Midnight Heist (Outlaws Book 1)

by Katherine McIntyre

  Blurb

  Heist rule number one? Never fall for your mark.

  Grif’s always followed the one rule in the high stakes business of heists: never fall for your mark. At least until he meets Danilo Torres...

  Grif Blackmore's team of thieves, the Outlaws, take down wicked corporations and nab fantastic paydays. However, when their latest heist fails, they end up in debt to the mafia, which puts the pressure on for their next job targeting Torres Industries to go off without a hitch.

  There's one problem. The CEO of Torres Industries, Danilo Torres, happens to not only be dead sexy but unaware of his company's corruption. When the sparks flare between Grif and Danilo, Grif can't help but fall for his mark.

  Grif is left with a decision to make. Is he willing to throw it all away for the man who's caught his interest or is there a chance to play Robin Hood without losing it all?

  Midnight heist

  Katherine McIntyre

  Hot Tree Publishing

  Midnight Heist © 2021 by Katherine McIntyre

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Midnight Heist is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: BookSmith Design

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-922359-54-4

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922359-53-7

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  More From Hot Tree Publishing

  To my author tribe, which makes every book possible.

  One

  Grif Blackmore never did a job on a Tuesday.

  The other Outlaws might call him a superstitious fuck, but he didn’t give a damn. If he didn’t have a code to live by, he wouldn’t have much more than a vinegar attitude and too many scars to carry into the next life. Still, said code also meant he got saddled with research duty for their current job, trapped behind their luxury condo’s wall of glass overlooking Lower West Side of big, beautiful, and rotting-from-within Chicago.

  Static buzzed from the speaker at the main computer rig connected to the group comm in their family room opposite the foyer. Their console sat on the lacquer desk overlooking their spectacular view, a metallic beast Scarlet had assembled when they first set up shop here. Grif might not be on the job, but the others worked out in the field today. He perched in the leather seat. Until each member of his crew had walked in through the door, he wouldn’t be able to settle. He tapped his foot to the melody in his head, the cycle of different tempos in constant flux.

  His fingers flew across the keyboard as he dug in for more information on Torres Industries. The energy and commodities company was one of the businesses in the Aon Center, a skyscraper tall enough to loom over half of Chicago. After the insider tip he got last week on some of their seedier activities, they’d warranted a look. He knew at least a dozen people who would pay quality cash for the information to torpedo the corporation.

  If a company was rich and corrupt, Grif Blackmore would destroy them. Most times, the two went hand in hand anyway. He’d sworn the oath years ago and still upheld it today.

  The CEO’s image popped up on the screen. Danilo Torres, a guy who looked far too young and attractive to be in charge of such a wide-scale operation. Slender eyebrows and a wide smile accented the soft curves of his face, and he must’ve inherited the bronzed Filipino skin tone and thick, dark hair from his father, the former head of the company. He’d taken over a mere year ago when Torres Sr. went into retirement. A few more years in the industry, and the big open smile would vanish, replaced by the slick fake sort that circulated around the upper echelons of the big corporations.

  Grif had mastered his own game face far earlier than necessary.

  He lit his cigarette, taking in a deep drag, and continued to run through the list of the top dogs in the company, most of whom neared retirement age. The nicotine did little to calm him, but he let out the slow exhale anyway. The smoke drifted to the vaulted ceiling. John would be pissed at him for smoking inside again, but he could pin the blame on Tucker. Each one of the Outlaws took their turn sitting out on jobs, but Grif never made a good benchwarmer.

  If Luka told him this was a solid lead, he believed the man. Few had earned his trust, a fluid thing, but his top informant maintained a reliability rare in their realm of cutthroats and sellouts. Besides, the man ran a solid joint—Port and Porter was one of the few bastions for his kind that hadn’t been outed by the cops at some point. He sucked in another drag and leaned forward to ash into the nearest coffee cup littering the desk. Grif peered inside. Crap, he’d sprinkled ash in a half-filled mug.

  “Locksley.” John’s voice came loud and clear through the speaker. They always spoke through the comms in code names, and the Outlaws had dubbed him Locksley from the moment they heard of his vendetta and resulting mission to steal from the rich and give to the poor.

  Grif shot up, his cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. His shoulders braced for action, even though he sat behind a keyboard, not out in the field. He pressed on the silver comm button beside the console setup.

  “What is it, J-man?”

  “We’re coming in hot. Need you to secure the perimeter.”

  “Aces. Taking care of the problem as we speak.”

  Grif didn’t roll from his seat, he leapt. He nearly bit his cigarette in half with how tight his jaw clenched. Every damn time. Tuesday was cursed, yet his crew insisted on running jobs that day. He headed down the main hallway to open the door to what most would call a linen closet—but for his Outlaws, this was their personal armory. The crew kept everything in there from Sig Sauers to Barretts, hanging them on the walls, packing them into trunks. Anything they might need on a job was here.

  And right now, he needed his trusty Barrett M82.

  If Grif was a betting man, he’d place his money on a failed gig. Tails only happened when you fucked up, big-time.

  The Sunset Ruby was an ambitious steal, but the owner, Robert Davies, had become one of the most important men in the United States in terms of wealth accumulated. And he’d also left blo
odstains over almost every inch of this country. Grif had been tracking the man for years, but he didn’t think they were ready to take him on yet.

  However, when one of his prized possessions happened to be floating through town and Gangland’s finest, Marco Nevarra, hired them to steal the exquisite ruby? They couldn’t pass up the chance, damn the risk.

  Grif checked over his baby, a beaut of a sniper rifle, and made sure she was locked and loaded. Then he headed farther down the hallway to the back room of their penthouse, the main area where they all hung out. They’d taken a high floor apartment for a reason, one overlooking all angles of the city—their place made for the perfect fortress. Most times, they approached through the back entrance of the building, by way of the network of alleys surrounding this area. Every aspect about their abode had been considered when they picked the spot. Grif strode into the room and set to work cracking the windows open. The brisk air that flooded in carried the razor-blade-cold edge of a Chicago winter wind.

  Ash trailed off the end of his cigarette, flecks staining the tan carpet. Alanna would wring his neck for making a mess again. He smudged at them with the edge of his combat boot as he crouched in front of the window, settling in to get a good vantage point. His sniper rifle rested on the portable mount they kept there. The edge of one of their couches brushed against his thigh every time he shifted, but he didn’t have the time to move the damn thing.

  The city stretched out before him from their seventh-floor view, a maze of skyscrapers, alleyways, and narrow streets. He searched for any tip-offs—erratic pursuit, or the subtler bystanders who would mill about the area, waiting.

  This time of day, businessmen trotted along the sidewalks, clutching tight to their leather briefcases as they hustled to head home from work earlier than the rest of the scabs. Grif spat his spent cigarette out the window and settled into a deeper crouch. He peered through the sight of his Barrett. The main sprawl lay clear of his group of vagabonds. Scarlet worked offsite anyway, and J-man would be blending into the first crowd he found.

  Grif searched for his shadows, Tucker and Alanna.

  If the masters of stealth had caught tails, they’d well and truly fucked this job sideways.

  He tilted the scope a fraction to peer down one of the alleys leading toward their penthouse building, a favorite spot of Alanna’s. Flickers of movement snagged his attention as two figures clung close to the layered brick walls, blending in with the afternoon shade.

  Bingo.

  He backtracked, using the sight of his rifle as he traced farther down the alley to the intersection they’d come from. Three hulking guys in dark blue uniforms strode through the street faster than a local heading home, but not with the frantic hurry of a random on the run. He’d been in this game too long to not pick out hired security. He aimed the muzzle of his Barrett toward them, following their movements as they stormed through the same alley Alanna and Tucker had crossed.

  His finger traced the trigger as he waited for a shout, a speed up, any sign he needed to act. Grif preferred avoiding casualties, but he wasn’t naïve enough to hesitate.

  His heartbeat amped to the thump-thump-thump he’d grown familiar with, and the tense breath caught in his throat. Every time he zeroed in on a target, the waiting began. He didn’t bother tracking Alanna and Tucker—the reactions of these guards were all he needed to gauge.

  They continued through the alleyway, a bit faster than before. Gravel and dust kicked up where they went. He tensed against the trigger. Any moment.

  A drop of sweat crawled down his temple, iced by the breeze filtering through.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  The secret bell they’d installed to warn when someone approached the apartment went off. The door had fingerprint metrics to make sure only the Outlaws could enter. Grif’s gaze didn’t leave his marks even as the door creaked and the thump of footprints followed. The sound increased in volume, traveling down the hallway behind him.

  “You’re going to lord this over Alanna and Tuck for the next century, aren’t you,” Grif said, not glancing back. Based on the heaviness of the tread, the arrival was none other than their resident con man, John Smith. Grif squinted as he shifted the grip of the Barrett along the padded mount. The security guards continued marching through the alley, straight past their penthouse without even casting a glance to the backlit sign. All too fast, the guards disappeared onto the main streets. Grif caught the glimpse of the uniforms as the guys ducked into the nearest unmarked vehicle that pulled up to the sidewalk.

  “Where’s Scarlet?” Grif asked.

  “She’s packing up still,” John said. “I told her to take the long way home to avoid any trackers. Alanna and Tuck soaked the heat.”

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  Their alarm went off, and this time when their front door opened, two sets of footsteps followed. Grif’s shoulders relaxed, and he stepped away from the window, pulling the barrel of his rifle inside. John approached to help close the windows. Grif clicked the safety on before shifting the mount aside and leaning his Barrett against the wall. He shook his numbed fingers out, the circulation returning with fiery pinpricks.

  “Hey, boss,” Alanna approached from the hallway. “We fucked up.” The woman was all sharp angles, her plucked eyebrows precise enough to slice, cheekbones like a declaration, and obsidian eyes that bored into him. She wore her typical job gear, a black tank top and leggings, a strap belt around her waist filled with her arsenal of tools, and thick combat boots. She kept her nearly black hair pulled into a tight bun, and a constant frown creased her brow.

  “What Alanna is trying to say is the whole thing was a setup,” Tuck said, running a hand through his thick umber curls. The wiry guy crossed his arms, wearing a similar all black getup to his partner-in-stealth’s. “Fairly certain Nevarra struck a deal with Davies so we’d get handed over on a silver platter.”

  “What Alanna said is we fucked up,” she repeated, shooting him a dirty look. “We should’ve never given Nevarra as much cred as we did. But we’re out one Sunset Ruby and owe the mafia a hefty sum.”

  Grif simmered inside, restraining his curses. He maintained a mask, because someone needed to lead this ragged band of misfits. “Where’s the Sunset Ruby?” he asked, trying to suss out the one-two-threes of what had happened. He’d already begun walking down the hall toward the foyer, not questioning that the rest would follow.

  “The alarms got tripped independently while they were inside the vault,” John interjected, striding alongside him with his hands in his pockets. The man had broad enough shoulders to make an impression but possessed the blue eyes and blond hair to blend, one of the many reasons he was their best con man. “Someone had it out for us from the start. The second the alarms went off, the Sunset Ruby was the first thing evacuated from the exhibit, like they’d been tipped off.”

  Grif let out an exhale. Black days and bleaker times. He should’ve anticipated this shit, but they’d all been puppy-dog eager to sink their teeth into quarry from Davies. “So now we owe Nevarra his fee.” The mafia head didn’t tolerate failure, and a steep fee had been involved in taking this job in the first place.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  Scarlet had arrived. Their resident genderfluid hacker strolled in through the door, her crimson lipstick popping and her silver heels higher than practical. She carried her laptop bag slung on her right side like always.

  “Hey Grif,” she said, flashing him a dazzler of a grin. “The whole operation went bust.”

  He scrubbed his palms against his forehead. “Mind explaining what’s hilarious then?”

  “You missed Tuck faceplant on the floor mid-mission. Priceless stuff. I recorded it for posterity’s sake.” Scarlet grinned even wider, and several strands of her chin-length hair escaped the bobby pins. Tucker let out a groan. “You can bet I’m going to put that shit on replay. Oh, also, I’ve got a trace on whoever activated the alarm. We might not catch them today, but we’re not going down without
a second swing.”

  “Good job, sweetheart,” he said, skimming his fingers through his hair. “For now, we’ll work on obtaining the fee to fish us out of trouble with Nevarra.”

  Looked like the lead on Torres Industries wasn’t just part of his vendetta.

  This job had become a necessity.

  Two

  Dan looked to the door of his office again. Philip Brennerman was fifteen minutes late.

  Their CFO and his father’s longtime friend had been the one making his transition to CEO of Torres Industries the hardest. The man kept treating him like a kid and refused to respect his time or position. Brennerman’s brand of snide comments and chiding remarks made it clear he wanted to spit in his coffee. Dan might’ve been in charge for a year now, but every day of this job tore away more and more of his hope for humanity. He scanned over the figures on the stack of papers in front of him.

  Each time he went through these, he kept finding discrepancies in different accounts. Minor ones, but his brain worked better with numbers than with people. The fluctuations in the reports seemed normal on the surface, but something was too regular about them, too even. The main employees who could influence the financials were all upper management, which meant he needed to conduct his investigation from the top down.

  Every creak caused him to glance to the door. He sank into his leather seat, the change of position not shifting the unease in his stomach. One of the changes he’d made in taking over was that he wouldn’t allow upper management’s abuse of company funds, which his father had let slide in the past. Mostly because Torres Sr. was one of the main participants.