Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  A box slammed his chest. He jerked the trigger, but the bullet spanged against the pavement and went off into the night along with his gun. Tony fought for balance, tripped over the legs of the downed ASAC, and fell backward. His head hit the pavement hard. Sparks exploded in his brain.

  He lay still, struggling to drag breath into his lungs. His mind’s eye processed what his senses had been trying to tell him when he shot the man he thought was Bernard Cooke. The big guy was neither Hispanic nor a light-skinned African-American. He was Middle Eastern. Not the Boston ASAC!

  Then who had he shot, and who was still in the van?

  “Don’t move, Lucano.”

  Tony’s vision cleared. He stared up the barrel of a gun the same make and model as his, standard FBI issue.

  Rachel Balzac in the flesh.

  Stevo would never let him live this down. If he survived to hear the razzing. Rachel looked ready to do some serious damage. To him.

  She wagged the gun barrel. “Put your hands behind your head, and get up nice and easy.”

  Tony obeyed, keeping his movements slow and careful.

  The man on the ground groaned. He wrestled himself into a sitting position, unbuttoned his shirt with shaky fingers, and stared down at a dented flak jacket.

  No wonder the guy seemed so barrel-chested. Is nothing in this case as it appears?

  “Get up, Malik,” Balzac said. “We’re leaving.”

  Malik growled and dragged himself upright. “I will kill this one first.”

  His fist lashed out and caught Tony on the cheek. Tony slammed back against the museum wall.

  “Stop it, you idiot!” Balzac danced from one side to the other. “You’re in my line of fire!”

  Malik drove in, swinging low. Tony deflected the punch with an arm sweep and answered with a strike to the face. The guy’s nose crunched, and he staggered backward, blood streaming down his face. A jump side-kick to the chest sent Malik scissoring into Rachel. They both went down in a heap.

  Bowling for bad guys!

  “Steve, honey, glad you showed up.” Balzac’s voice came from the tangle of arms and legs on the ground. “It’ll be worth your while if you subdue Lucano here.”

  Tony turned toward the museum, heart in his shoes. Steve Crane stood backlit in the doorway, gun barrel swiveling Tony’s direction.

  “Put your hands above your heads,” said the big-jawed man.

  Desi lifted her arms. Max did the same, but Desi didn’t trust the mutinous look on her friend’s face. Max’s glare at her husband could have blistered paint. He looked away.

  “Search this one’s bag.” The large intruder gestured with his automatic.

  The guy in the fedora didn’t move, and Dean didn’t seem to hear. He stood with his mouth open, face screwed up like he’d bitten a skunk and needed a strong mouthwash.

  “Do it now!”

  Dean jerked, then lurched forward, not meeting his wife’s gaze. He picked up Desi’s purse and dumped the contents onto the tabletop. The cell phone from Tony skated across the glass surface and lay by itself, stamp of ownership uppermost.

  Big Chin’s lips flattened. “As I tell you. She is cooperating with the federal agents. Her person must be searched for a weapon or a wire.”

  Dean backed away, lifting his hands. “Uh-uh. Not me. I’m in enough trouble.” He darted a glance at Max.

  “You got that right,” his wife said through gritted teeth.

  Big Jaw muttered something in a foreign tongue—something distinctly nasty He looked over his shoulder at the slender gentleman with the smaller gun and hooked his own onto his belt. “Keep them undercover.”

  The man grabbed Desi’s arm and jerked her around so she faced away from him. Her heart did a backflip. His hands were powerful, rough, and intrusive to body parts she held private. Desi reacted as she’d been trained.

  Her elbow rammed his stomach. A loud hunh sounded in her ear. She whirled and let fly with her foot where it would incapacitate the most. The deep grunt turned into a squeak. He doubled over, clutching himself.

  Max let out a rebel yell and launched over the coffee table. A small caliber gun spat. Max cried out. Dean screamed. Desi whirled toward her friend. Max lay on the floor, groaning.

  Cold metal jabbed into Desi’s temple. She gasped and went still. The man in the fedora held his gun to her head. His features had a frightening calm composure, as well as a strange delicacy.

  I know this person.

  “Mr. Chin was …” She licked dry lips. “He got too frisky with his frisking.”

  Now why did I say something so stupid when Max could be bleeding to death?

  Fedora Fella laughed—a feminine sound. The dapper gentleman pulled off his hat and smiled.

  “You remind me so much of your father. We were dating, you know.”

  Desi stared, mouth agape. Of course.

  Jacqueline Taylor, administrator of Boston Public Museum, smiled at her. “As you can see, you aren’t the only one who can dress up to fool people.”

  “You murdered my father!” For the first time in her life, Desi knew she was capable of killing another human being. This one.

  Taylor’s attractive face went tight. “I loved Hiram. I never would have hurt him. You, however, are a different story if you continue to make trouble.”

  The man Desi had kicked started to get up. A steady stream of venom left his lips. Good thing she didn’t understand a single word. Someone moaned.

  “Max!”

  Desi turned. Her friend was sitting up, cradled in her husband’s arms. The redhead clutched her shoulder where a red stain blotched her shirt. Her eyes were closed, and she was white as wax.

  Dean glared up at the museum director. “You promised my wife wouldn’t be touched. We came for Desi. A necessary hostage, you said. Now look what happened! We’ve got kids, you know. And I’m not leaving them orphans.”

  Max’s eyes flew open. “Like you care?”

  “Care! I did all this for you. To get the extra money for the plane and all the stuff you and the kids deserve. Nothing was supposed to happen this way. I—”

  “Spare me, jerk!” She shoved Dean away and began to struggle to her feet, still clutching her shoulder. “Annie Oakley here just winged me. I’ll live.”

  Desi stretched a hand toward Max. “Here, let me—”

  Something hard crashed into the back of her skull. Lights exploded in her brain—then melted into darkness.

  What are you trying to pull, Rachel? We haven’t had anything going on for years.” Steve Crane’s weapon stopped in a dead aim at the pair on the ground. “I’d as soon shoot you as look at you.”

  Tony shook his head. Steve Crane and Rachel Balzac, an item? Boggled the mind, but at least he could breathe again. “Did you catch the two inside?”

  Crane snapped his gum and grinned. “Cuffed to each other and a sturdy pipe. All ready for a ride to the lockup.”

  “Let’s get these two packaged then, and I’ll call Cooke with the news.”

  Stevo’s grin widened. “You just do that, seein’ as how he’s clean, and—”

  “I’m not going to prison!” Balzac pushed the bloody-nosed terrorist between her and Crane’s gun.

  Crane fired. The male suspect screamed and grabbed his leg, crimson spurting between his fingers. Balzac rolled, came up armed, and aimed for her former lover. Their guns spoke in echoes.

  Tony dove low at Balzac. He slammed her stocky body to the pavement and wrenched her arms behind her back, stripping the gun from her. She struggled like a pro wrestler and spewed dockside words. Guess Crane’s bullet didn’t hit her. Tony slapped a cuff on one wrist, fed the metal through the bumper of the van, and then connected to her other wrist. She knelt, panting and glaring. A she-bear with its teeth pulled.

  Tony got up, touching the tender spot on his cheek. He checked his fingers. No blood. But man there was a lot under the wounded suspect. Why hadn’t Steve applied a tourniquet yet?

  He looked
toward the museum entrance. His partner sat against the door frame, eyes closed. The front of his suit jacket gleamed slick like silk. No, not silk. It was wet!

  Tony stepped across the whimpering crook on the ground and hurried to his partner. Two fingers on Crane’s neck found a weak pulse. Tony pulled his partner’s coat aside and ripped open the man’s shirt. The bullet had gone in close to the heart. He didn’t dare move Crane from his awkward position. Tony pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound.

  Crane groaned and opened his eyes. “Guess … a woman … finally got me.”

  “Don’t talk. And don’t you dare check out on me. You’re not ready, and I’m not letting you go.”

  Crane’s eyes widened, then the lids drooped. He moaned.

  Tony held the cloth in place. Lord, please make my words good.

  “I’m calling for help.” He punched digits into his cell phone.

  Sirens already sounded in the distance, moving closer. Someone must have heard the shots and called them in. Tony gave the dispatcher orders for an ambulance and asked that she relay status to the inbound city police. Then he pocketed his phone. His white handkerchief was soaked crimson. The scent of wet blood saturated Tony’s nostrils.

  “Be tough when it counts, pard.” He continued steady pressure against the wound. Stevo didn’t respond, but at least he kept breathing. Doubtful the suspect on the ground was doing that much anymore.

  “Crane was a rotten human being and a misfit in the Bureau,” Rachel said. “I thought he’d slow you down.”

  “Shut up, Balzac. He’ll get a commendation for tonight’s work. What are you going to get?” The fate of a dirty agent in a federal prison was beyond gruesome. And if Steve died, she’d face the death penalty Tony couldn’t work up any sympathy.

  Sirens and flashing lights threw the alley into a bizarre nightclub atmosphere. A pair of squad cars squealed to a halt. A car door opened, but no one stepped out.

  “We’ve got you covered,” someone yelled. “Show your badge if you’re Special Agent Anthony Lucano.”

  Tony held his ID in the air where the gleam of their headlights could pick out the FBI insignia. “I’ve got an agent down here!”

  “Dispatcher told us. Ambulance is on the way” The speaker climbed out of his car.

  Four officers left their vehicles, one of them bearing yellow crime scene tape, another with his unit first aid kit.

  The rhythm of processing the scene took over. Tony sent two of the cops into the building to retrieve Plate and the other accomplice, while the officer with the tape marked the perimeter. The fourth uniform checked the prostrate male suspect.

  “This one’s had it,” he said. “Can I help with your wounded agent?”

  “Just hand me some clean gauze from the kit. This handkerchief is used up.”

  Another siren wailed in the distance. The ambulance. Get a move on!

  “Hang in there, Stevo. Help is almost here. God, please … give him another chance …”

  Balzac hadn’t moved or spoken since the backup arrived. Tony glanced at her. She was hunched into a pitiful posture, eyes cast down, head drooping. The young officer with the tape gazed at her with questions in his eyes.

  “She hurt, too?” He glanced at Tony.

  “Scared spitless, probably. And she should be. She’s the dirty agent who shot my partner.”

  The rookie’s nostrils flared. He didn’t look at the handcuffed woman again.

  The ambulance screeched into the alley, and paramedics piled out. Tony surrendered his spot.

  All right, Stevo. You’re in their good hands … and God’s.

  He stepped into the building. Where were the officers he’d sent in after the other prisoners? He looked around. This area smelled warehouse musty A few crates sat near the entrance, awaiting their turn to be loaded on the van. Sanderson Plate’s voice rose from somewhere among the aisles of items stored on shelves. Tony walked that direction. An officer came toward him with the mystery suspect.

  Under full light, Tony recognized the man who shuffled beside the uniform. Edgar Graham, the security manager. Made sense. With the curator and the head of security in cahoots, stolen goods could move in and out of this museum like roller skates through a revolving door, no one the wiser.

  “Ah, there you are, Agent Lucano.”

  Tony looked around.

  The second officer approached, a handcuffed Sanderson Plate by his side. The curator bolted toward Tony, but the officer jerked him back.

  Plate let out a cry. “Please tell this cretin that I must speak with you.”

  “Bring him over.” Tony waved them on.

  The curator’s pudgy face was red, and he breathed like he’d been doing push-ups instead of standing chained to a pipe. “Miss Jacobs is in dire danger. You must believe that none of us knew the sort of person who brokered our goods. Now they’ve gone to collect her.”

  Tony’s heart skipped a beat. “Who are you talking about? We’ve got you and the rest of your gang, Mr. Chief. Who’s left to round up?”

  “Chief? Me? Oh my, no. Jacqueline Taylor, the museum director, she thought this all up. We did splendidly, too, until she got the bright idea to recruit her boyfriend, Hiram Jacobs. Then everything started to fall apart, and—”

  “Get back to the point.”

  Plate took a deep breath. “As we prepared to go pick up the paintings this evening, a man of Middle Eastern descent showed up. He demanded the use of our courier plane and pilot to leave the country. Things were too hot for him here to complete his pet project. Jackie decided the time had come for us all to leave, but first they needed to get the pilot and grab Desiree for a hostage. This man—I believe his name is Abu—left one of his henchmen with us, and we were to meet them at—”

  “—the airport,” Tony finished for him. The structure of the theft ring snapped into sharp, full-color focus. “Dean Webb is your pilot.”

  “Exactly.”

  Plate started to babble more, but Tony left him behind at a run. Stark terror snarled at his heels, but he dared not let it catch him. He had to keep a clear head.

  Outside, the paramedics were loading Steve Crane into the ambulance. The older agent wore an oxygen mask, not a sheet, over his face. Still alive.

  Tony sprinted for his car, punching in the number of Bernard Cooke’s direct line. He needed more backup than a couple of squad cars.

  Cooke answered on the first ring. “Lucano! Thank God! Where are you?”

  “Driving away from Boston Public Museum.” Tony left rubber in the alley. “We need a team here to take over a crime scene and another to meet me at Dean and Maxine Webb’s home in Charlestown—pronto! Have SWAT ready to head for the airport if we miss our suspects at the Webbs’.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “The city uniforms have several suspects in custody, including one of our own.”

  “Who?” The question razored the airwaves.

  “Rachel Balzac.”

  The ASAC swore. “We’d hoped it wasn’t someone higher than a street agent.”

  “You knew we had a mole?”

  “We knew, but it could have been anybody … including you. Not that we took that idea too seriously, but we did have our eye on—”

  “Steve Crane. Is that why you threw him in with me?” That explained Half-Pint Henderson skulking around their desks, too.

  “You’ve had experience with double-cross before. We figured you’d spot shenanigans faster than anyone. Balzac seconded the motion. Looks like she had her own reasons for pairing the two of you. Kept our eyes off her.”

  “Well, I had my eye on you.” Tony ignored the indrawn breath at the other end. “But Crane said Balzac all along. Those instincts the Bureau hired him for served him well. When he recovers, you might want to award him with a fat commendation check along with his pension.”

  “Recovers?”

  “Your prime candidate for dirty agent caught a bullet from the real one. It’s
bad, but he was still breathing when they took him away.”

  No comment for several heartbeats. “We’ll take your suggestion under advisement. Now update me on your situation.”

  Tony filled his superior in on everything he knew about the case and then dropped his atomic news.

  Cooke gasped like a gaffed fish. “Abu al Khayr is going after Desiree Jacobs! How does that woman attract these people—? Never mind. This is our big chance. You get him, whatever it takes.”

  “My primary concern must be the safety of any hostages.”

  The ASAC made an exasperated noise. “Of course, you protect individuals as best you can, but nabbing al Khayr could save thousands of lives. I’m appointing you acting squad supervisor. You have a limited window of time to resolve the crisis. If the situation escalates into a standoff with terrorists at an international airport, we’ll have to get CIRG involved, and it’ll become a media playground. Let’s not let that happen. There’s only one set of words I want to hear from you: The job’s done.’”

  Cooke cut the connection.

  Tony slapped his phone shut. If steam could escape out his pores, he’d be a toxic cloud.

  The ASAC wanted al Khayr’s collar credited to his watch. Bureau politics again.

  But Cooke was right about the bottom line. Tony couldn’t let the situation go sour enough to bring in the Critical Incident Response Group—though his reason wasn’t the same as Cooke’s. Every moment Desiree spent in terrorist hands decreased her chances of survival, and it would take precious hours to bring in the big guns. CIRG contained the best of the best in national crisis management, but once that behemoth was mobilized, there would be no ending the situation with speed or quiet.

  Tony’s teeth ground together. He steered with one hand, pulled out his gun, and checked the load with the other. The weapon didn’t seem damaged from skittering across the pavement at the museum. He resettled the gun loosely in its holster.

  A block from the Webb home, he slowed, killed his lights, and crept up behind the car where the retired agent was supposed to be on surveillance duty. No reaction from the vehicle. Across the street, lights showed in the living room area of the house where he’d sent Desi to keep her out of harm’s way.