Chase Cleo

Velvet Vixen’s boots skid on polished marble as she races down the corridor, the echoes of the alarm blaring in her ears and Cleo’s coat just barely disappearing around each corner she turns.

But the chase lasts only seconds.

She rounds one more turn—and finds nothing. An empty hallway. A velvet rope. A locked vault exhibit titled “Westville’s Golden Age.”

“What the hell? Where did she—”

Click.

The cold press of steel settles against the small of her back.

Kendrick freezes.

Cleo’s breath is warm against her ear, even as the rest of her is ice.

“You just don’t quit, do you?”

Kendrick starts to turn—slowly—but the barrel digs in harder.

“Nah-uh. I said stay still.”

Cleo’s voice is low, bitter.

“You’ve been a bigger pain in my garter strap than I ever expected, Vixen. Cute costume. Clever mouth. No sense of self-preservation.”

She cocks the gun.

“But it ends now.”

And then—

Wooo-ooooh!

The sound of multiple police sirens rises outside the museum. Headlights flash across the stained glass. Cleo stiffens behind her.

“Tch.”

Firing the gun now would give away her position immediately—and she knows it. The cops are closing in. Time’s ticking.

Her grip falters. Just for a second.