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The old clichéd methods are occasionally the best.
They don’t have long between the alarm going off and needing to be back amongst the partygoers downstairs; Sharon moves on fleeting instinct, pounding on her stilettos. Natasha’s a step or two in front of her, pressing their prize – a small flash drive – into her cleavage, ripping off her black wig and ruffling the curls underneath.
Sharon’s mirroring the movements with her own brunette wig, yanking her hair out of the ponytail it was in to hold it in place, pulling off the straps of her dress and pulling additional fabric out of the bodice.
In the space of a minute, they’re women with different hair and different clothes to the ones they arrived in; it might be just enough.
“Extraction team’s on its way,” Hill says in Sharon’s left ear.
“Copy,” Natasha says, lips hidden behind her champagne flute, and Sharon takes a sip of hers, blending in with the others in the room, as though they’ve never been anywhere else.
The doors behind them bang open: the security team, a couple of minutes too late. Sharon thinks about the gun strapped to her left thigh, and looks to Natasha.
Who winks.
It’s an old method, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Natasha’s mouth closes on hers and Sharon spreads her hand against her back and they’re passed by.
They could pull apart now, but it’s always best to be safe; Natasha opens her mouth, and Sharon shuts her eyes.