Title: Hunt Me Down (1/?)
Universe: Blindspot AU
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kurt Weller, Jane Doe
Summary: AU. Jane's an internationally wanted thief.

A/N: I don't even know where this came from but I'm so excited about it. For #BShiatusfics week 7 AU/crossover prompt. Please enjoy!
Soundtrack: "Whiter/Straighter" by Adaline

They're close to nabbing her. They're really close. It'll happen any day now, he thinks. Maybe even today.

Or, at least, that's what Kurt Weller tells himself, in hopes that it will be true.

He can sense it sometimes, when they start to get to the end of cases. He can sense that This will be the day that it ends. Good or bad, he can see it coming. He wakes up and he just knows; he walks into the office and the truth is only solidified; he meets with his team and he can feel the energy. Zapata calls it voodoo; Patterson says he's got a gift. (Maybe not a good one, she frowns, but nonetheless a gift.) Reade just wishes it were more specific; voodoo or not, he'd like more information. He gets annoyed when he's not home in time for the game and forgot to record it.

Usually Weller tells them when he's feeling it. Usually there's no point in keeping it to himself.

But today is different. He knows as he drives to work; he knows as he rides the elevator up to the twelfth floor: he feels odd, off, in a way that's different from that knowing feel, in a way that's not as certain. Something big is going to change; he can sense it like regular people can sense rainstorms coming on the wind. Something's going to go very wrong.

Or, hopefully, very right.

This will be the day I find her, he coaches himself as the lift rises, trying to psych himself up, trying to turn this foreboding feeling into what he wants it to be: a triumphant one. But he can't tell if the day will be good or bad. Successful or not. Fatal or survivable.

It doesn't help that the reports coming in on his suspect have been conflicting recently. After a spree in Europe, she's back in the States (at least, they think she's still here), and since it's been months (they think) since she went back abroad, Interpol handed over all they had on her. Which, considering her alleged work ethic and estimated net worth, was not much. It hardly even scratched the surface. Basically, the file was nothing more than a list unsolved robberies, and a couple extra notes. Every once in awhile, there was a hair left behind, or a bootprint, or some other bit of potentially case-making evidence that Weller would jump at—only to have it be made obsolete by the time she hit her next target. She never used the same crew twice—or at least, she didn't reuse the members that had left evidence behind.

She's nothing if not smart, and well-prepared. From what they hear of the very few witnesses of her crimes, she's always in-charge: of every moment during the heist, of every person on her team, of every square foot around her and every human being in it. Reade started calling her "The Boss" a while back, and the other agents had had a hard time finding a nickname that suited her better. Patterson used to complain that assigning the moniker to an internationally wanted thief was giving a bad name to Springsteen, but over time, the name caught on, at least inside the Bureau. Sometimes Zapata even said it with respect, if a payout was extremely impressive.

Weller doesn't use the nickname. He just calls her "she." Until he knows her name, until he's seen her face, there's no need to be making her out to be more than she is. A thief is a thief, and he won't be giving her any more power or prestige than what she already has.

Once he reaches his desk, he pulls up what files he has on her, and sifts through the list of burglaries, trying, as always, to pinpoint where she'll go next. They've had their best people—the world's best people—tracing her known hits for months, trying to find the common link between them all, but they've yet to come up with a pattern. Even Patterson is dumbfounded, and that hardly ever happens. At this point, Weller's been thinking she just stares at a big map of the world and throws a dart to deem her next target. Or spins a globe and pokes her finger at it. There's no rhyme, no reason, nothing…

Except profit. Endless, unbelievable, unimaginable profit.

He's had some techs run the numbers, and even factoring in the cost for travel, equipment, muscle… She's got to be worth a billion or two, at least. A billion dollars… He tries to imagine it, and he can't. He pictures his bank account having that many zeros after it, and it's impossible. It's ludicrous. Who has that much money?

He leans back in his chair and stares at the latest report. Portland, that was the last place she hit. Two months ago. It was a coordinated strike: first a high-end jewelry store, and then, just before the doors opened, the U.S. Bank downtown.

It was clean and quick—easy, almost. Weller scans his eyes over the report, taking in the same details he always sees: there were no alarms, no casualties, nothing appeared to have gone wrong at either establishment to alert police to a potential robbery. Nothing except that an unarmed woman walked into the biggest bank in the state at 8:37 AM and walked out twenty minutes later with a few thousand people's life savings in her hands. Just in time for opening bell.

He stares at the take, wiping his eyes against the glare of the screen, and then stares again. She took about fifteen mil from that jewelry store alone; and over triple that from the bank. What does she do with all this money? he wonders, looping the same thought that's always in his head. What is the point of continuing on when you already have so much?

Well, he knows the point. She's addicted to the thrill, the high, the planning and the execution. The takeaway. She, like him, has been doing this too long to stop now, no matter the risks or the consequences. He closes the most recent statement, and switches to another file, leaning closer to the computer as he stares. It's isn't much, but it is one of the very few confirmed images they have of her. It's worth more than any other file on his computer, probably more then any other file on the Bureau's servers, and so he stares at it, committing it to memory, as he wonders which of them will die first on the job: her, or him. Will they kill each other, when—if—they finally cross paths? The last thing he wants to do is shoot her—he has his questions, and he has his deference to the justice system—but he will if it comes to that. If it's her or him… Hell, he'll put her down without a thought.

He leans closer to the screen, zooming in on the bit of her face the surveillance camera managed to capture before it had been decommissioned. It doesn't show much, and even though he knew this when he opened the file, it still makes him furious. Almost ten years she's been active now (that they know of), and yet still no one's managed to get a good picture of her.

Eyewitness accounts aren't helpful, either—not that there are many of them. She usually avoids working during the day. But those that do spot her always have a different story to tell. One minute she's blonde, the next she's brunette, the next she's a redhead or adorned with bubblegum pink curls. She works with a team, or she works alone. She works with all men or she works with all women. She's vicious, or she's kind. Weller's started to wonder if she's paying these people off, to spread lies. Or if she's acting like a maniac on purpose, just to put feds like him on-edge, and keep them up at night.

Strangest of all, though, there have been odd stories surfacing in the last year or so, that she's covered herself in tattoos. Those tales haven't been contradicted like the others; instead, they've just grown more and more frequent.

He has a few grainy surveillance photographs "proving" this, from the last time she hit Munich. A few ballsy civilians managed to snap photographs and send them to friends and loved ones before she destroyed everyone's phones. And even from what little he could see, Weller could tell the tattoos are everywhere: on her arms, her hands, her chest—even the side of her neck; there's a blue-black bird tattooed in mid-flight on the left side of her neck. Weller stares at the dark mask on her face and wonders if she's begun putting tattoos on her face yet. Maybe she wouldn't even need a mask the next time she knocked over a bank. Maybe her face would be terrifying enough she wouldn't even have to bring along the hired muscle.

That's something odd about her work, he has to admit, something he keeps circling back to, willing it to be significant: she never carries a weapon herself. Not a gun, not a Taser, not a baton, nothing. Instead, she brings in (at least from the few robberies they've documented) big guys with her to act as guards, and pack mules. They do the heavy lifting, they do security, they do whatever she asks of them.

He wonders how she keeps control of them. What she promises them. Is money really enough to keep men like that in line?

He brings up the only full-body shot they have of her: take at an angle, missing her head, but helpful anyway. She's slim, and rather tall. There's a flatness, a smallness, to every part of her: her arms, her stomach, her chest, her legs… How does she keep control without a weapon? How does she keep not only her men, but the occasional hostages she takes, in line? Is it possible that she's garnered a big enough reputation at this point that anyone who comes in contact with her just stares in awe, and doesn't even try to fight?

God, what he would do to get stuck in a bank while she tried rob it. He'd tackle her straight to the ground, no questions asked. He'd wrap his hands around her neck…

"Weller!"

His revenge fantasies are interrupted by Reade's shout. Weller turns, looking over his shoulder, surprised to see the man already running towards the elevator.

"She's here, in New York! Downtown!"

"What?" Weller breathes, his whole body freezing for a moment, as his vision narrows, and focuses. He can feel his heart beginning to pump too fast in his chest; even with that feeling this morning, it's something else when it's validated. The adrenaline rush almost knocks him over. "Where?" he demands, finally snapping out of it, and getting to his feet.

"At J.P. Morgan," Reade replies, already jumping into the elevator, Zapata on his heels. "She was spotted just inside!"

Even with their sirens, their horns, their flashing lights, the ride downtown takes longer than Weller can stand. He doesn't bother with a park job when he gets there—he just runs the SUV up onto the curb and slams the gearshift into park, and then sprints up to the office building, one of the tallest and wealthiest in the city, his gun already drawn.

He sweeps the lobby, searching, searching for that thin frame, for those tattoos, his eyes roaming close over every woman he sees—

"Eleven o'clock," Zapata whispers at his side, her breath bated, as excited as he is. "She's right there. Look, her neck—the bird. It's her!"

Weller looks. And Zapata is right. He can see the wings of that bird she tattooed on her neck peeking out from under the collar of her shirt. She's talking to one the of the receptionists. As slowly as he can, Weller creeps up behind her, Reade and Zapata at his sides, and motions for the receptionist facing them to be quiet, and keep acting normal.

His suspect doesn't realize he's there until he touches the barrel of his gun to that goddamn bird on her neck.

"Turn around," he orders, finally saying the words he's dreamed of for years. "Hands on your head. No sudden movements, or I won't hesitate in shooting you."

The woman that turns around is not what he expects. She has the bird tattoo, but she looks to be about eighteen years old. And she's shaking like she's about to be put to death. Which, Weller realizes later, she probably thought she was.

But she does her job admirably. She puts her hands on her head—part of Weller notices they aren't tattooed, but he's so high on the win already that he doesn't care; maybe the tattoos were removable and had just been another disguise all along—and then she speaks. She glances between him and Zapata and Reade; her eyes lingering more on their guns that their faces.

"Is—is one of you is Kurt?" she gets out, her voice squeaking. "Kurt Weller?"

Zapata and Reade glance at him. This is not what they'd expected of their master thief: not a barely-legal teenager that can hardly get her words out. But the girl catches on quick regardless, and before anyone can say anything, she turns to Weller.

"She—She said I'm supposed to tell you, 'Close, but no cigar.' And she wanted me to give you this—" She starts to reach down into her purse, but Reade grabs her arm before she can move even an inch. The girl's face twists. "Oh, no, please—it's not a weapon or anything, it's just a piece of paper—"

"Where?" Reade demands, not letting go of her arm.

"My purse," she answers, shaking a little harder now. "The laminated paper."

Reade lets go of her arm, orders it back on her head, and fishes in her purse with one hand, the other still tight on his gun. He eventually comes up with what she'd mentioned: a laminated square of paper, about four by four inches. The girl watches closely as he inspects it, frowns, and then passes it to Weller.

Weller takes it blindly, his eyes still on the girl. With every seconds that passes, he's losing less and less faith in her, but he needs to believe—he has to believe—that this is her. He keeps his gun trained on her face while he takes the laminate from Reade and glances down at it.

He nearly shoots her head off when he sees it, first in surprise, and then in fury.

"She said, 'Maybe it takes one to catch one,' and—and that you could put it on your neck, if you like."

"What the fuck?" Weller growls, staring at the laminate, at the bird copied there, a perfect match for the one on the girl's neck, on her neck. He wants to crumple the picture in his fist, or set it on fire, or riddle it with bullets, but instead he shoves it into his back pocket. Safe, but out of sight. If he looks at it, he might go insane. "Who are you?" he demands of the girl, not lowering his gun. "Who gave you that? Where is she?"

"My—My name Melanie Waterson," she girl gets out, chin shaking. "I'm a film major at NYU, a senior. All she did was—look, she just responded to one of my casting calls online, asking if I minded if my actors had tattoos. I—I said no, I didn't mind, but if they were offensive or something, I'd have to cover them up with makeup. And we, we went back and forth, you know, we got to talking, 'cause I have some tattoos too, and I know how people judge, and—"

"Tell this story faster," Weller snaps.

"Okay, okay—" The girl sucks in a breath. "Eventually, we, um, got to talking about other things, and she said she had a job opportunity for me. Just a way to make some quick cash. She—" The girl's eyes start to fill. "Oh, God, she promised I wouldn't get in trouble—"

"Kid, you're not in trouble, goddamn it, just tell me—"

"Hey," Zapata cuts in softly, bolstering her gun and touching the girl's arm with a smile, discreetly stepping in front of Weller. "Everything's going to be fine, okay, Melanie? You're not in trouble, we just have a lot of questions for you. That woman who contacted you is has been doing a lot of bad things, okay? She's a criminal. And we're looking for her. Any information you have—"

"But I don't have any information!" the girl cries. "She never told me her name; she never saw me in person. I've never even heard her voice! We just communicated over the website, and then email, nothing else! She mailed me two copies of the tattoo and told me to wear one and walk around the building a bit, that's it, and that when someone named Kurt Weller came to talk to me, I was supposed to give him the other one, and once I was done she'd transfer me the money. I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do! It was five hundred dollars, and I have a rent to pay, and—" She suddenly broke off, her eyes flying to Weller's. "You aren't going to arrest me, are you? I didn't even know anyone was looking for her! Please, you can't arrest me, I had no idea, I just thought it was a joke, like a couples' thing for her boyfriend or something, I didn't know the police would be—"

"Take her back," Weller orders, having heard enough. He holsters his gun roughly, wishing he could break something. "I don't care if she was paid off and had no contact besides those emails, I want her interrogated."

"Please, wait, I have class in an hour! If I'm late, my professor will kill me—"

"Don't worry," Zapata sighs, taking her arm and leading her to the door, "I'll write you an excuse slip, kiddo."

Reade follows behind, but it isn't until he's out the front door of the building that he realizes Weller isn't with them. He glances back, finding his boss examining the tattoo laminate with a frown.

"Weller," he calls out. "You coming?"

"I'm gonna stay a minute," he replies, glancing up from the tattoo to meet Reade's worried eye. "I need to think through this, figure out what she's doing."

"You want us to wait?"

Weller waves a hand. "No. No, I'll find my own way back. I just need to think for a bit. Take the girl, and start questioning. I'll be back soon."

Reade nods, and then heads outside and into the car. He takes one last look at his boss before putting the car in drive and heading back to the Bureau offices.

Weller loiters in the lobby of the J.P. building for a few minutes, casting his eye around, wondering. She must have been here somewhere, watching it all, laughing to herself. But where? He looks around, his eyes lingering on the security cameras. He checks with the security guards, but no one even remotely matching her description has been inside the building recently. And they haven't noticed any security breaches. He checks the footage, still, hoping to catch a glimpse of her coming inside the building after he and Reade and Zapata apprehended that girl. But no one else steps inside J.P. after they do.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Weller eventually gives up. This, like everything else she does, probably has no rhyme or reason for it. Likely she just wanted to fuck with the authorities—she's been known to do that before, though the law enforcement professionals have been mum on just what her taunts were. As he steps out of the J.P. building, he pulls the laminate out of his back pocket again, staring at the tattoo. He wonders which other international law enforcement agents have one like it. He wonders if any of them ever actually put it on.

He shakes his head at the thought, stuffing the tattoo back in his pocket. As he heads down the front steps and back onto street level, he casts his eye around for some kind of relief. It's only ten AM, and already he feels exhausted. There's a Starbucks across the street, he notices with a frown, but he doesn't much feel like an overpriced coffee right now. He's about to hail a cab and just go back to the office for whatever shitty remnants are left in the break room's coffee pot when he notices a little bakery tucked on the corner. It has a sign in the widow promising delicious scones and hot coffee and right now, that sounds so much better than going back to the office. He knows his boss, Assistant Director Mayfair, will be waiting for him when he gets back, waiting for a proper explanation of this morning's events. And what does he have to show for himself? A stupid little do-it-yourself tattoo from some college kid? He wouldn't be surprised if she demoted him after this. He hasn't come up with a good lead in months.

The small coffee shop is surprisingly busy when he walks in, packed with college kids tapping away on computers and older men lingering over scones and newspapers. There's a small family in front of him, buying a dozen of what the little boy calls "the best scones in the whole wide world." So Weller waits behind them as hey slowly fill their order, but not impatiently. He doesn't need the coffee so much as he just needs some time to sit down and do nothing and evaluate his situation. A coffee shop is a better excuse than his desk back at the Bureau; he's less likely to get yelled at here. He gives his order to the man behind the counter, hardly paying attention as he does so. He can't stop thinking about that girl, Melanie. He can't stop thinking about the tattoo in his back pocket. How many times has she—the real she—toyed with the cops like this? Or is it a new fad for her, fucking with the feds? If so, she got awfully good at it awfully fast. That tattoo is burning a hole in his pocket; he can't get it out if his head.

"Sir?"

Weller looks up at the sound of the cashier's insistent voice; apparently he'd forgotten that he had to pay. He starts to reach for his wallet before realizing all he has in his pockets are that damn tattoo and his badge. He'd run out of the office after Reade and Zapata so fast, he hadn't even grabbed his wallet from his desk drawer, knowing he wouldn't need it for an arrest. He sighs, about to tell the cashier to just forget his order, because he doesn't have any money with him to pay, but the man waves him off before he can finish.

"It's on the house," he smiles, nodding towards the badge Weller's tucking away.

Of course he'd seen the FBI designation in huge blue letters. Weller sighs, but doesn't refuse the kindness. Civilians have forced worse on him before, and though he might not have earned his free coffee today, he rationalizes that he's done enough good in the past to maybe deserve it.

"Thanks," he nods to the man with a brief smile, and then steps to the side of the front counter to wait.

"You a cop?" a female voice asks.

He starts at the question, not having realized there was anyone close to him. He glances up, catching a pair of green eyes over the various hulking coffee-making machines between his side of the counter and hers.

"News travels fast, huh?"

Over the machines, he can see her eyes crinkle a little at the corners, so even though he can't see her mouth, he knows she's smiling. For some reason, it makes him smile, too. "You were about five feet away, I saw the badge too."

"Ah."

"That girl over there, by the Morgan building, were you arresting her? What'd she do? She looked like she was in tears when they put her in the car."

The momentary smile falls off Weller's face. God, he hates it when civilians ask him about work. They either hero-worship him, like that cashier, or they demonize him. "It was nothing," Weller mutters. "Just a case of mistaken identity."

"And yet your partners took her away anyway?" The woman behind the counter shakes her head. He catches a glimpse of her dark, shoulder-length hair swaying from side to side with the movement before she's hidden behind the machines again. "I have to say, that doesn't really keep my faith in the justice system, special agent."

Weller sighs. Well, now he knows which side of things this civilian falls on. Great. She's probably going to spit in his coffee.

"She's being questioned, not arrested," he replies as evenly as he can.

"Ah, questioned." The green eyes are smiling at him again, though not in a way that makes him want to smile back. "And what does that entail, exactly? A dark room and no cameras? Perhaps a dirty old towel and a few pitchers of water?"

Weller actually has to close his eyes so he won't tell her to shut up. God, he hates civilians sometimes. He really hates them. They watch too much TV and too many war movies, and they confuse him too often with other government agencies' lackeys. We're not the CIA, he almost bites out, but catches himself at the last minute. If a soundbite like that ended up on the news, he'd never hold another job in his life. He'd probably never see the sun again.

"All questioning entails is questions," he answers finally, opening his eyes and stepping down the line with the barista, as she moves from machine to machine. Part of him wants to ask why the hell it's taking her so long to make his drink, it wasn't anything fancy, but the other part of him is too worn-out to wonder much, and doesn't want to push a potentially hostile barista any further. She might add something worse than spit to his drink at this point. "Sometimes we get answers," he continues. Thinking of the clueless girl, he adds tiredly, "And other times we don't get anything."

"Oh, but I bet you always get your answers, don't you?"

He stops at her question, staring. He can't be sure, but the tone of her voice, that look in her eyes… Is she flirting with him?

"What makes you say that?" he wonders, watching her more closely now.

He catches sight of an edge of her shoulder as she shrugs. "Just intuition," she murmurs, carefully avoiding his eye, only to glance back up at him at the last second.

He can't help but grin. Okay, definitely flirting. He steps a little closer to the counter. "You have good intuition, do you?"

"Better than you, I'd say."

He laughs at that. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Those smiling eyes again. He very much wants to see what the rest of her looks like.

"And why's that, hm?"

"Because if I were you, I'd've figured out this little game we're playing from the very first move. I wouldn't still be standing there like a dumbstruck idiot, falling for the oldest play in the book."

Weller blinks, momentarily blindsided the abrupt change in her demeanor. But then her words catch up to him, and his mind works through the underlying meaning. There's only one type of person that ever talks to him like this…

And he can see it in those green eyes peeking out at him; he can see it in the taunting smile on her face as she moves to the end of the counter. Finally out from behind all the machines, he can finally see her in full: short, dark hair; that thin, small body; and just beneath the collar of her black employee polo shirt, the tattoo of a blue-black bird spreading its wings in flight, identical to the one in his back pocket, identical to the one on Melanie's neck. The words start to form in his mind: FBI; Don't move…

She looks up, and catching the look of understanding dawning in his eyes, smiles calmly. She's still got his drink in her hand, and she's stirring it with a straw in such a leisurely manner that he can't completely be sure if what he thinks is happening is really happening. Is it actually her?

"Nice to be able to finally meet you in person, Special Agent Weller."

She surveys him for a moment, tilting her head to the side, and even though he knows better, even though he knows he should act, he's frozen, waiting for what else she has to say—because it's her. Finally. Is there another cop in the entire world that could truthfully say he's seen her face in person, let alone carried on a whole conversation with her?

She's frowning at him now, the hand holding the straw slowing its stirs. "You know, Weller, I have to say I'm kind of disappointed… You're not nearly as tall as I thought you'd be."

He doesn't have a moment to reply, let alone think, because as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she's throwing his coffee in his face and vaulting over the counter, and he can't even think to grab her because he's suddenly freezing cold, and waiting for the burn—

She's out the door by the time he realizes she got his order wrong, and that she threw iced coffee on him instead of hot. There's a moment of relief—for a delirious second, he even thanks her in his mind—and then he's pushing past all the other customers in the small store and tearing off down the street after her, soaking wet but burning inside with fury. She's already halfway down the block, about to turn a corner, but he screams at her anyway, pulling his gun as he sprints down the sidewalk behind her.

"Freeze!"

"Run faster!" she shouts back. "Come on, don't you ever go to the gym, Weller? Don't tell me you bought that membership for show!"

He can hear her laugh. It makes him want to tackle her down onto the pavement as hard as humanly possible, hopefully breaking a few bones of hers on the way down.

God damn her.

Every word of their conversation is reverberating through his head, and he can't be certain anymore, as he runs down the street after her, who he hates the most: himself or her. Of course he hates her. But she's right—he should've known better. He should've seen that coming, especially after she dropped the tattoo off for him. He'd expected to see her watching the scene from afar, he just hadn't it to be like that…

He grips his gun tighter, but doesn't dare fire it, not in the middle of the crowded downtown. He can't believe he stood there that long, three feet from her. He'd seen her eyes, he'd heard her voice… He'd gotten closer to her than any other cop in any other agency before him ever had. And what had he done with that proximity?

He'd tried to land a date.

He pushes harder, faster, willing the truth away by sheer force of exertion. He keeps his eyes ahead, gun down but finger on the trigger, as he watches her sprint across the street and disappear down a narrow alley. He curses at her, at himself, at God. He does not want to follow her into an enclosed space. He's been ambushed one too many times today.

But still, he follows her. At a break in the traffic, he tears across the street too, and once he reaches the mouth of the alley and catches sight of her—still running, thankfully, and not hiding waiting to get him—he throws what little energy he has left into his legs. She's almost halfway through the alley, and the only thing between her and freedom on the other side is a eight-foot-tall chainlink fence. If he can get to her before she gets to it, it'll be over. He'll have her, finally. After ten years of no one seeing her, no one knowing her name, no one knowing what she's planning next; after ten years of watching her run around the world like she owns it, and slipping in and out of the United States unchecked like the ghost she is, he'll be the one that finally stops her—

He's gaining, he's almost close enough to reach her. She's still five feet from the fence, and even if she jumps now, he'll be able to grab her, he'll get her foot and he'll pull her down, he'll do it, whatever it takes—

"DOE!"

A woman's screech from behind them cuts through the air, so fierce it actually makes Weller stop in his tracks for a second, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he sucks in air desperately. Luckily, the screech does the same to her: just a few feet from the fence, his suspect skids to a halt at the shout and turns at once. But her wide eyes don't meet Weller's; no, they pass by his face as if he weren't even there, and land on the figure standing at the far end of the alley. Weller turns to follow her gaze and sees a woman, dressed in high heels and a stylish knee-length cream-colored raincoat… And holding up a machine gun, looking like she might very well murder the entire city after she kills the two people now trapped in the alley in front of her.

"Oh, fucking hell," his suspect whispers, very softly.

And then the shooting starts.

A/N: Thank you guys for reading! I hope you like this AU. I'm (very) partial to heist movies, and so naturally one of the first AUs that popped into my head was, What if Jane's a master thief? And then I just kinda ran with it. Tell me what you think! :)