The Catburglar
Martin Kane
A female thief balckmailed into doing one last job.


Author's note:

Anyone wishing to contact me may do so via the DtV messageboard for Readers &
Writers. I invite anyone to send any comments, good or bad, should they wish
to. I'm always interested in what others think of my little tales.

Copyright is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale
elsewhere, but please seek permission first.

Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the
products of an overwrought imagination

I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're
certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway.

It began, as these things tend to, with a phone call. Now I want you to
understand something before I even begin because reputation is important to a
girl like me. I would never have taken this job if it wasn't for that asshole
Blake. This just wasn't my scene; besides, I'd given up the high profile jobs.
I like to keep my nose clean nowadays. In fact, normally I'd never even go to
work unless you know how to ask me real nicely.

Blake doesn't care for such niceties however, and when I got the phone call,
around this time last week, he made it pretty clear that he expected me to
take the job. He made it clear that he wasn't going to accept 'no' for an
answer. Blackmail is such a dirty business.

I'd got ready, dressed in my catsuit. That's what I call it anyway. A
skin-tight costume straight out of the comics, black to keep me in the
shadows. It's the extrovert in me, I don't doubt, but with the bodybuilding,
I've always liked to show off what I've achieved. Plus it gets a suitably
stunned reaction from all those I come across. That's not to say that all the
bulges are muscles. I like to think of my physicality as a harmonic blend of
masculine and feminine qualities, being as I am, big in many senses - I'm as
pneumatic as I am athletic.

Getting into the building was easy, even for one dressed in my particular
fashion. All it takes is a little research. The cleaners come in for three
hours, from eight until eleven. During that time they have all manner of jobs
to do; emptying bins, hoovering, and the like. They prop open the fire door in
the kitchen and stack up full rubbish sacks in the designated area. All I had
to do was find a dark corner of the alley and wait. It's amazing what people
won't see if they're not expecting to.

So here I am, two hours later. The cleaners have gone and I'm ready to get to
work. The filing room is dusty and dingy. I put an ear to the door, check no
one's in the corridor then crack it silently.

Then I move. I take the conventional elevator, even though the office I'm
after is on one of the top floors. Despite his in-depth inside knowledge,
Blake couldn't secure any keys, one of which is necessary to get the lifts up
to the top.

Understand that I would never have worked for a man like Blake but it wasn't
like I really had a choice in this case. Blake had photos. Proof of a job I'd
done a year or so back, stealing some very delicate documents from Big Tony.
And I certainly didn't want to piss off Big Tony.

That's the position I'm in, do this job and we're quits. If not, I risk the
wrath of one of the most notorious gangsters in town. I wouldn't mind so much
but I'd only stolen the documents from Big Tony to help out a friend. A friend
in need and all that. Still, it means that now he owes me a favour in return,
and it's a favour that I intend to call in.

Counting the distance between the floors, I watch the light and then slam the
emergency stop button. The whole elevator shudders as the breaks clamp it to a
halt. I manage to ease my fingers between the cracks in the doors and worm
them in. The hardest part of this bit isn't that strength's required, I've got
that in spades, it's getting a decent grip.

I lean forward, getting the pecs and shoulders into it, then wrench the doors
open, revealing the open lift shaft, heading straight down to the basement. Do
not pass go, do not collect £200.00.

I muscle myself up onto the roof of the car then look about for the
maintenance hatch. It's out of reach. Typical. I climb a few feet up the
elevator cable until I can reach it, needing to stretch across the chasm to do
so. I'm glad I don't suffer vertigo. Guess I'm in the wrong line of business
if I do. Not that I'm in this line of business, I remind myself bitterly.
Blake, I swear I am going to make you one sorry mother-fucker for this.

I rip off the grill. It comes away easily and I toss it onto the roof of the
elevator. It's tempting, in that childishly anarchic way, to drop it into the
pitch darkness of the chasm but I know that that risks being heard and then
discovered. I reach for the small access way and get a good grip, then release
my hold on the cable. I wriggle my way into the vent tunnel.

It's cramped inside. My shoulders have to be scrunched up to allow me to fit.
It's said that if your shoulders can fit through a hole, then the rest of the
body can too. With my shoulders that fact is certainly true. I'm broad, I
know, but also pretty limber. The other real hindrance is my chest. Even with
my back hard against the roof of the tunnel my boobs press hard against the
floor. They have more give than my shoulders though. As I drag my body along
the tunnel, my nipples become stimulated by the motion. I feel them ache as
they rub. However, such a petty thrill is nothing compared to the thumping
kick of excitement sparked by the job itself. I didn't give this shit up
because I don't enjoy it but because I enjoy it too much.

I'm not worried about getting trapped in here as you might think. The metal
isn't especially thick and I can feel in creak when I flex against it. If
needs be I'm fairly confident I could bust right through it, rip it apart from
within, Hulk style.

>>From vertigo to claustrophobia. This isn't for long though. I head upwards
in the shaft, it's restricting tightness actually helping me to climb. Making
it quickly to the top I enter into light, the night's equivalent of sunlight -
the neon haze of an active city. We replace the beauty of starlight with the
smog-drenched gossamer blur of cityscape. Another grill buckled and I'm
through and onto the rooftop, a warm breeze feeling so good as I stretch once
more, finally out of that confining crawlspace.

I secure the rope and throw it down the front of the building, just enough to
get me to the office. I have a rolling clamp which has a break I can control.
I go over the rim and down the rope, headfirst, my feet crossed above me to
keep the rope in place. There's a safety loop on my belt, sewn into the
harness around my suit. I have enough faith in my strength to keep me safe but
there's no reason to take unnecessary risks.

I fly down, the wind blasting me and I feel like a skydiver. It's a short
decent however. I slow and come to a stop outside the window. My timing has
lost nothing since I retired. My feet do their wrap around trick, and secure
me completely. My hands are now free.

Here's where a catburglar of my particular talents is useful. Most would need
to carry with them some kind of cutting torch, or a hacksaw at the very least.
You see, to protect the windows from people like me, there are bars over them.
It's funny, it makes them look like prison cells. It could been seen as
appropriate, if you're inclined to. How's that saying go? 'Small thieves rob
banks, big thieves run them.'

But anyway, it's short work for a gal like me. Even hanging upside-down by my
feet. I grab a hold and take strain. The bars are fairly thin, wide spaced.
Designed to be as unobtrusive as bars over a window possibly can be. Don't
want to spoil Mr Big's view too much.

They buckle and I ease them apart, giving myself enough of a gap to fit
through. Nothing like a workout on the bars to get the pulse running. The
glass-cutter is silent as it rotates about the central sucker. An almost
inaudible snick, and the incision is complete, a perfect circle of glass, just
big enough for a woman to fit through. Again that impulse to drop the glass,
watch it fall, turning end over end, until it shatters on the pavement far
below.

Instead, I toss it inside so that it lands easily - the carpet and aircushion
of the angle I throw it keeps it from shattering. Then I follow it inside,
twisting my body, head and shoulders first, holding the rope tight and at
arm's length down at my waist. The rest of my body follows once I've unclipped
the safety harness.

The office is huge but almost empty, a sure sign of the importance of whoever
uses it. A few pot plants, a mammoth desk, leather chairs. Paintings on the
wall. Modern art would seem appropriate to a sparse, minimalist office such as
this, but to his credit (and that isn't a slip of PC, it is a man) the owner
of this office has selected some truly beautiful landscapes. If they're famous
(or at least expensive) then my untutored eye couldn't tell you, art theft is
a very specialised division.

But it's one of the paintings in particular that I focus on. Even without the
inside information, it would have caught my eye. Years on the job teach you to
spot certain details such as the selection of where to hang it. Further along
the wall would have been more aesthetically pleasing. However, that would also
place the painting in more direct line of sight of the window.

I unhook it easily, it was after all, designed to be removed and replaced on a
regular basis. The safe is behind it, built into the wall itself. Here's where
I see how good the planning is. Blake couldn't provide any keys but he'd
somehow got hold of the combination. The information is good, I'll give him
that much. The safe swings silently open.

Once I'm inside I sift through all the documents and papers, finding the small
plastic computer tape. I wonder absently what must be on it for it to be so
valuable. I tuck it into my belt pouch. I also take a fairly sizeable wad of
cash, after first checking that the bills aren't brand new or sequential. And
of course that they are indeed real. Big thieves, after all, cannot be
trusted.

OK. Now we Exit, stage right. The rope won't get me to the ground so I'll just
have to be old fashioned and use the stairs. The main stairwell goes straight
to the ground floor. Through a series of one- way doors that would probably
have been easier to break through than the elaborate method of entry I
employed. Just shows you that you should always plan your own jobs and buy
your own information. Still, done is done.

The lobby is a short stretch. I walk it, cool as the proverbial. The guard is
sat near the door, a hardback chair, one foot across his knee, his nose buried
in the sports section of the paper. He's fat and looks about as capable of
guarding the building as I am of getting a day-job. He finally glances up as I
saunter past.

"Hey!" I hear the paper rustle as he throws it down, getting to his feet to
come after me.

I turn and throw the punch in one fluid motion. Contact is spot on, timing as
much as strength, and I feel the crack go through him. The chair collapses as
he falls back onto it, out cold before he even hits the floor.

My adrenaline is spiking now and I'm feeling the thrill and high that these
crimes always ignite in me. I remind myself sternly that I'm retired and this
is only a one-off. The last thing I need is to fall into old habits.

The deal was to meet Blake the following week, do the exchange. The tape for
the photos. Not that I trusted him to play ball of course, I wouldn't trust
Blake as far as I could throw him. No, let me rephrase that, as far as he
could throw me. But then, I had my own contingency plan to fall back on. I
thought of my friend. My friend in need. Sometimes it's useful to have a guy
who owes you a favour, and this guy owes me big. It's suitable closure that
the guy who got me into this shit in the first place is going to help get me
out of it again.

So a week later and another alleyway. I hide before time, waiting for the man
to show. He does so, looking strangely vulnerable standing alone. He's
nervous, I can tell from here. He didn't want to be the one to do the
exchange, not used to doing his own dirty work. But I insisted.

I walk up to him, slow and menacing, making the most of my intimidating size.
There's the city nightlight behind me, all he can see is a silhouette. My
outfit adheres to my curves and my outline is fairly distinctive.

"That you?" he calls to me and I step forward into the light. The jeans are
tight, the top is skimpy, my muscles stretching the material to full capacity.
It's funny; if any other woman where to flash the amount of cleavage I'm
displaying, then it'd be breasts centre stage, but people see me and the first
thing that goes through their head is 'muscle'.

"You were expecting someone else?" I say.

"You got the tape?"

Oh man, he's nervous. Totally on edge. "I take it that is a rhetorical
question."

But I don't go on teasing him. I produce the tape like a conjurer, holding it
on my flat palm. "What? This tape?"

He's already got the photos out, a large manila envelope.

I hold up the tape for him to see, my arm bent so my hand is beside my head,
giving him a flash of the biceps. Then I squeeze. My fist wrapped about that
fragile brick of plastic. I crush it. My arm bulges mammoth as I crumple it
into fragments.

His face is so precious, I doubt I'll ever forget his expression. God, man,
this almost feels better than the job. But I know what comes next, and I
expect to enjoy that even more.

He's suitably horrified, his face spelling out shock, horror and sheer
disbelief. "What are you doing?"

"I'm changing the deal," I tell him, opening my hand to let the wrecked tape
scatter in the light wind. Whatever was on it is now totally irretrievably.

Now he's pissed. "I'll see you hang for this, bitch."

Time to trump the bastard. "I doubt it. Look in the envelope," I tell him. It
takes a few moments for this to sink in. Eventually it gets through and
there's a slightly queasy look on his face as he fumbles with the seal.

The pictures tumble out. Pictures of me on a beach, sunning myself, posing for
the camera, swimming in the sea. Picture postcards of fun in the sun.

"I didn't trust you to stick to the deal," I tell him. "So I got the proof
myself and swapped them for some holiday snaps. Hope you don't mind."

He doesn't know how I did it, doesn't know that there's a guy in his
organisation that owes me big. What he does realise all of a sudden is that
he's alone in a dark alley with a woman who could quite effortlessly beat the
crap out of him

"Shit..." he murmurs quietly, the photos dropping to the ground. He begins to
back away but he knows I'm faster than him. He makes a break anyway, turning
to run.

I catch him and yank him back, slamming a fist deep into his side. He
crumples, winded, but I've not even begun. Yet.

A few kicks render him utterly helpless, I feel the ribs go on each impact. I
reach down and lift him into the air heaving him over my head. Then I slam him
into the wall. He hits in a mess of crumpled clothes and crashes down again,
heavy.

I totally unleash on him, the game over now and my rage flowing in full fury.
I sink blows into his body, each hit a lethal, crushing impact. I have to
support him with one hand, holding his body up by pressing his shoulder into
the wall. My free hand flies, slamming again and again into his softening
torso.

He's stopped responding now, his chest a soggy pulp. Assault has become
murder.

Only now do I release him, stepping back and breathing deeply until the
buzzing fury subsides. I collect my pictures, reminiscing about the happy
memories they trigger. I decide here and now to leave the city. If I'm going
to retire it should be somewhere quiet. A seaside resort perhaps. There are
too many elements in the city that can drag me back down into the old life.

I look at the broken form. I think I got a bit carried away. Oh well, these
things happen. I shrug it off but deep down, I know it's probably a good thing
that I've given up the life. I walk away from the mess, whistling carelessly.
I think there probably could be a moral to my story, if I cared to look for
one, but right now, I'm simply content with a good night's work.