The Thief and the Skull

~Two-Thief By Name~

The Regal Eagle Museum was a monolithic silhouette against the inky blackness. As old as the town it anchored, it exuded an air of impenetrable strength. Constructed from massive blocks of stone, it stood proudly in the heart of the Eagle Hill city park. Lush, manicured lawns stretched around its perimeter, and elegant, trimmed trees stood sentinel. Park benches and winding bike trails, now deserted, hinted at the daytime bustle that surrounded this imposing structure.

Amber stood before the open security box at the back of the museum, her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in her ears. What was it? What had the stranger, Oakley Weathersby, told her at the dinner? Her gloved fingers hovered over the tangle of wires, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat rising under her helmet. The details were a maddening blur. Grey or green? Or was it grey then green, or green then grey? Or was is blue then green?

The carpark behind the building was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the distant glow of streetlights. Although his initial rounds were complete, the security guard would be back within the hour. Time was slipping away. She had to get inside, secure the Amerist Crown, and vanish before he returned.

What had the stranger told her? She growled, frustration lacing her voice. Turning back to the open security box, her gloved fingers hovered above the coloured cords. “Think, Amber…! Think!”

It had all started innocently enough, during her lunch break at the diner. Oakley Weathersby had materialised, a figure ripped from the pages of a sophisticated spy novel. Tall, handsome for a man in his forties, with a shock of black hair prematurely streaked with silver, he exuded an undeniable allure. Amber, usually immune to such charm, found herself captivated.

“Amber, I presume…” he had said, perching formally across the table from her. His voice was smooth and as formal as his suit.

Amber had instinctively straightened, scrutinizing him. After a moment’s pause, she replied, “I’m Amber, but who’s asking?”

He had smirked, lacing his fingers together on the table before him. “My name’s Weathersby, Oakley Weathersby, and my employer speaks highly of your ability to acquire necessary items, Amber.”

“I don’t deal with drugs,” Amber had defended, crossing her arms. She raised a pointed eyebrow. “And I only acquire necessary things… for people who need it… like a Robin Hood type of thing…”

“Precisely,” he had said, grinning almost devilishly. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And my employer will pay you handsomely for your time… cash on delivery, if you prefer…”

Under normal circumstances, Amber would have walked away. But something about Oakley Weathersby, the potent mix of danger and opportunity he represented, held her captive. And the prospect of earning a substantial sum for, well, ‘collecting’ something piqued her interest. Lucile, her beloved but battered old bike, needed more than just new tires and a tank of fuel.

She had leaned in closer, almost close enough to smell his strong cologne. “Get to the point, Mr Weathersby. I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to get back to serving Mr. Henderson his daily slice of apple pie.”

Weathersby had leaned closer, his shadowed face inches from hers. “I need you to break into the Regal Eagle Museum.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “And steal the Amerist Crown.”

Amber had choked on her breath. “The… the Amerist Crown? You’re insane!” The Amerist Crown was a national treasure, a symbol of the country, heavily guarded and untouchable. “I can’t do that!”

He had simply watched her, his dark eyes unblinking, gauging her reaction.

After what felt like an eternity, Amber had finally found her voice. “How much?”

“Enough to buy you a lifetime of apple pies. And a new life, far away from this place.” He had pulled a small, intricately folded piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “This is a layout of the museum. The security system is… antiquated. You’ll need to access the main control panel by the emergency entrance around the back. Cut the blue wire. Before you do anything else, cut the blue wire. Then, input the code: 1875.”

“What about the inside system?” Amber had asked the stranger, her mind already racing, calculating risk and reward.

He had pointed a long, slender finger at the paper. “Open the control panel to your right and type in 18751975. Everything will fall into place.”

“Cut the blue cord first…” Amber repeated, snapping herself back to the present. The blue cord. That was it.

Bathed in the unsettling red glow of the emergency exit sign, Amber trembled, her hands reflecting her fear. Sweat beaded on her brow, threatening to fog her visor as she readied the wire cutters. The silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart. Days of planning, countless hours of research, had all culminated in this single, perilous moment.

The Regal Eagle wasn’t just any target. It was a fortress of laser grids, pressure sensors, and state-of-the-art surveillance. But Amber had been given the code, the trick to disarm the complex wiring system that controlled the alarm. It all came down to this: one crucial blue wire.

Her hand continued to tremble as she lowered the clippers. The weight of the plan, the risk of capture, pressed down on her. This wasn’t just a job. It was a statement, a testament to her skill, her intellect.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied her hand. This was it. With a swift, decisive snip, she severed the connection. Her nimble fingers danced across the keypad, pounding in the code 1875. The numbers pulsed green, and a silent prayer eluding her lips.

A palpable silence stretched, thick and heavy. Had it worked? Amber held her breath, waiting for the telltale shriek of the alarm. But it didn’t come. A satisfying click echoed through the silent carpark as the emergency exit door swung inward. A slow, almost imperceptible smile crept onto her face. Yes!

The red glow of the emergency exit sign seemed to brighten, reflecting the renewed hope in her eyes. The Regal Eagle Museum had been breached. Now, the real challenge began.

Amber slipped through the doorway, the scent of old varnish and history filling her lungs. She opened the control panel to her right and thumbed in the next code, 18751975, and the internal security grid shutdown.

“Yes!” Amber cheered under her breath.

But the excitement was short-lived. Time was of the essence. The night guard made his rounds diligently, and one wrong move could shatter her audacious plan.

The Regal Eagle was a labyrinth of masterpieces. Amber slipped through the building, a shadow flitting between the grand halls. She skirted past iconic paintings, their subjects watching her pass. She bypassed the marble statues, their frozen expressions revealing nothing of the drama unfolding around them. Her heart pounded in her chest as she strained her ears, listening for the telltale shuffle of the night guard’s shoes.

Each step forward was a calculated risk. She knew the museum’s layout like the back of her hand, having studied the blueprints and observation reports Oakley Weathersby had slipped her. But knowledge was only half the battle. Execution was everything.

It wasn’t long before she reached her destination: the Amerist crown room. It was a stark, minimalist space designed to draw the eye to its sole occupant. In the centre of the room, bathed in a soft spotlight, sat the Amerist crown, a dazzling masterpiece of gold, amethyst, and emeralds shaped into an elegant crown, encased in a thick glass box.

The expansive room offered little in the way of cover. This was it. This was where the real challenge began. Could she breach the impenetrable glass, secure the crown, and escape before the alarm was raised?

Amber took a deep breath, the reflection of the Amerist crown shimmering in her eyes. The night was far from over. The worst was yet to come.

“I’ve got this…” she said aloud as she studied the case, examining every inch. Why hadn’t she asked Weathersby how to unlock the case?

Amber stepped to one side and saw a familiar lock; one she had broken many times before. She approached the display case, her nimble fingers working with a hairpin on the complex lock. The mechanism clicked, and the glass door swung open. She reached inside, her hand closing around the cold, heavy weight of the crown.

Just as she secured her grip, the distinct sound of approaching footsteps sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. Startled, she stumbled, her elbow connecting with the glass case. A piercing alarm shattered the silence, bathing the room in a harsh, accusing light.

The security guard appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening in disbelief and anger. “Stop! Thief!” he bellowed.

“Oh, sh…” Her heart was in her throat.

It was time to leave. Amber spied her exit. Once she had planned her path, she tucked the Amerist Crown beneath her father’s worn leather jacket and bolted. Her escape route, which had been planned before she even broke it, became a desperate sprint through the museum’s grand halls, the painting, and statues nothing but a fanatic blur. The siren’s wail echoed throughout the building, growing louder as she neared the emergency exit.

Amber’s chest tightened as she burst out into the night, the cold air stinging her lungs. Headlights sliced through the darkness as police cars roared towards the museum, their sirens screaming. She could hear shouting, the urgency of pursuit closing in.

She raced towards her waiting motorbike and launched into the leather seat. “Lucile, it’s time to go!”

With a quick flick of the ignition, the bike roared to life, rumbling through her thighs. Tires squealed as she peeled away from the curb, leaving the Regal Eagle Museum and the arriving police cruisers in her wake. She turned down the next street, avoiding gawking pedestrians, and continued her pursuit towards the meet point. Behind her, a police motorbike was hot on her tail, its wailing sirens informing the world that the famous Amerist crown was missing from the town’s museum—And Amber was the reason.

“You’ll be my savour…” she said as she patted the crown beneath the jacket before shooting past the storefronts.

People hurried from her path as she ploughed forward, refusing to surrender. Sweat plastered Amber’s hair to her forehead. The Amerist crown, heavy and cold, pressed against her chest. Behind her, the sirens wailed, a discordant symphony of panic that fuelled her drive forward. The city was a blur of neon and shadows as she pushed Lucile to her limit.

She was running, yes, but she told herself it was a calculated risk. The life-altering sum Weathersby promised—a liberation from her mundane prison—made it worthwhile. She had to believe it.

A cold tide of fear threatened to engulf her, but she shoved it down, focusing on the twin eagle figures, the rocky outcrop that jutted from the rock face, her destination.

The police were closing in. She could see the flashing lights reflecting on the windows of the buildings as she sped past. Each siren blast felt like a physical blow, a reminder of the precariousness of her situation.

“Just a little further, Lucile,” she muttered, her voice tight with anxiety.

The road leading to the twin eagles stretched before her, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the urban landscape. The eagles, majestic and silent, grew larger with each passing minute. She could almost taste freedom, the promise of a life free from debt and despair—from the ghost of Loralie Van-Anderson.

Then she saw him. Weathersby. A shadowy figure lurking amongst the trees at the base of the eagles. Relief, sharp and immediate, flooded her. She was almost there. Almost free.

Just as Weathersby came into clear focus, a strange light shimmered behind him, a hazy wall that blurred out the twin eagles. She blinked fast, but the shimmering intensified. She attempted to stop her bike, but her fingers had frozen. A sudden pop left her ears as her bike slammed into nothing, no object, no obstacle, just an abrupt, jarring halt.

A scream ripped from her throat as her bike bucked, throwing Amber forward. For a fleeting moment, she was airborne; the wind whipping against her helmet.

Instead of the hard ground she expected, a tingling sensation travelled through her body. Her bike, spinning, vanished into the sheen first. Then Amber followed. With another pop, she was swallowed by the shimmering force field, disappearing from the road, from the chase, from the world as she knew it.

The sirens, growing ever closer, fell silent, distant, as if listening to them from another dimension. Just moments before, she had been pursuing a future she could almost taste. Now, it was gone, leaving only a lingering question mark in the humid night air, as nothing but a painful silence greeted her.