It was the oldest trick in the book, pulled off with breathtaking audacity inside the 4th Precinct itself.
The three women shivering in the holding cell weren't career criminals; they were the backbone of the night shift: Detective Mulligan, Officer Russo, and Sergeant Blake. An hour ago, they had been processing two "distraught victims" of a mugging brought in off the street.
The "victims"—Maeve and her icy-nerved partner, Sal—had played their parts perfectly. The moment they were escorted into the female locker room to tidy up for their statements, the tears vanished. Sal produced a compact stun gun she’d palmed past the front desk. It was over in seconds.
Now, the tables were completely turned. The real police officers sat bound, gagged, and stripped of their uniforms, furious and helpless behind the bars of their own jail.
Outside the cell, Maeve stood center stage, buttoning up Sergeant Blake’s uniform shirt. It was a surprisingly good fit. She smoothed the collar, a smug feeling of invincibility washing over her. The heavy brass badge on her chest felt like a passport to freedom.
To her right, Sal held Mulligan’s service weapon with practiced ease, keeping it trained on the fuming captives. She looked relaxed, already enjoying the irony.
"You know, Sergeant," Maeve said, adjusting her stolen cap in the reflection of the cell bars, "you always said these uniforms commanded respect. I think I’m starting to feel it."
Mulligan strained against her ropes, her eyes burning with rage over the white gag.
"Don't wait up, ladies," Sal smirked, holstering the weapon and checking her reflection. "We've got a beat to walk. I hear the bank across town has a very loose alarm system tonight."
With a final, mocking salute, the two con artists turned on their polished heels. They walked out of the holding area with confident strides, breezing past the tired desk sergeant who barely looked up, mistaking the wolves for the shepherds.
