiasm-heavy, that’s all.”
“You left three inches of your trousers on the trellis, Sarge,” Sarah said smoothly, pulling the massive door shut until the lock re-engaged with a buttery smooth click. “And you smell like wet moss.”
“It’s camouflage, isn’t it?” Salty grunted, unholstering his Sig Sauer with a dry metallic rasp. He looked around the dimly lit side hallway, his eyes flicking instinctively toward the high ceilings, searching for the tell-tale glow of infrared sensors. “Where’s the sweep? You two were supposed to clear the ground floor three minutes ago.”
Susan didn't bother looking back as she drifted down the corridor toward the grand staircase. “We cleared it five minutes ago, Salty. While you were still having your intimate moment with the security fence. The guards on this floor are currently taking an unscheduled nap in the butler’s pantry.”
“Both of them?” Salty squinted into the gloom.
“All three,” Sarah corrected, stepping past him so closely he caught the faint, ridiculous scent of lavender perfume over the damp wool. “Though the third one was sitting on a crate of 1982 Bordeaux, so Susan had to be gentle. We wouldn't want to ruin the vintage.”
Salty muttered something unrepeatable under his breath, but he adjusted his grip on the Sig and fell into position behind them. For all his grumbling and the perpetual scowl carved into his weathered face, the man moved with a brutal, efficient stillness once he was inside the wire. He was the hammer; Sarah and Susan were the velvet gloves hiding the brass knuckles.
They reached the edge of the central gallery. High above them, the glass dome of the conservatory rattled under the lash of the Irish rain, sending long, distorted shadows dancing across the marble floor. Below, the estate’s main security desk sat illuminated by the soft blue glow of three monitors.
A single guard sat in a high-backed leather chair, his headset resting around his neck while a football match flickered quietly on the central screen.
“That’s Lord Ashford’s personal security chief,” Salty whispered, leaning in between the two women. His warm, tea-laden breath hit Sarah’s ear. “Name’s Vance. Ex-Regiment. Sharp as a tack.”
On screen, the guard reached into a paper bag, pulled out a lukewarm sausage roll, and took a massive bite, a fleck of pastry catching on his mustache.
“Devastating,” Susan whispered, her tone drier than a gin martini. “A real apex predator.”
“He’s got the keycard for the vault strapped to his belt,” Salty insisted, nudging her shoulder. “We need it. We do this clean. No noise, no fuss. Sarah, you distract him from the left. Susan, you drop him from behind. I’ll secure the desk.”
Sarah turned her head slowly to look at him, her green eyes bright in the shadow. “Salty, darling. We’re in a high-society gala’s back quarters. We don’t do ‘distractions’. Distractions leave marks.”
Before Salty could grab her sleeve, Susan was already moving.
She didn't run; she walked. Her silk evening trousers didn't make a sound against the polished marble as she glided straight up behind Vance’s chair. Vance was mid-chew, watching a slow-motion replay of a missed penalty, when Susan reached down, gently plucked a fresh napkin from the paper bag on his desk, and dabbed a stray crumb off his chin.
Vance froze. The sausage roll slid from his fingers.
“Good evening,” Susan said, her voice a low, melodic purr.
Before the man could even swallow, her right hand swept under his jawline, catching the pressure point right behind his ear with precise, terrifying force.
Vance’s eyes rolled back, his body went entirely limp, and he slumped forward onto the desk. Susan caught his head before it hit the keyboard, laying him down gently as if tucking a child into bed.
With her left hand, she unclipped the vault keycard from his belt and flipped it through the air.
Sarah caught it casually between two fingers without looking up from the security terminal. She was already tapping at the touch screen, her fingers moving in a blur.
“Camera loop engaged,” Sarah announced softly. “Sensors in the east wing disarmed. And I’ve muted his football stream. Cruel, I know, but necessary.”
Salty stepped out of the shadows, looking from the unconscious security chief to the two women, his jaw working silently for a second. He lowered his gun.
“You didn't even use the zip-ties,” he grumbled, stepping up to the desk and staring down at Vance. “He’s going to wake up in ten minutes with a headache and a very confused sense of pride.”
“Ten minutes is nine minutes more than we need,” Susan said, straightening her cuffs. She looked Salty up and down, her lips curving into a faint, wicked smile. “Now, Sarge. Are you going to keep standing there admiring our handiwork, or are you actually going to lead us to the vault?”
Salty tucked his weapon into his holster, spat a piece of grit onto the marble, and tugged his tactical vest down over his belly.
“Right,” he growled, turning toward the heavy reinforced door at the end of the hall. “Follow me. Try not to make me look bad in front of the laser grids.”
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