Midnight Heist (Outlaws Book 1)

by Katherine McIntyre

  “You’ve got whatever you need,” Vanessa said, stalking over to the door. She pushed it shut with a click and turned around to face them. Her voice lowered, and a chill raced down Dan’s spine. “I’ve been doing some digging on my own.”

  Whatever digging his sister had done, it sounded more like she’d tugged out skeletons, not worms.

  “Hope you’ve been more successful than me,” Dan said. “All I’ve reaped is more angry meetings with our board members.”

  Leo shuddered. “Don’t know how you deal with all those people.”

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the head of IT?”

  Leo snagged a pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. “Exactly. None of us do any face-to-face talks.”

  Vanessa clapped her palms on the surface of his desk, commanding their attention. “This plan of ours needs to stay between us three, you got that?” She let out a sigh and tugged at a strand of hair that had slipped out of her bun. She always straightened her appearance when nerves rode her. “I looked into some of the people who had been fired from the company—I was searching for any situations involving the higher-ups and what our recourse might be.”

  Dan stopped midstride and he turned to face her, hands in his pockets. “What did you find, Nessa?”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “You want to talk unsettling patterns? More than a couple of our ex-employees have disappeared. We’re talking never showed up for work and six weeks later were found dead in Lake Michigan.”

  His temperature plummeted. He didn’t like a lot of things about his father—the sexist, homophobic comments topping the list. However, the man had raised him, never raised a fist to him, and made sure he was well taken care of. Any time he thought about ditching this position and braving the family Cold War to follow, he knew his father wouldn’t be the only one he would disappoint. The rest of the extended family’s response would be crushing, and Dan loved his mom enough to deal with this bullshit.

  However, would his own dad condone murder?

  “And you think someone here might be involved?” he asked, unable to ask the real question reflected in her eyes.

  “If there’s large sums of money being skimmed off the top or moved around, then things could get ugly, fast.” Vanessa unbuttoned her collar, and a moment later she rebuttoned it again, her fingers moving with restless energy.

  Dan, on the other hand, planted his feet, glued to the ground like he’d been bolted into place. His date over the weekend felt sepia-toned and faded, like some memory from earlier times, as if he’d aged a century this morning alone.

  “And here I thought I’d get bored working corporate,” Leo drawled as he spun the pen around again. “You Torreses know how to keep things interesting.”

  Dan skimmed his fingers through his hair as he let out a sigh. He met Vanessa’s eyes and nodded. “You keep following your lead on that. And Leo, you follow the financials. I think it’s time I had a talk with my father.”

  Nine

  After Nevarra’s phone call had simmered in the back of his mind all day, there was no place Grif wanted to be more than out in the field. He’d rather feel productive than jump rope, run laps in the streets, or scan the intel he’d nabbed for the thousandth time while he waited for the meeting at Torres Industries.

  He flexed his gloved hands again as he strode through the streets with Alanna. Tuck enjoyed a well-deserved break while the mouthier of the duo showed him the spots they’d located. In this part of the city, the monoliths dominated the terrain, their inky shadows the perfect breeding ground for beatdowns and blood splatters.

  Grif tapped his fingers along the side of his thigh, his arm brushing against the handle of one of the six different knives he kept on his person most times. The solid weight of his Glock rested in his hidden holster, something he never left the penthouse without, though he often switched locations.

  “What’s got you surlier than normal, boss?” Alanna asked. Her ponytail whipped back and forth with the jaunty way she walked. In her black hoodie and fleece leggings that clung to her muscular legs, she didn’t look too out of place. They both attempted to blend with street casual for this foray rather than outfitting for intense climbs.

  “Lincoln Zoo’s in mourning—they lost Sparky the penguin today,” he commented as they strode down the street. Despite Alanna’s height—at least a foot shorter—she managed to keep pace with him.

  “Well, bully for the Lincoln Zoo, but I wasn’t asking about them,” Alanna continued with all the tact of a knockout punch.

  Grif sniffed. “Maybe I was attached to Sparky.”

  Alanna snorted.

  They strode through a stretch of trees that broke through the dominating asphalt and concrete littering this section of the city. The feeble elms stood a couple of feet taller than he did. Like everything and everyone in Chicago, they fought hard to survive.

  “Since you’re playing the evasion game, I’m going to slice right through the bullshit. How fucked are we from the failed job?” Alanna asked. The shadows sharpened her dark eyes, her elegant nose, and her defined lips. The shadows stained her skin purple.

  Grif’s stomach twisted. His Outlaws were the sort of loyal he didn’t deserve. Except, he couldn’t just open his mouth without the cascade of shame tumbling out. They shouldn’t have gotten themselves into this mess in the first place. He should’ve known they were trying to leap a skyscraper with targeting Robert Davies. He should’ve kept them from going on the stupid Sunset Ruby heist.

  If he hadn’t been glazed over and hungry for the chance to stick it to Davies, maybe he would’ve. Grif tugged a cigarette from his pack and followed through with the Zippo. As of late, he made a lot of bad calls, thinking with his heart not his smarts. He sucked back the first drag from his cigarette and let the smoke filter through his lips. The nicotine was a hollow kiss of relief.

  “Nevarra’s calling and making empty threats,” he mentioned, tapping the stray ash from the end of his cigarette. He couldn’t look her way, not while the shame burned through him like this. “He gave us two weeks, and we’ll pay up in two weeks.”

  “In other words, we can’t fuck up this job.” Alanna reached out and flicked him in the side. “I know we messed up the Sunset Ruby heist, but this should be as easy as first position, Locksley.”

  “Considering I never took ballet, first position might not be a breeze,” he shot back.

  “Five-year-olds can do it,” Alanna responded, keeping pace, her strides fast and furious.

  Grif arched an eyebrow, looking her way. “You know better than to taunt the gods of chance like that. You’re just asking for trouble now.”

  “Don’t want things to get boring,” Alanna responded, strolling ahead of him as she tipped her head up to look ahead.

  The Aon Center loomed over them alongside the other skyscrapers of this stretch. A street trailed down the side with its arched, marked covering, in case folks didn’t know who owned this block. The white monstrosity gleamed in the spotlights marking it out, part of the difficulty they’d have if they needed to make a fast exit or any sort of high-up extraction. The sight of these buildings never failed to summon memories, and with the sheer number of skyscrapers throughout Chicago, he was a masochist for staying.

  His neck prickled the closer they got to the building. A few quick rounds were all they needed. However, his gaze strayed and stuck to the repair vehicle camped out on the side of the road, headlights switched off. Alanna mumbled some directions he should’ve been paying attention to, but his focus lasered in on the van. Two figures sat in the front seat. As much as they tried to stay inconspicuous, the way their silhouettes shifted tipped them off.

  “Careful,” Grif murmured, keeping his voice low. “I don’t think we’re the only ones scoping out this building.”

  Alanna’s pace slowed, but to her credit she didn’t gape in the direction of the van. His Outlaws were better than that. They’d been heading that way in the first place,
so any quick-step detour now would seem suspicious. Grif’s hands slipped to his waistband, and his palm rested on the handle of his pistol.

  The closer they got to the van, the more the prickle of awareness grew stronger. Guaranteed, whoever sat in there watched them approach. Grif took another drag from his cigarette before casting a glance to Alanna. She gave the slightest nod and continued down the sidewalk a step or two ahead. The shadow of the Aon Center fell over them, blocking out the natural light of the moon that mingled with the streetlights. Grif tapped more ash on the sidewalk while he glanced to the Aon Center, as if he didn’t have the guys in the van in his peripheral.

  Whatever these guys waited around here for, their loitering couldn’t spell good news for the Outlaws. Coincidence was for innocents and suckers.

  “So where are these routes I’m supposed to be looking at?” Grif asked, feigning casual conversation as they stepped closer and closer. The folks in the van could get up to whatever hinky business they wanted to as long as they weren’t planning a heist on Torres Industries.

  Alanna looked to the Center and her gaze trailed to the higher floors. Of course, Torres Industries would have to be near the top—maybe even the fiftieth or sixtieth floors. Then she scanned back to the midsection. That was the best escape route.

  The stares of whoever sat in the van bore down on him, their scrutiny like the whisper of fall breezes, causing leaves to skitter and goose bumps to rise.

  Closer. Close enough if he glanced to the left, he’d be staring right at whoever looked out the windows. Grif’s fingers brushed against the handle of his Glock again. Almost past them, and then they could finish the walkthrough and cut a scenic retreat along the Riverfront.

  The creak of a door tipped him off.

  When the van doors flew open, Grif bolted. The two guys who’d been sitting idle in the van leapt out. His Glock was out of his waistband by the time he moved another pace forward. A glimpse of the fuckers was all he needed. The broad-shouldered pipsqueak with the scowl was a new arrival, but he recognized the sallow face, skeletal cheekbones, and sour eyes of Roger Doncaster.

  He didn’t need the flash of the heat they packed to know he and Alanna were made.

  “Long time no see, Doncaster,” he called before vaulting onto the raised walls around the bike racks. A terrace surrounded the Aon Center on this side, featuring concrete interlays, rows of trees, and pathways for pedestrians. He planned on taking full advantage. Grif palmed his pistol in one hand, but he lifted his middle finger with the other. Alanna raced past him, sailing across the narrow walkway.

  “Should’ve figured Outlaw scum would be sniffing around here,” Doncaster called from the sidewalk, the safety of his pistol clicking off.

  “Let’s be real, Donny,” Grif shouted back as he continued to race across the surface of the raised wall. “You can’t get your own job if your life depended on it. Like always, you’re begging for scraps.”

  Pipsqueak let out a low growl.

  “Left.” Grif gave the command as they reached the end of the raised walls. To the right lay the path closer to the entrance, while the left held the terrace, tiers of manicured shrubs, and dainty little trees about to get riddled with bullets. Alanna hurtled toward the trees, blurring with the sort of speed that got her nicknamed the Shadow in the first place. With his height and heft, he could never blend like that, but he sure as hell could duck. His feet slammed onto the mulch, spraying pieces as he slipped behind the first elm.

  After he’d entered the Chicago underworld in his late teens and picked a king’s share of fights, Grif had learned a valuable lesson. Getting shot at couldn’t be taught in textbooks. However, face enough assholes with anger problems and Rugers, and eventually the lessons stuck. A subtle current in the air, thick like the volts of a Taser, danced through. Tension smeared the space between them.

  The first bullet zipped through the air. Pipsqueak blew his load early.

  Grif ducked behind the row of spindly elms, his fingers grazing the bark of the tree he used for cover. The bullet whizzed a foot behind him, sailing through the air until it thudded against the building. He didn’t stop to inspect. Doncaster and Pipsqueak still raced along the sidewalk, trying to keep up with them. Grif sailed past the first, the second, and the third maple in the lineup. Alanna wove in zigzags around them, so short she couldn’t be spotted beyond the thick shrubs on the second level.

  If Doncaster was on the scene, Luka must have spilled the details. He’d promised Grif this job belonged to him alone, and he’d worked with the guy for so long he’d started taking him on his word. Fool mistake. Only a matter of time before the universe doled the haymaker punch, reminding him that at the end of the day, no one could be trusted.

  Black days and bleaker times.

  Grif heard the stutter of the footsteps from farther behind him, and he ducked. Based on the source of the sound, they’d abandoned the sidewalk and decided to follow them directly.

  Another bullet zipped by, this one burying inside the last maple he’d raced past. Splinters of bark spattered out in every direction. A second followed suit, close enough the breeze ruffled his sleeve. His breath snagged in his throat. Pipsqueak might be shoddy on his aim, but Doncaster wasn’t.

  The walkway up ahead stretched to the opposite end of the Aon Center before hitting the highway, where the lineup of flags rippled in the icy breeze. Alanna threaded from tree to tree like she was sewing a quilt. Shadow had switched from mere pursuit to full-on parkour, vaulting over railings to land onto the next rail, and from there, her feet barely hit the ground before she looped around the next set of manicured shrubs.

  His slow ass would have to play distraction.

  Grif crouched behind the last elm in the lineup, his finger on the trigger of his Glock. He set his sights on Pipsqueak, who raced ahead of Doncaster, his pistol arm wavering around like the town drunk. The two of them cut down the center line of the path between the trees, shrubs, and elevated concrete.

  Bang, bang, motherfucker.

  Grif squeezed the trigger, but he didn’t wait for the shot to land. The next of Doncaster’s bullets zipped toward him, death on the breeze.

  It tunneled into the ground beside him. The breath he’d been holding escaped, but his feet moved before his mind connected.

  Alanna had reached the road. She sailed across the intersection, her ponytail trailing behind her like the flags she’d just bypassed. She moved like a blur, whipping between the cars stopped at the light. A drop of sweat trickled down his neck, freezing there as he raced, faster, faster. His heart thundered to the point he couldn’t hear anything else. The opposite light flicked from green to yellow. Any minute, and he’d be stuck on this side with Doncaster and his shitty lackey.

  Time to soar.

  Grif vaulted forward, his rubber soles inches above the concrete as he bounded across the remaining sidewalk. He lunged onto the crosswalk. Not fast enough. One of the cars stuck out ahead of the pack, a little Fiat. Grif’s calves tensed as he sprang ahead. His shoes slammed onto the hood for one second, two.

  Grif pushed off to sail through the air, flying over the remaining stretch of crosswalk.

  Horns blared behind him.

  The light turned green. The cars squealed as they surged forward.

  He chanced a single glance back. Doncaster and his lackey stood on the opposite side of the crosswalk, the full force of Chicago traffic rushing between them. Even with their pistols hidden behind their backs, they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if given the chance. Grif didn’t plan on offering one.

  Grif caught sight of Alanna’s disappearing form and bolted to the split in the streets at the left, following her. One of the large walkways narrowed and wove between two more buildings, which would give them cover. Grif bounded off the ledges surrounding the mulched trees, using the leverage to soar faster across the pavement. The wind rifled through his hair, and the icy breeze stung his cheeks as he raced along the path. The shadows swept in to devour h
im the moment he got close to the looming buildings.

  He glanced back. The light had just turned red.

  Grif ran after Alanna so fast his calves burned. This should’ve been a quick job, an easy job. As of late, though, Lady Luck had decided to spin them around and spit in their faces, so of course Doncaster was involved. He disappeared past the two buildings, which placed him out of view from the road. Up ahead, Alanna darted into the first alley past the towers to the right. He swerved to follow her, and together, they plunged into the maze of side streets that comprised Chicago proper.

  Grif closed the door to his bedroom, and his shoulders finally relaxed.

  The rest of the Outlaws had lobbed questions like hand grenades when he and Alanna burst through the front door, shoulders heaving and dripping with sweat. He had just lifted a hand, muttered “Doncaster,” and headed for his room. Before the rest of the crew started dumping their opinions on him, he needed to run some damage control. This job should’ve been aces. Luka should’ve been someone they could trust after all those years of loyalty. However, once the job got leaked to other sources, their easy payday evaporated like gasoline on the concrete in the middle of summer.

  Grif peeled off his shirt, which stuck to his skin with the sheer amount of sweat after their parkour adventure through Chicago central. He flung the sopping fabric to the floor and kicked off his pants a moment later. He flopped into his bed and shot off a single-word text to Luka: Doncaster. It was the only one the bastard deserved.

  The sweat began to dry in a thin film across his skin, and Grif ran a hand through his sodden hair. He needed a fucking shower. Heaven and hell, after the past couple of days, he needed a lobotomy.

  His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen, expecting some form of roundabout from Luka.