The Museum of Natural History's private exhibition was a glittering affair. Wealthy donors in expensive gowns and tailored tuxedos mingled beneath the massive blue whale model in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, sipping champagne and discussing seven-figure donations like pocket change.
I fit right in.
Marcus Cole's inherited wealth gave me the perfect cover. I'd secured an invitation through a strategic donation of my own—half a million dollars that I'd never miss, especially considering what we'd gain tonight. I worked the room with practiced ease, shaking hands, making small talk, my enhanced mind cataloging faces and names while simultaneously monitoring the security presence.
Eight guards visible on this floor. Another dozen throughout the museum. Camera coverage was dense but predictable. And in exactly forty-five minutes, there would be a scheduled maintenance window on the east wing's security system—courtesy of a very cooperative technician who'd never remember our conversation.
My phone buzzed. A text from Felicia: *In position. You?*
I typed back: *Ready. Green light in 30.*
Across the room, I spotted my target: Jonathan Marks, head of museum security. Mid-fifties, ex-cop, divorced, two daughters in college. I'd spent the last week learning everything about him—not through my powers, but through old-fashioned research and strategic observation.
Tonight, I'd use my powers.
I approached him at the bar, catching him during a quiet moment. "Mr. Marks? Marcus Cole. I wanted to personally thank you for the excellent security arrangements tonight."
He turned, surprised but professional. "Mr. Cole. That's kind of you to say. Just doing my job."
"Well, you do it exceptionally." I extended my hand. "My family's collection is worth considerably more than what's on display here. I've been considering updating our security, and I'd love to pick your brain sometime."
The moment our hands touched, I *pushed*.
His mind opened easily—not because he was weak, but because he had no reason to resist a casual handshake. I dove deep, finding the relevant nodes of memory and protocol. Security schedules, camera blind spots, alarm codes, emergency procedures. I absorbed it all in the span of a heartbeat, then planted a simple suggestion: *You'll spend the next hour in your office reviewing paperwork. Nothing unusual will catch your attention on the monitors.*
I released his hand, the entire exchange lasting less than three seconds.
"I'd be happy to discuss it," Marks said, his eyes slightly unfocused before sharpening again. "Give my office a call next week."
"I'll do that. Enjoy your evening."
He nodded and walked away toward the security office, already thinking about the quarterly reports he suddenly felt compelled to review.
I texted Felicia: Security chief neutralized. You're clear.
Her response was immediate: Show-off. Moving now.
While the wealthy socialites clinked glasses and discussed art valuations, Felicia Hardy moved through the museum's shadows like a ghost.
I couldn't see her, but I could sense her mind—focused, calm, alive with purpose. She was in the east wing now, bypassing the disabled security system with practiced ease. The laser grid that protected the Star of Mumbai was her only remaining obstacle, but I'd seen her train with similar setups. She could navigate it blindfolded.
I maintained my cover, chatting with a real estate mogul about property values while secretly monitoring the security feeds through Marks' mental link. Through his eyes, I watched Felicia's progress on the monitors—or rather, the careful absence of her. She was staying in the camera blind spots perfectly.
*Almost there,* she texted. *Two minutes.*
I glanced at my watch. The maintenance window would close in five minutes. Timing was critical.
"Excuse me," I said to the mogul, "I need to make a quick call."
I stepped out onto the museum's grand staircase, positioning myself where I could see both the main entrance and the east wing corridor. Through my connection to Marks, I felt the moment when he briefly noticed something odd on the monitors—a flicker of movement that shouldn't be there.
I *pushed* harder, reinforcing the suggestion. *Nothing unusual. Just a glitch in the system. Return to your paperwork.*
His attention slid away like water off glass.
Then Felicia's mind suddenly spiked with triumph. She had it.
*Got it. Heading to extraction point. Meet you outside in 10.*
I smiled, slipping my phone back into my pocket. Time to make my exit.
I found Felicia in our predetermined location—a rooftop three blocks away, the ruby's case open between us, the Star of Mumbai glittering in the moonlight like captured starfire.
"Twenty million dollars," she breathed, her eyes reflecting the gem's crimson glow. "I've done a lot of jobs, Marcus, but this…"
"This is just the beginning," I finished.
She looked up at me, and I saw it in her eyes—the spark of possibility, the question of what else we could accomplish together. "You really meant it, didn't you? About being partners."
"I always mean what I say."
She stood, moving closer. We were inches apart now, and I could feel the heat radiating from her after the adrenaline rush of the heist. Her mind was open to me—not because I was forcing it, but because she was letting me in. I could sense her attraction, her curiosity, the dangerous temptation to trust.
"You're different," she said softly. "Most men who work with me either want to control me or can't handle me. You're not either of those."
"Maybe I just appreciate you for who you are."
"And who's that?"
"A brilliant, dangerous, beautiful woman who refuses to be caged." I reached up, tucking a strand of platinum hair behind her ear. "I like that about you, Felicia. A lot."
She smiled—a real smile, not the practiced one she used on marks. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
"The best kind."
She kissed me then, fierce and hungry, her hands fisting in my jacket. I responded in kind, pulling her close, tasting the adrenaline and triumph on her lips. Her mind opened further, and I felt everything—the loneliness she'd hidden for years, the walls crumbling, the desperate desire to connect with someone who understood.
I didn't push. Didn't manipulate. I just let her feel what I felt: genuine attraction, respect, the thrill of having found someone extraordinary.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she laughed breathlessly.
"So," she said, "what do we steal next?"