(Written for a prompt contest by crime  antiheroesgalore   WattpadFriendsandFamily 
Word count – 1997 words)

Myra peered intently at the screen. She scrolled through the museum's thematic map, carefully comparing the layout with her notes.

"The newly-installed security cameras would be here...and here," Nigella stated, pointing on the laptop to the edge of the art gallery, and then at the ceiling beside a large canvas.

"Note that the third security shift begins when the museum closes for the day, at precisely seven o'clock," she added with a strong emphasis, owing to Myra's perpetual disregard for punctuality.

The girl nodded absentmindedly and continued making notes while reading through the blueprint. Late as she might be for family gatherings or friendly outings, she certainly had an eye on the clock when it came to the precision of a heist. She scrawled down the timings of the security guards' daily shifts.

"It's a classic Missing Mona Lisa," Myra replied after a lengthy pause. She leaned back in her chair, sneaking back a glance at Nigella.

"I've slipped into some of the most guarded museums in the country. Without being caught," she added pointedly. "I'm not about to break my record now."

Nigella smirked and stepped away from the computer, all too familiar with the thief's bravado. However, owing to her notable haul over the past three years, perhaps she was entitled to it.

As Myra scribbled away in her notepad, her friend gazed around at the warehouse, realising that she had never paid too much attention to the former's lair. Regardless of the lack of aesthetics, the place exuded functionality, rather like Myra's very plans.

Every wall was plastered with some thematic map or diagram of a random artefact from the city's museums. The places that girl had struck in the past year had been circled in red ink, and the marked targets, Nigella had to admit, had formed an impressive grid of red. Among the numerous dots, one museum stuck out as the only one that hadn't been marked yet.

The Gallery of Modern Art.

Nigella turned back to Myra, who was busy flipping over a checklist on her desk.

"Did Carl deliver the equipment yet?" she enquired, walking up to the littered table. Myra rummaged through her drawer for a pencil.

"Not yet," she responded distractedly. "He's supposed to have it delivered by this evening."

Right on cue, the ladies heard a vehicle screech to a halt outside the warehouse. Carl wasn't known for his discrete entrances. In less than a minute, the patter of heavy footsteps descending the stairs echoed through the basement. A brunette sauntered in, an enormous backpack in tow.

"The dealer has arrived!" the man announced dramatically as he dumped his supplies on the nearby work table. He flashed a grin at Nigella, who returned the smile and waved back at him. Acknowledging his arrival with a mere nod, Myra promptly began inspecting the goods.

"Did you get everything on the list?" she questioned, examining a a grappling hook. Carl fished out a crumpled sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

"They're all there," he replied. "Except for the last item. Not sure why you'd need a dragon to steal the world's most expensive painting."

Myra stopped rummaging through the bag. "A dragon? I most certainly did not write that in my list."

Nigella walked up to Carl. "Let me see that."

She held her hand out for the list. Her eyes scanned through the items, pausing at the last one on the page.

"That says 'drill gun'," she announced calmly. Carl raised his eyebrows and took another look at Myra's scrawl. The word wasn't illegible, but the four letters hardly made sense to the dealer, who was used to being given precise instructions when it came to purchasing arms of equipment.

"How does 'Dr gn' mean drill gun?" he demanded. Myra sighed. It would take her ages to explain her choice of abbreviations to him, so she nodded at her friend to save her the time, while she examined the rest of the equipment.

"Well," Nigella began slowly, trying to simplify it for the man. "It says 'Dr gn', so it's two separate words. Logically, it points to a drill gun, which fits the abbreviation, and would also be needed in Myra's mission."

Carl gazed blankly at his girlfriend, and then at Myra. He shook his head.

"You'd need to be a pharmacist to understand that handwriting," he replied with a smirk.

"Or a best friend for ten years." Myra shrugged.

"You'll get the drill gun by tonight." Carl walked over to the bag, which Myra had deligently emptied.

"I'll let you ladies discuss the nuances of your lovely friendship while I'll be on my way." He paused and looked at Myra, regarding her gravely for a moment.

"Good luck on the job, kid. It's the Gallery of Modern Art, so you'll need a ton of it," he added with a grin, slinging the empty bag over his shoulder.

Myra smiled as Carl's retreating figure ascended the stairs.

"If he calls me "kid" again, we'll have to look for a new supplier," she mused, turning back to her laptop. She opened up a new file while Nigella paced around absentmindedly.

"Well, he's right to an extent," she remarked.

"This is one of the most secure art galleries in the country, so I'd count on a bit of luck if I were you, kid." She allowed a smirk to cross her face as Myra rolled her eyes.

"Thanks for the concern, Nigel." The thief smiled as insincerely as she could. "But like I've said, I'm not about to break my record."

She paused for a moment as she swivelled in her chair, glancing at her friend, who had taken a seat on a wooden crate for lack of better option.

"I do wish you were joining me on this one, just like old times," Myra muttered, the memories of their past escapades flashing through her mind and almost reflected in her eyes. Even stealing question papers in school had been fun.

Nigella sighed, standing up and tapping the dust out of her shoes.

"I wish I could, Myra. But duty calls."

"Workaholic."

Nigella grinned, shrugging in admittance at the remark.

"As your best friend, at least I helped you procure those crucial museum blueprints," she stated. Myra smiled at her.

"You also did that because you're getting fifty percent of this deal."

"That too."

An incoming call on Nigella's phone cut off their conversation. The lady glanced at the screen and declined the call, before offering one last bit of advice to her partner in crime.

"Remember, if you get caught, you're an Italian tourist and I don't know you."

*****

"Curse you, bloody hook!" was hardly a dramatic end to Myra's great heist.

Unfortunately, that was what it was, just before the master criminal crashed into the museum's garden and was surrounded by a team of police personnel. Never before had the lady been subjected to failure in her line of work, and it was a nightmare she hoped to awake from. A nightmare induced by a faulty grappling hook.

It is said that the warriors of ancient times welcomed a glorious death, as long as they weren't captured by enemy forces and forced to endure humiliation. Myra empathised with them with all her heart as she was walked down the dim corridor to the Inspector's office, her handcuffs fastened irritatingly tight.

The polished door of the Chief Inspector's office was pushed open by the constable shepherding her through the corridor. Myra was shoved into the room, where she found herself face-to-face with the steely eyed Chief Inspector.

"You'll have fun with this one, ma'am," the constable remarked, forcing Myra to take a seat.

"Speaks only Italian, from what we heard."

The Chief Inspector maintained her gaze on the criminal as the policeman nodded curtly and left the room. When a lawbreaker and a lawmaker are forced to be in each other's company, a distasteful silence is the primary result.

"Buonasera, signora!" Myra spoke up, an innocent smile toying on her lips.

The woman across the table withdrew a file from her drawer.
"Do shut up."

So much for Italian tourist.

"Miss Cooper, you are under arrest for breaking and entering, damaging public property, and under suspicion of theft," Chief Inspector Dane read out from the page in her hand.

Myra said nothing. She was vaguely aware of the cold steel around her wrists, but now that she had been captured, her silence would provide her an honourable death.

"So," the inspector continued, regarding the thief with an air of interest.

"I understand that in your entire career, not once have you been caught. Is it dismaying to have broken that streak?"

Myra clenched her jaw, but maintained her silence. That's right, add insult to injury.

"Okay," she finally broke her adamant silence. She leaned forward, ignoring the fact that she couldn't move her hands.

"Just to get this straight, it wasn't a question of my abilities."

Inspector Dane nodded and pretended to take detailed notes in her book.

"I see. So, if not your skill, what led to your capture this time? And I must admit, it was quite entertaining."

Myra grit her teeth again. Why wouldn't a swift death come to her? She sighed, before calming herself down to find a suitable explanation to her predicament.

"It was a question of bad investment."

The Chief Inspector raised an eyebrow. "Bad investment?" she repeated. Myra nodded.

"I happened to trust a charmingly deceptive dealer, whose equipment turned out to be faulty. For the first time in my life, a grappling hook failed me."

Inspector Dane had come across a variety of characters in her career, but for being a sheer loon, Myra Cooper took the cake. The thief continued to weild an expression of exasperation.

"I'm never hiring from your boyfriend again."

Nigella stifled a chuckle, which only prompted the lady across her to roll her eyes.

"I assumed knowing the security layout inside out would have helped save yourself," Inspector Dane remarked, twirling a pen between her fingers.

"Well, it didn't," Myra replied flatly. Nigella sighed and leaned back in her chair.

Trust Myra to make my job difficult.

"Where's the painting?" she demanded after a short pause. Myra feigned a look of deep thought.

"Well, it's not with me," she replied honestly.

"Although I can't guarantee that it's back at the museum either."

"I asked you where it was, not where it wasn't."

The thief straightened up in her seat at the stern tone. "I managed to get it out, ma'am."
There was no point in getting on the Chief Inspector nerves, even if she was your best friend.

Nigella narrowed her eyes for a minute. Let's try explaining this to my colleagues, she thought with a sardonic smirk. After all this trouble, she was considering increasing her share of the deal to seventy percent.

"You better spruce up your act next time, kid," Inspector Dane muttered. She paused for a long moment, before pulling up a new set of sheets from her drawer. She fixed Myra with a stern gaze.

"I'm not bailing you out next time."

Myra raised her eyebrows, careful not to reveal the grin that was threatening to cross her face. Turns out Chief Inspector Nigella Dane had a soft side to her after all, but maybe that was reserved for her best friend of ten years.

"Honestly, I'm highly grateful, Inspector," Myra gushed, widening her eyes in faux gratitude. "I can't thank you enough."

"You're right, you can't." Nigella briskly signed the documents on her desk, not sparing the thief a second look.

"And you don't have to thank me." The Inspector looked up from the paperwork and met Myra's grin with a soft smile of her own. The latter wasn't sure when she'd seen Nigella switch expressions so quickly before.

"Don't thank me at all. The bail money comes from your share."

Some things never changed.