Irene stormed into a warehouse in the upper east side, her motorbike tossed into the car park and her boots scraping the concrete floor. She tore through the chain fences and the barriers like they were paper, and peered through a gap, looking into a room full of shipping containers and the kind of yellow stingy lighting that could only be obtained in the early 90s. She took off her jacket and pulled on a balaclava to hide her face from the CCTV cameras.

This was where the tracking data told her to go, she had no choice. There were a pair of very official looking door guard by the front door, but the old building was riddled with nooks and crannies to hide in, including a few damaged windows that had still not been repaired. Those were her way in.

She stood there, admiring the glass cabinets and the cardboard boxes, the heavily wrapped paintings and the simple, industrial locks. 30 paces away. The tracker said, pointing her towards one of the shipping containers. She crept around, taking shelter every 4 paces behind an industrial steel container wall before shimmying back towards the target in the corner. Her lock picking tools were already out and tapping against the coils in the padlock before she could even notice the shadow moving on the floor, or the light humming of the industrial machines inside.

The lock tore apart with a satisfying sound and the door to the shipping container swung open in a dramatic fashion. The guards began to run towards her and she froze in panic. She was always a freezer.

“Felix, Terry, Stand down!” a familiar voice rang out from the shipping container, the henchmen withdrew from their positions.

Lily Fisher sat there, in a silk kimono and a wide brimmed green hat with nightshade flowers embroidered across it, draped against a priceless piece of antique furniture. She had a 6 chamber revolver in one hand and a laptop perched on the arm of the sofa. She pursed her lips, considering the morsel of the woman stood in front of her.

“Here to finish the job?” Lily asked.

Irene frowned at her, “what?” she said absolutely stunned by the presence of the lady sat in front of her, draped in exotic fabrics and surrounded by a cocoon made of thousands of dollars worth of artwork.

She span the chamber idle in her hand, more of a comforting tick than an implied threat. Even back in the 80s she was a notorious fidget. She clicked the gun open and closed with her pretty little hands, and a sparkly glitter manicure as she talked.

“you tried to kill me” Lily told her.

“No? The fire was a mistake” Irene replied, adding on a gasp of “how did you survive?”

Lily counted to herself slowly, almost in a singsong state. “one, two, three locks. One iron door, and a willing fool. You see I had all my money tied up in art no one wanted, and any radical moves would inspire questions from rivals”

Irene was becoming entranced by the figure in front of her. Lipstick puckered and pistol aimed.

“Lets not do anything brash” she said instinctively, still in shock that the woman was alive.

“A better question” Lily savored “is how you survived. I sent my best men” she remarked.

There was a shrug, Irene tried to think of something witty to say, but it was hard to be sharp when your senses were encompassed by the carbon steel pocket pistol. Even her weapons were dainty.

“I guess I had a few contacts to help me along with that” she shrugged, feigning absolute cool. She was absolutely not going to be bested by an ex with an axe to grind.

“Do you really believe that?” Lily asked.

Irene nodded, not wanting to be played so obviously by a bluff.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I needed one final piece to my scheme, but you and your boy scout kept too low a profile” she justified. Irene’s eyes darted to the metal door, the guards behind her in a mirror’s reflection and the artwork. Six bullets.

“Sorry to disappoint my darling, I was always a good girl” Irene taunted. Her hands drifting slowly towards anything that could be useful if things turned ugly. Even if she could fight her way out, there would be two heavily armed guards at the door to get through.

Irene kept her talking, “so you drum up some drama, get us a little flighty knowing we’d publish our secrets for safety sake. Am I right?”

Lily purred, “close enough” she confirmed. “Fisher Galleries was a cover for a bigger industry, when the cops began to get suspicious, I needed someone to cover my tracks.”

Irene was beginning to get it now.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why a concrete roof with no flammable surfaces would lead to a building burning down? Or why a rich, pretty socialite would hop into bed so quickly with a mobster’s wife?” Lily asked.

Irene was almost embarrassed by how well she’d been played. Set the building on fire and you can hide all manner of sins, set up an arsonist and you’d still get the insurance money.

“So it was a frame job? Set me up to cover your crimes, and put the blame on me for your disappearance” Irene asked.

Lily nodded.

“Even the bunker was my idea. I bought it years ago, and set it up like a crime scene. I even left a surprise in the safe for anyone to find if they went snooping. Your fingerprints are all over that place now.”

Irene went pale.

They’d been had. Talk about a long con.

“I knew you’d burn the bodies, or you’d die and I’d find the corpses among a lot of criminal evidence” Lily confessed.

Irene smirked. “Then you need me alive”

Lily span the revolver again. “Not necessarily, I’d say you tried to attack me, to finish the job.”

Irene chuckled, when you’d been made this screwed, there was nothing else to do.

“Well done. You’ve got everything covered” she said, breathing through her nose heavily.

There was nothing else for it. Irene ran, and hoped she wouldn’t be shot. She ran behind something and bought herself twenty more seconds, hearing the boots chasing after her. She wasn’t a killer. Not on purpose. Not by her own hands.

She pinned herself against a metal shipping container, feeling the grooves on her fingers as the henchmen and their mistress chased after her. She sent one last text, to Trevor, the hacker. It was a set of coordinates, a timestamp, and an instruction. Upload the footage.

If she was going to be shot, her story would at least be told honestly.

The yellow lights went off a second later. Darkness, an old friend. She took the confusion and sealed herself into a shipping container, hoping they’d lost her in the dark.

There was nothing else to do, She just had to sit here. A masterpiece falling to masterpieces. There was a couple of loud bullet shots, and a voice she needed to hear at that moment.

It wasn’t Ken. It wasn’t Ted. It wasn’t even Lily.

It was the NYPD.

***

Irene was bailed a month later, by her dear husband and her trusty bodyguard.

She was tired, her jumpsuit didn’t fit, and her aging bones were not meant for the cold of prison. Life without designer clothes rarely went well.

“When we get out of here we need a long chat about our future” Ken told them.

She nodded obediently, and then changed her mind.

“Actually, I need a new start, I think I want a divorce.” she told him earnestly.

He was taken aback by that. After all they’d been through it was a real sting. He tried to take it slowly, and consider her perspective.

“It’s not you, you’ve been wonderful. Truly wonderful. I just can’t” she breathed sharply, a whimper in the breath “….do it anymore. I’m not built for this” she told him.

Ken was silent. Ted didn’t dare interrupt them as he drove them home.

“I can get you a residency in Switzerland under a new name” Ken offered, “call it a divorce present.” he told her.

There in the boot was a file, airplane tickets and a new identity. Irene left the car without looking back at her husband of 40 years. “Thank you” she gasped. She walked to the airport shuttle bus, and didn’t let herself mourn. She knew how to find them if she needed them.