by Sarah Andre
“Vic, she’s making too much noise.”
“Fuck it. My great-uncle hates delays.” Victor spun her around and pushed hard. Teeth gritted in fury, eyes glassy with hate, she plowed into Sean’s chest and bounced off with a whoof.
“Move out,” Victor barked. They trooped single file through a large storage room, weaving between boxed items stacked on carts, ready to be loaded onto the van. The two men dropped back, and Victor led them to a door. He knocked a rapid beat and, at a muffled sound, threw it open. Adyton’s moldy-smelling office lay beyond. Victor shoved Sean over the threshold first. The old man sat at his desk, black-framed glasses on the tip of his nose, scribbling something in Arabic.
Gretch halted next to Sean, her eyes searching his. He shook his head. He had no hope to give. Her brow furrowed as she looked away, and before she clamped her jaw, her chin trembled.
Victor closed the door on the other two men and stood in front of it, gun aimed casually at the floor. Adyton signed his name with a flourish and glanced up.
“Ah, Miss Allen.” Adyton smiled thinly. “You look a bit…different. And Mr. Quinn.”
Sean blinked at the correct use of his name. “When did you know I wasn’t Bixby?”
“When a Suburban very clearly belonging to the Feds screeched to a halt outside my door.”
About a second after they met on Tuesday. “Then why the ruse of returning the next day to discuss our services? Why did I hoof it all the way to Knox for the statuette?”
“That’s information you don’t need to know.”
“My brother is FBI. He was in that Suburban.”
“I knew that within a few hours on Tuesday as well.” Adyton removed his glasses and folded them. The merry old man was long gone. A ruthlessness carved his features. “You see, I know Walter Morrow quite well.”
Sean swallowed his panic. Walter’s pristine reputation had cloaked a massive operation of blood artifacts right underneath his employees’ noses. Surely if he was in bed with Adyton, it gave them purchase. “Gretch is innocent in all this, and Walter knows it. Let her go.”
Adyton laughed. “She lied from the moment she opened her mouth in here. It was you we had questions about. The blank look on your face when you came in to collect Miss Allen on Tuesday made me think you might be innocent, in which case I was willing to let you continue with the restoration. Instead you signed your death warrant by spewing more lies the next day. Quite unfortunate that a federal agent tailed you and Victor to the warehouse.”
“They probably still are,” Sean replied, scrounging for anything that would slow this train wreck. “They know all about the document charging sixty million for artifacts worth a hundred thousand, so they’ve got you on money laundering. I doubt you want kidnapping charges on top of that.”
Gretch stepped closer to Adyton. Victor watched her lazily. “Did you kill Dwayne?” she asked in a steely voice.
Adyton shrugged and steepled his fingers. His lack of surprise and silence were clear admissions.
“Just tell me why,” she whispered, her chin quivering again. “He was my oldest friend. You aren’t going to let us live, so why not tell us?”
“And why use an ISIS method?” Sean asked. “We know you’re not. You’re the Syrian president’s cousin. Your black market profits support his chemical warfare against innocent people.”
Gretch gasped. In the chaos of the week, Sean had forgotten to share Jace’s revelation about Adyton’s connection to Bashar al-Assad. Unfortunately, with her arms behind her back, the gasp showed off her assets, and Victor stared with open lust. This was going to be a huge problem. Sean ground his teeth and tried to flex his wrists another millimeter apart.
“You’re a heinous beast,” Gretch shouted, which startled the old man into a series of rapid blinks. “How do you sleep at night?”
“Quite easily, Miss Allen.” Adyton’s features sharpened into suppressed anger as he primly folded the document he’d just been signing. “I am a proud nationalist living in a country I hate, to support one I love.” He began stuffing the letter into an addressed envelope, but a quiver in his hand made it a clumsy task. He slapped the items aside. “Your presidents have systematically supported the overthrow of Middle Eastern rulers since Victor here was a babe. One by one the countries have fallen like dominos, citizens initially rejoicing, believing that they too will have cars for each family member, televisions in every room, liberation for all.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Alas, we are a different kind of people. Every single nation is much worse off because of U.S. policy and the destruction you left in your wake.”
“And destroying your own ancient culture restores order?” Sean blurted.
“You need not preach my culture’s history to me!” the old man roared. His rheumy eyes grew bright. “If I have to sell ancient baubles to your greedy society to fight all the factions that have been freed like rats, so be it. I think my ancestors would approve—even offer up their tablets and vases and jewelry. Syria was an ally of the United States. We are founding members of the United Nations. You turned your back on a regime that saw peace for years.”
“But Dwayne,” Gretch insisted. “He was harmless.”
“There is nothing harmless about a gatekeeper interfering with fund transfers from American-Syrians for Syrians.” Adyton’s voice lowered to a growl. “He had no business freezing our accounts. Do you realize how many thousands of people would die on the other side of the world at the stroke of this one man’s pen? His death was celebrated.”
Gretch stepped back, her face draining of color. She clamped her lips shut as her chest rose and fell. Was she going to vomit? Sean dragged his gaze away and steeled himself against the need to comfort her. Here was his opportunity. He gauged everyone’s positions again. Adyton seated to the right and feeble; even with their hands tied, he couldn’t physically stop them from walking out of here. Sean required only one shot at Victor, who conveniently gripped his gun way too loosely, but inconveniently, he was on the other side of Gretch in the tiny office. If Gretch distracted these two by throwing up, Sean would lunge left, execute a front sweep behind Victor’s knees, and head-butt the old man. Then what?
“Accounts don’t unfreeze just because you butchered Dwayne,” Sean said, eyeing Gretch again. The sickly pallor was receding, damn it. “Another banker will step right into his position, probably already has.”
The old man shrugged. “We were able to eliminate Mr. Collins before the freeze went into effect, and I’m happy to report we withdrew our funds from that particular bank with a lesson learned. We’ll be much more diligent in our methods of transferring money in the future.”
“It’s too late. The FBI is closing in.” Sean dredged deep for a casual tone to hide the lie. “Your operation is finished.”
“If the FBI intervenes, it will be extremely detrimental to the city of Chicago. We are prepared to behave like ISIS, as you have already noticed with the unfortunate demise of Mr. Collins. He isn’t the first. We watch in amusement as ISIS gleefully accepts credit for stabbings and bombings in these American cities that they had no hand in.”
Sweat broke out on Sean’s brow. “Then let me make a call and warn them not to go near the warehouse.”
“They’ll know soon enough. And now we have the two of you. You could say we are in a position to finally step out of the shadows. We have all the negotiating power.”
“Negotiate for what?”
Adyton glared at him like a stern schoolmaster. “For the U.S. to withdraw all military interest from Syria.”
Sean laughed without humor. “Yeah, I don’t think the two of us are that important.”
“I agree, Mr. Quinn. You both are mere pawns.”
Sean swallowed the absurd urge to correct him. Gretch was no one’s pawn.
The old man motioned in the direction of the street. “We’ve spent all night placing pipe bombs in public containers around downtown. The more your government chooses not to engage in negotiations, the more trou
ble we are caused by police or agencies looking for my artifacts or for you, the more bombs we detonate.” Adyton spread his hands. “Naturally, the death of many Chicagoans will be on your heads if you two attempt to escape or alert the authorities.”
The old man stood slowly and stuffed his spectacles in his breast pocket. “That being said, untie them when they get to the attic, Victor. I am confident they won’t try to escape. We’ll finish this at dark.” He white-knuckled his cane and gestured to the bakery. “This way.”
“Finish what?” Gretch sputtered. “You just said you needed us for negotiations.”
“If you knew anything about chess, you would know pawns are sacrificed for long-term strategy. Your officials will not take us seriously until many pawns are sacrificed.” Adyton motioned wearily to his great-nephew. “Go with Victor.”
“No,” Gretch said through barely parted lips. “I’m not going anywhere with him.”
Victor smirked, opening the door. “Like you have a choice, babe.” The other two men filled the doorway. Sean scanned the new fight parameters. Three men, three guns, and an old man to dispatch—all without the use of his arms. Highly improbable. And now every attempt to save themselves would blow innocent people to smithereens.
37
Jace strode down the hall toward Conference Room Three.
“Don’t interrupt their meeting,” Margo called, hurrying from behind. “We can interview him when he comes out.”
“Fuck that.” He spun around so abruptly she halted an inch before smacking into him. He leaned into her personal space. “And fuck you too.”
She stiffened under his aggressive stance. “Back off, Quinn. It’s not what you think.”
“Why would you tell anyone where Sean and Gretch were hiding?”
She blushed and waved her hands. “Joe Taylor isn’t even on our team. Why would he have anything to do with their disappearance?”
“I don’t know,” he sneered. “Let’s go ask the dweeb.”
“We can’t inter—”
Jace burst through the conference room door, ignoring the startled glances as he scanned the members of another joint task force. The contract anthropologist was down near the end, too far to lunge at or grab without interference. Jace pointed to him. “You. Where are Sean and Gretch?”
Taylor had enough survival skills to look terrified. “Why would I know?”
Wrong answer. The correct one would’ve been: Who are Sean and Gretch?
“What’s this about?” SSA Garcia demanded from the head of the long table.
“Sorry for the disruption.” Margo’s gaze skipped to Joe, and she flashed him a warning plea. “If we could have a moment of Joe’s time.”
A moment. As if this interruption was frivolous. The rage boiling inside Jace made it difficult to breathe. Garcia frowned as he scanned all three faces. “What for?”
“Our contract anthropologist has gone missing—”
“My brother,” Jace growled. “And his coworker. The security camera shows a probable abduction; their knapsacks were discarded in shrubbery.” He had Garcia’s undivided attention. “And only three people knew their location. Me, her, and him.” He jabbed a finger at Taylor again.
Garcia’s confusion grew; who could blame him? That someone with Margo’s looks and poise would consider Joe Taylor a catch was unbelievable. That pillow talk with that balding, scrawny geek could lead to Sean’s disappearance was fantastical. But Jace couldn’t care less about the revolting secret love affair. He needed answers. He jerked his head at Joe. “Hallway. Now.”
Garcia stood and motioned to Joe. “If you’d all excuse us for a moment.” He eyed Jace and Margo sharply. “My office.”
Once inside, Garcia assigned chairs with a sparing glance. Jace was placed on the opposite side of the room from Joe, who got the chair closest to the door. Margo sat primly in the middle, her face a study in dread. This was one hundred percent her fault, and she knew it.
“Go ahead,” Garcia said quietly to her when he was seated.
“We’re wrapping up our smuggling case; have the locations under surveillance, phones tapped, proof of money laundering, and a warehouse jammed with looted artifacts. Yesterday the suspect pulled his assets before we could freeze them, and the banker who’d blown the whistle was beheaded. Now two citizens who may have knowledge of this terrorist ring are missing.”
Garcia directed his attention to Jace. “Is this the same brother from last night and the mob?”
Jace nodded a tight affirmative.
“He seems to get himself right into the thick of things,” the SSA murmured.
No. He doesn’t. He prefers his own company and should never have been brought back on board. Jace glared at Joe. “How do you know Adyton?”
Taylor rubbed his palms on his thighs. His face was shiny with sweat. “He’s an acquaintance from the art world.”
“He’s more than an acquaintance if you’re spilling FBI secrets. Why the hell would you tell him where to find Sean and Gretch?”
The bespectacled man gulped in a cartoonish way. His gaze flitted to each of them, unable to land and focus.
“Mr. Taylor?” Garcia prompted.
“I want immunity.”
“Oh, Christ,” Margo mumbled.
Garcia considered him for a long moment, his eyes glacier cold. “Depends on what you’ve got.”
“I provide clean provenances for him once in a while.”
Margo lurched in her seat with a gasp. Another look flashed between them—his apologetic, hers murderous. She closed her eyes and hung her head. After Sean quit the FBI, it had been Margo who’d hired Taylor. Had they already been in a relationship? Had Taylor come aboard specifically to spy for Adyton, or to be closer to Margo?
“Where are Quinn’s brother and the woman?” Garcia asked.
Taylor spread his hands. “There must be some mistake. Adyton is well respected in the art community and very generous with scholarships to budding artists—”
“His banker was beheaded,” Jace ground out. Fucking scholarships? “Can we stay on point? When did you call him, and what did you say?”
Joe blew out an aggravated breath. “Last Saturday you picked up an artifact at O’Hare, and Adyton knew it was a matter of time before he landed on your radar. He asked for my help to redirect your attention elsewhere, but I wasn’t assigned to the task force. All I’ve done is keep him informed on your progress.”
“So he knows his warehouse is under surveillance, his phones are tapped, and we’ve taken the bank records?” Margo asked in disbelief.
“The old man has been playing us all week,” Jace said. “Why? And why take Sean and Gretch?”
Taylor adjusted his glasses, warming to his role as informant. “Probably for leverage. Adyton knew too late that he’d handed over his Quran to a restoration firm that was suddenly helping the FBI. He also knew if he tried to pull the project, you’d confiscate it, so he shortened the time frame, hoping the firm would refuse his ridiculous request and hand the artifact back.” He turned to Jace, lip curled in scorn. “Instead they assigned your perfect brother to perform a miracle.”
Jace jerked to his feet. Sitting was no longer an option. Talking was no longer on the table either. He faced Garcia. “Plan of action?” The man had one chance at this, and if he pulled a let’s-gather-the-facts approach, then the FBI was not a career Jace could endure a second longer.
The SSA studied him for a long moment before turning his attention to Margo. “The locations that are under surveillance. Has anyone seen anything suspicious?”
“None at the warehouse. A van arrived at the bakery half an hour ago and is being loaded with goods. The Days of Olde shop should be opening just about now.”
Garcia nodded. “Inga Harvey is fresh off an assignment. I’ll send her to speak to Adyton.”
Margo straightened. “I should go. Despite this setback, I’m head of the investigation.”
“I could run circles around your le
adership,” Jace ground out. “All we’ve done is sit on our asses and collect data. I’m going.”
Garcia opened his mouth, but Margo bolted out her chair. “This isn’t a clandestine, no-personal-accountability adventure. We work as a team, gathering irrefutable evidence for federal prosecutors.” She jabbed a finger into Jace’s chest. “Your lack of impulse control and disregard for authority have been detrimental right from the start. You hired your brother without my knowledge or authority. That’s what got us into this mess, Jace.”
“I beg to differ, Special Agent Hathaway,” he snarled. “Your inability to keep your legs and your mouth shut are entirely to blame.”
Margo’s eyes flared. Garcia gestured to the empty seats and yelled, “This isn’t a goddamn reality show. Sit back down.”
“Sitting is all we do on this task force,” Jace said, clenching his fists. “I request permission to go on the interview. Sir.”
Garcia paused, and Jace held his breath. This whole career-after-the-career-of-his-dreams came down to this moment. He’d brought in a two-hundred-million-dollar painting the FBI had searched for these last thirty years. He’d saved five little boys’ lives and his brother’s too. He’d nabbed the head of the Chicago mafia. Garcia owed him this deviation from the knot of red tape.
“You may go as Special Agent Harvey’s backup. You may not engage with Adyton in any way. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
Jace nodded, jaw cramping from all the clenching. Christ, another woman. He appreciated everything about them from here until next Tuesday, until it came to taking orders. He hadn’t found one yet who made the right decisions under pressure. He blew out a breath. Aw, hell. At least it was a clean slate. He’d flirt and cajole and mold this second chance into a decision-making role again, while he figured out where Sean and Gretch were and how to save the day.
“What about me?” Margo asked her boss tentatively.
“Until I investigate this breach further you’re on the beach.”
Administrative leave. An agent’s worst nightmare. Jace almost fisted the air.