Cross Roads, page 17
“Especially you.”
He took a step forward. “We had a lot of good times, didn’t we?”
Keeping her feet planted, she said, “Yeah, we did.”
Another step closer. “Why do you want to forget everything?”
Forget me, his eyes asked.
“I never wanted that life. Never wanted to be a forger or street thief. I did those things to survive. To get through a night without food, to get through a winter with minimal shelter.” She lifted her chin, deepened their visual connection. “Now I have everything I need.” Except someone to fill the loneliness. “I don’t need to remember those times.”
His beautiful eyes went flat and he stepped back.
“I have one thing you need from me, sweet Lena. The Catawnee. Finish what you started, or I’ll sell it on the black market and you’ll never see it again.”
He stormed out.
Her stomach growled.
“Guess that means I need to get my own dinner.”
Across the studio, her work-in-progress drew her eye. The lighting wasn’t quite right on the fountain’s waterspout. She picked up her paintbrush.
33
“Two minutes to insertion,” Cruz said through Rohan’s headset. His brother’s attention remained focused on the cockpit’s control panel.
Wind barreled through the helicopter’s cabin, forcing Rohan to keep his feet braced apart as he stood. “Copy.” He met Neuman’s eye, and the new recruit nodded his readiness for his first operational fast rope.
Liv clutched a handle above her head and gave him a thumbs-up. With Zeke occupied in the stakeout van and Phin doing surveillance, they were short one insertion team member. Liv had jumped on the opportunity to be the one to pull up the rope after their descent.
“Phin, target’s status?”
“About half staff,” came his staticky, amused reply.
“Come again?” Rohan asked over the whomp whomp of the helicopter’s blades.
“Target is fully occupied with a beautiful woman and an endless supply of bourbon.”
Rohan removed his headset and gestured for Neuman to do the same. He didn’t care what the hell Killian Byrne was doing at the club as long as he stayed there for the next hour.
They had thrown a recovery plan together faster than any other, and Rohan knew it was laced with holes the size of Massachusetts.
“One minute,” Cruz said.
Rohan double-checked Neuman’s gear, then his own.
Ten seconds.
Ten seconds for him and Neuman to fast rope down to the roof, and for Cruz to disappear. The sixty-story building was tall enough and the night was dark enough to hide two specters shooting out of a helicopter from onlookers below.
But curious folks in the other high rises worried him. They would have an unimpeded balcony view.
Would they act like ninety-nine percent of the population and resume their lives? Or would they be among the rare one percent who would listen to their instincts and call in the unusual activity above Liddington building?
Cruz gave the go sign.
Rohan kicked the coil of thick rope out, made sure the end dragged the ground below, then motioned Neuman forward. The recruit placed a hand beneath Rohan’s on the rope, then swung out, clasping the rope between his gloved hands and boots, then let gravity do the rest.
Then Liv stabilized the rope for Rohan as he followed Neuman three seconds later. Wind from the rotor downwash pushed against his shoulders and whipped at his face, cleansing away the last of his uncertainty. The jarring contact of his boots against the rooftop completed the transition from plan to execution.
They bolted toward the stairwell door. Rohan glanced back to see Liv expertly retrieve the rope as the helicopter drifted away.
Neuman took a knee and went to work on the deadbolt, while Rohan’s fingers blazed across his tablet, disabling the building’s security cameras.
Seconds later, the door clicked open. Neuman waited for Rohan’s thumbs-up before plunging down the stairwell. Like many after-build penthouse apartments in these old high-rises, Byrne’s apartment didn’t have a direct connection to the stairwell.
The penthouse had one ingress and egress—the elevator. In order to access it, they had to go down a level, then back up, increasing their exposure.
Once inside the lift, Neuman held a keycard Rohan had made before the proximity reader. The red light turned green, and Neuman hit the penthouse button.
For hackers like Rohan, technology was like a red carpet. Follow it, and you’ll gain access to the most exclusive places.
“Eyes and comms good?” Rohan asked Zeke, who sat in their surveillance van two blocks away and followed their progress through small cameras attached to their shoulder harnesses.
“All good,” Zeke responded through Rohan’s earpiece.
The trip up a single floor was practically over before it got started. When the elevator doors binged open, lights inside the apartment flickered on.
Not ceiling lights or sconces or floor lamps. But tiny pin lights strategically placed over works of art scattered on the walls and carved out nooks.
Zeke whistled. “Byrne has pieces that would make Kayla salivate.”
Kayla Krowne, Liv’s best friend, successful lobbyist, and Phin’s new boss, had amassed an impressive collection of priceless artworks. Although Rohan appreciated art in its many mediums, he preferred his world of zeroes and ones.
They started their search at the back of the apartment, in the master bedroom. The penthouse’s schematics showed a large walk-in closet. It was as good a place as any to start. Most thieves liked to keep their treasures close to their underwear drawer.
The master suite was a sizable space, with a sleeping area and sitting room. When Byrne sat up in bed, he could look down the entire length of his suite. Straight at a large painting on the other end.
Rohan stilled as a wave of familiarity washed over him. Then his feet were in motion, eating up the distance to the far wall.
“Hey,” Neuman said. “The closet is this way.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be there in a second.”
The closer Rohan got to the portrait, the thicker his throat grew. When he stood a few feet away, he could see he’d been wrong. It wasn’t a painting, but an enlarged photograph.
A couple, snuggling on a couch. Their hands covered in multihued paint. Big smiles aimed at the camera.
Lena and Byrne.
* * *
The small locked room attached to Byrne’s closet didn’t house Walking Woman, but an incredible array of weapons. The quantity and variety were so great that Rohan had to wonder if there was something more to Killian Byrne than his pretty art collection.
“Clear,” Neuman said, coming out of the spare bedroom.
“Clear,” Rohan said after sweeping Byrne’s office.
Frustrated, Rohan paused in the kitchen as he studied the penthouse’s floor plan on his tablet. “There has to be another hidden room. Byrne would want to keep the painting close.”
“Maybe he already put it on the black market,” Neuman said.
Rohan shook his head. “It’s here. I’d bet my best keylogger on it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Zeke asked.
Rohan thought about the enlarged picture in Byrne’s bedroom. The one of him and Lena happy and full of life.
Had she been part of the heist? Had she been giving the performance of ten lifetimes since they’d first met?
He recalled her expression as she chased Bobby Balor out of her apartment building. The fear, the anger. Not even Meryl Streep could pull off such genuine emotion.
“I’m not sure,” Rohan said. “But something tells me he wouldn’t leave it at the gallery, or a similar location, where someone might come across it. The painting is too important to him.”
And Lena.
Had he taken the painting to lure her here? Had he banked on the fact she would eventually call him for advice? Her former lover turned art dealer?
Rohan’s attention locked on an undesignated space behind the pantry. It was large. As big as the kitchen and living room put together. How had they missed this?
Because they’d thrown the recovery together faster than Lynette could whip up her famous yogurt pancakes.
He zoomed in on the area, then shoved the tablet into a sleeve on his tactical vest before yanking open the pantry door. Speaking of large.
Cherrywood shelving reached from the floor to ceiling, each one ten feet wide. Dozens—hundreds—of canned goods filled several shelves, three deep and four high. Bags of flour, rice, and sugar lined up, side-by-side, their square chests thrust into the air.
“Is this guy one of those survivalist types?” Neuman asked.
Rohan glanced over his shoulder at the luxury penthouse. “If he is, he took a wrong turn at the crossroads.” He scanned each shelf. “Look for a mechanism that will open a hidden door.”
They ran hands beneath each shelf, along the trim work on the double doors, and toed the baseboard.
“Nothing,” Neuman said.
“The painting is back there. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Target is on the move,” Phin reported in Rohan’s ear. “He’s stumbling out of the club.”
“Dammit.”
Rohan moved containers and cans and bags away from the wall, searching for anything that looked out of the ordinary. He grabbed a bottle of ginger soy sauce, but it didn’t budge.
Excitement kicked up in his chest. “Help me clear everything away from this bottle.” They worked in tandem until Rohan had plenty of elbow room.
“Give it a shove,” Zeke said.
Rohan pushed.
Nothing.
“Pull it.”
“I did.”
“Harder.”
Rohan braced a hand against the shelf and tried again. It gave way and a distant click sounded.
The wall slid inwards several inches, then rotated forty-five degrees.
Rohan flicked on his Maglite. Words clogged in the back of his throat.
Neuman added his light to Rohan’s. “Holy shit.”
34
The man who now called himself Killian Byrne parked in one of the many handicapped spots in the multilevel garage at the back of his building. A fucking black Jaguar had taken his reserved spot, and Killian didn’t have the stomach for driving in circles in search of a nonexistent empty stall.
Number 507 must be shaking the walls again. Why couldn’t the bastard party at a club, like he did, instead of inviting all of his loudmouth, stall-stealing friends to their building?
He pushed out of his vehicle, then had to stand there a moment and wait for his head to catch up.
Damn, that last bourbon fucked up his body.
Blinking hard several times, he cursed his inability to recognize the warning drink. The one that said, “Order another, asshole, and you’ll regret it.”
He remained in place an extra ten minutes, knowing it wouldn’t be enough time to wash away the evidence of the last few hours. But even hard-asses like him drifted into fairytale land on occasion.
When his world clattered together in a single image again, he exited the garage and made his way to the service elevator at the back of the building.
Although the elevator had an industrial feel and had the faint scent of fermented cabbage, the ride was fast and smooth. But most of all, no one else would be inside at this time of the day.
The doors binged open, and Killian smoothed his black hair back into place. For a moment, Camille had tempted him in the dim light of the club, with music pounding through his veins and her fingers trailing along his thigh. Onyx hair like Lena’s brushing his cheek.
But Camille wasn’t Lena.
None of them were.
He’d sampled every shape, age, size, and color. No one had come close to taking her place.
Their smiles didn’t make his heart sing. Their bodies didn’t make him crave more. Their presence didn’t make his rotten soul reach for the light.
He hadn’t realized the treasure he had until he’d screwed things up with Lena.
He understood now. Understood the life he was born to live and who he wanted to share the journey with.
Somehow he’d win Lena back. He’d talk her into giving him—them—a second chance.
Then he’d make some changes. Reset some things he’d put in place when his grief from losing her had nearly consumed him.
Lost in his own thoughts, he went through the familiar movements of entering his place without knocking. The darkened studio sent a stab of disappointment all the way to his knees. Walking was difficult. Like his joints needed a good dousing of WD-40.
“Lena?”
Several hours had passed since he’d stormed out of here, like an ass. Promising her dinner, then reneging.
Threatening her.
He blew out a breath. Not the best approach for a man trying to win back the woman he loved.
Where had she gone? For a walk and fresh air? Had she gone out for food?
Another thought wrapped around his gut and squeezed. What if his outburst had chased her away? What if his self-absorption had destroyed his second chance at happiness?
He flicked on the wall switch, intent on searching the studio for her belongings.
Two bodies moved toward him.
The one on the right said, “You should have stayed at the club and fucked the brunette.”
Before he could utter a response, something hard slammed into his skull. He heard a loud crack. Then something warm washed over the back of neck.
As he crashed to the floor, his eyes found The Fountain. His soggy brain grew sluggish, but two words clawed to the top, one after the other.
Extraordinary.
A tear rolled off his nose and plopped onto the hardwood.
Lena.
35
Rohan found a light switch and flipped it on. The pantry was like a portal into another realm. A realm you heard about on the news, but could never quite bring yourself to believe.
Easels stood in two concentric circles at the center of the enormous room. The inner ring contained works-in-progress, the outer an original masterpiece. A tall table, stool, and an array of paint supplies accompanied each WIP.
Workstations, he realized.
Three dozen vertical drying racks filled with finished canvases rested against an adjacent wall. Blank canvases of every shape and size waited along the opposite wall for their moment of transformation.
Beyond the easels, Rohan spotted a haphazard arrangement of metal cots. Six, maybe seven, young bodies scrambled from beneath thin blankets, shying away from the light as if it would scorch their tender flesh. They sought the corners, where shadows still lingered, or scrambled for the meager protection of a plastic chair or cardboard box.
Only one remained visible. A teenaged girl, holding something long and narrow in each hand like a street fighter who was ready to slice and dice, stood between Rohan and her fellow prisoners.
Fierce. Determined. And scared shitless.
She reminded him of Lena.
Thick tentacles wormed around Rohan’s stomach, squeezing his guts until bile shot to the back of his throat. He clenched his neck muscles, fighting back the nausea.
“It’s a fucking sweat shop,” Zeke said, echoing Rohan’s own conclusion.
Nothing Rohan had ever learned from the moment he’d slid from his mother’s womb to the second before they’d opened the pantry’s hidden door had prepared him for what to do next.
He had a recovery to complete, but he could not—would not—leave these kids to this fate. How he would explain this discovery to the authorities, he didn’t know. He’d worry about that later.
Right now, he needed to assess the situation and locate the painting.
“Find the painting,” he said to Neuman. “I’ll take care of this.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a swift movement, then something white and heavy rocketed through the air toward them.
“Get down!” He ducked a nanosecond before a ceramic mug whizzed by and crashed into an easel behind him, sending a masterpiece to the floor.
Rohan heard a dull thunk right before Neuman cried out and crumpled to one knee. A second mug dropped to the concrete floor, shattering.
“Stop!” He yanked off his face mask and searched the room for the culprits with the wicked fast mugs. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The young woman’s stance remained tense, and the air grew thick with everyone’s uncertainty, including his own.
When no more projectiles raced toward his head, Rohan backed up to the recruit’s side and removed the younger man’s face mask to assess his injury. “It’s not deep, but it’s a bleeder.” He pressed the woolen material against the wound and guided Neuman to a cot. “Sit down and keep pressure on it.”
“What about the painting?”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Get the bleeding under control.”
Rohan rose and pointed to the long wood-handled paintbrushes the girl gripped in each hand. “You can put those down.” The tapered ends could cause some serious damage if wielded by a skilled hand.
Instead of lowering her weapons, her hold tightened until her knuckles pushed against taut flesh.
“What is your name?”
Silence.
“Why are you here?” As if the answer wasn’t hammering him in the face. But his mental clock was ticking down the minutes and he hadn’t the slightest freaking idea what to do with this feral girl—or her compatriots.
Still no response.
Was she keeping quiet out of caution? Or was there a communication barrier?
“Phin,” Rohan said, “where’s the target?”
Three seconds ticked by.
“Phin, what’s the target’s status?”
“He’s back at the studio.”
Somewhere in the depths of Rohan’s chest, glass shattered.
The enlarged photo in Byrne’s bedroom filled his vision. Lena laughing, covered in paint. Leaning into Byrne’s side like it was her natural habitat. Like she . . . fit.
