The ozone smelled like burnt copper and cheap fireworks. It was a stupid thing to notice while a thermal lance melted through the biometric locks of the penthouse, but Jane’s brain cataloged it anyway. Sparks rained down on the imported Italian marble in bright, violent little bursts.
Jane did not scream. She did not dive behind the heavy oak furniture. She reached down and unbuckled the strap of her left heel. Then her right. She stepped out of them, aligning the stilettos perfectly parallel by the edge of the mahogany desk. Her father had taught her to wear heels because they made her posture submissive, restricted her stride, and made her easy to catch.
She was done being easy to catch. The cold marble felt grounding against her bare feet.
On the leather sofa across the room, Michael
