It was as if her sheer hotness and the strange allure of her secrets had overridden his critical faculties. A safecracker.
Touché, he thought.
Because who would suspect a gorgeous Latina to be a safecracker? Or her friends—the blonde bombshell and the willowy black leader—to be criminal cohorts? Though, who would suspect a slightly nerdy looking math whiz like him to be capable of choking a man to death, of looking in his eyes as he dies? Or for sardonic Macmillan, with his professorial Hugh Grant act, to have fought three men to death in a pit in Peru? They were all playing on stereotypes. Camouflage was one of the jungle beasts’ main weapons.
She’d probably told the ABBA story to her friends. They would’ve had a good laugh about it. It made him like her all the more.
And he hadn’t lied—if things went perfectly, if they were in and out like ninjas in the night, she’d get to go home. He didn’t like thinking about what would happen if things went bad; he hoped he wouldn’t have to throw her under the train, but if it came to choosing between her and those kids on the boat, he had to save the kids—he’d have no choice. She was a thief, in the game; this was a risk she took. And you couldn’t trust a thief. But you could always trust their sense of self-preservation.
She’d kill him if it would save her and her friends.
The only way for her to walk out alive was if he walked out alive. She was intelligent enough to get that.
She was on the phone talking to one of her girlfriends. The leader, he guessed from the tone of it.
Angel looked up at him now and then with those brown eyes, and not with the shy submissive look she’d given him at the party. This was the look of a fighter. Her dark brown hair shown with little jewels and braids, all gathered back into a ponytail, making the planes of her cheekbones look more angular than they had looked at the party. This was the real Angel, he thought. A smart, gorgeous chameleon, all heart and hard angles.
And he’d liked her kneeling there on the floor, which was not a good direction of thinking for him. He shouldn’t like her anywhere except as a means to an end on his mission. She was a common criminal, he reminded himself.
His phone vibrated. A text from Walker. The diamonds were on their way from the lab. Trackers had been sewn into the bags. Good. The hands would likely be thawed by now, too.
Angel’s gaze was straight-ahead cool as she discussed the situation. She’d be able to do that, keep her cool. She’d have to, in her line of work, but he could see her pulse banging in her neck, too.
“Do we get to keep them after?” Angel asked. “The diamonds?”
He gave her a disgusted look. “You get to keep your life. You don’t get your intestines pulled out while you’re hanging by your ankles. How does that sound?”
She tipped her head, gave him her screw you stare, which involved pursing her pretty lips into a scrunched frown. “It sounds good, but we’d like the diamonds, too. You said you only want the other things. Not specifically the diamonds.”
“The diamonds stay unless I say otherwise.”
She went back to the phone, arguing with the girlfriend in low tones.
He wondered, suddenly, how many open cases of high-end robbery he might find across Southern California if he looked. He figured they would’ve been active since their early twenties, and Angel was 31 now. Her cover wasn’t bad; she seemed to actually do the designing work she claimed to do. Careful. He liked that.
He’d told her that questions showed interest, and it was true. He had all kinds of questions about her. He knew the basics: her grandparents on both sides had emigrated from Mexico in the 1950s and gotten work at the poultry plant. Her parents had gone to work there, too, probably met there. Grim life, that. She’d run away at 16, landed in juvie with her friends that same year. Grand theft auto.
It was always ideal for an Associate who sabotaged a mission to frame a dead body, a low-level terrorist, or some other criminal type. He’d felt so protective of her the night before that he was having a hard time switching his mind into viewing her in that role. A thief in a pretty package, he reminded himself, as if that would help.
She stared out the window as she spoke, taking in the view of treetops and beyond it, the sunset. His view was slightly more evocative—a beautiful, capable, intensely private woman in a silk shirt so sheer you could see the lace pattern of her bra. What if he drew up close? The night before she’d smelled clean and spicy, and hovering near her had been every bit as exciting as kissing her. He found himself working on excuses to go over there. Maybe she’d talked long enough. Gimme that phone, he’d say.
She wore a gold chain around her neck with some sort of pendant hanging off it. He wondered about that, too. He’d thought it was a bird when she was on his knees in front of him. Was that significant to her?
Stop it, he told himself. She’s not your mystery, she’s your thief.
Thieves wanted something for nothing, he reminded himself. He’d been undercover long enough to know that honor among thieves didn’t exist. It made him feel better to think that, but he didn’t believe it of Angel.
She could try and hurt him by squealing to Borgola, but it wouldn’t do anything. He’d be the one who turned in the hands and the diamonds, and she would just be the crazy bitch girlfriend if she started telling tales. And if Borgola went to inspect the bags and found the trackers, she would die in that scenario. He would, too. Mutually assured destruction.
Ten minutes later a loud knock sounded at the door.
Cole went over and opened it up. It was Arturio with the bags—with the trackers sewn in.
“Nice day for a visit,” Cole said under his breath.
“Clears the mind,” Arturio replied.
He let the man in and introduced them. “Arturio’s babysitting you while I do a few things. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not going anywhere. The whole point here is to free Aunt Aggie.”
“I don’t know that, do I?”
“He’s not sleeping here.”
“Oh yes he is. Right on the couch.”
Arturio stared grimly at the sunset. He’d lost his wife in a bomb blast some years back and Cole had noticed that it was the nice things in life that got him dark again. This view. A woman’s apartment. Cole strolled over to the cookie jar, took out a cookie, and brought it to Arturio. Food snapped him out of it.
“Hey!” she said.
Arturio took the cookie.
Cole said, “You can trust Arturio with your life, but things will go best if you feed him well.”
“Does he talk?” Angel asked.
“When he wants to,” Arturio said.
Cole smiled. Arturio was one of Cole’s favorite men. Cole went into her bedroom and grabbed her red jacket. She followed him in. He tossed it at her. He wanted her to put it back on. Arturio was beyond safe—he wouldn’t think of laying a finger on a job, but Cole didn’t want him looking at her all the same. He told himself it was to protect Arturio, make him not think about his dead wife, but it was more than that—his asinine feeling of protectiveness and possessiveness kept knocking him off his game with her. It wouldn’t do at all. He had to be ready to sacrifice her, sacrifice them both.
She looked at her jacket. “What’s this for?”
“Pack for a few days,” he said, not answering her question, thankful when she automatically put on the jacket.
“A few days?” Angel said. “I’m not sleeping in Borgola’s place. With you.”
“You’re not much of a girlfriend if you don’t.”
She gave him that annoyed face, lips scrunched, and like a crazy man he wanted to grab her and kiss the annoyance right off those lips. He wanted to lose himself in her soft skin. He wanted to plumb her secrets.
He wanted her.
This was bad. He was tired, that’s all.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” she said.
“But you’ll play one for the next few days. What’
s wrong?” he asked. “Worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off of this action?” He slid his shirt up, well above where her gun was still stuck in his belt, running his hand over his belly—he’d seen her looking when he put her gun there. And he’d eaten it up.
“You mean, am I afraid I won’t be able to keep from shooting you?”
He smiled. Then he withdrew her gun from his belt and set it aside, slowly lowering his shirt in a mocking little striptease. He loved her eyes on him. He turned and grabbed the gun and brought it out to Arturio. “She doesn’t get this back.”
“This isn’t going to work,” she complained when he returned to the bedroom. “Seriously.”
He closed the distance between them, rested his hands on her shoulders. “It’ll work because we’ll make it work, got it? And the first step is for you to get into your head that for the next however long we’re in this, you are my girlfriend and you do what I say. Meaning stop fucking disobeying my orders or things won’t go well. Do I need to spell it out for you?” He was being purposefully jerky now. The flirty business had to go.
She just glared.
“This can end well,” he said. “Let’s collaborate to make this end well.” He gave her a hard look. She sighed her consent. Good. She was getting with the program. “What were you arguing about on the phone with your girlfriend? What’s the problem?”
“Now I tell you my phone calls? Do you want to view my menstrual chart, too?”
He felt heat come up his face. What was wrong with him? “Answer me.” He lowered his voice, let it flatten out to the nuclear level he used for the worst terrorists, let it drip with everything unholy. “What were you talking about with your friend?”
The voice got her. “Both my friends want for us to do the job ourselves so we can keep the stones. They wanted me to try to bargain with you to work it that way. You’d be our inside guy, help us break in, and my posse and I handle the safe.”
“You didn’t bring it to me. You told her no.”
“If I did it with my girls, we could get in with your help, but if something went wrong, we couldn’t get out on our own steam. The old perv would’ve doubled his exterior security. Our three escape routes are known. That tunnel would be locked for sure. Much as I’d prefer to do the job with them and not you, I think your plan is safer.”
“Safer for them.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“You think it’s safer for you?” Did she realize she was expendable?
There was a long spell where she studied his eyes.
Why had he asked? Why the fuck had he asked?
Don’t say yes, he thought. Don’t say you trust me. Don’t say you think I’ll save you.
She turned and hoisted a small flowered suitcase out of the closet, let it flop on the bed. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Because we’ll move in and out like ninjas.”
He left the room feeling uneasy. He gave instructions to Arturio and took off. It was time to deal with Borgola. To set the stage for the final act.
He drove his SUV to the other side of town, trying not to think too hard about Angel. You think it’s safer for you?
What had he wanted her to say? Why had he asked the question?
The answer was no—she wasn’t safer with him. It had been crazy to ask it.
It took a toll to live a fabricated life, and with her he’d added another layer—to Angel, he was another criminal—a criminal like her, only bigger. Organized crime—surely that’s what she thought. But in the end, just a criminal out to avenge himself on another criminal. Some of the guys in the Association might say that’s what they were.
He inspected the velvet bags at a stoplight. No trace of tampering. He pulled off at a gas station that had a conveniently private muddy patch near the place you filled your tires. He slipped on gloves and took out the hands, which were fully thawed now. He got some mud under the fingernails and on the hands, then he used paper towels to clean up the fingers and fingernails, leaving just traces of dirt. The lack of blood would look suspicious unless he made it seem like he’d cleaned them up a bit. Only living bodies bled.
He pulled in through Borgola’s gate just before ten. The guards there told him the old man wanted to see him in his study.
Cole headed for the study feeling that roiling energy he always felt when things were about to get hot.
They said that when a tsunami approached, even from miles away under the water, the birds changed their songs and the animals started running for the hills. A similar thing happened in a criminal organization during an endgame; a kind of deep knowing kicked up and transformed into flight and then chaos and destruction. But there was logic even inside the destruction. He felt certain that if he could understand more of it, he could make an equation for it. It would show him so much, such an equation.
He walked through the lavish halls carrying the hands in a burlap bag. The velvet bags of diamonds were nestled into a baggie in his suit coat pocket.
Finding the culprits this fast had its dangers to be sure. It could make him look like he’d been in on it, but he’d just have to sell it to the man. It would mean he became head of mansion security now, but it couldn’t be helped. He nodded at Johnson, a friend. As far as you could have friends inside deep cover.
Cole was ushered in to Borgola’s office. He waited for the old man on the priceless and easily cleaned old rug.
Borgola entered, flanked by two men. He liked to be flanked. “Results, Mr. Hawkins?”
Cole smiled. The persona he’d invented for use with Borgola was modeled on a man named Burry, a dealer’s enforcer and an all-around jerk who his parents often had over for cards. Burry would be cowardly and eager to please Borgola. Cole would tell the story of how he got the hands and diamonds in his Burry persona. He’d heard Burry talk about killing guys. Borgola would eat it up.
Cole set the burlap bag on the man’s desk and then he fished out the baggie of velvet bags and set that there, too.
Borgola knew what was in there, but he concentrated on Cole. Borgola liked to put the squeeze on guys through silence. Cole knew the game—he often played it himself. But to Borgola he was Burry, so he kept his hands busy in his pockets and glanced down, around, waiting. Just enough unease mixed inside his pride to make Borgola comfortable.
Borgola stood. He walked around the back of Cole.
Cole heard the swish of material behind him. Then he felt the hard edge of Borgola’s gun nose pressed to his skull, right behind his ear.
His heart raced. He hated that the old man could make his heart kick up. Well, it wasn’t the old man, it was the gun. The old man was nothing. Supply and transport. A bullet in the brain.
Cole closed his eyes. His gut said Borgola jacking off on his own power. Like Cole had flown too near the sun, like Icarus, and Borgola had go higher, just to show him.
Or maybe he’d kill him. It was possible the man had discovered Cole’s real identity and would kill him now.
If that’s what this was, he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Cole felt the curious sensation of peace at the thought, like the cauldron of pain and desperation in him would finally be washed away by an equal and opposite force. He would finally be able to rest.
“When you work for me,” Borgola hissed, “I own your ass. You understand?”
“I get it,” Cole said.
Jacking off then. Oh, this guy was going down. He was going down even if Cole had to hold his face in the flames while they both burned.
But he’d pulled Angel into it, too. He thought about the way she stood tall in the face of defeat and the way she twisted her lips in annoyance, beautiful eyes full of secrets. His dangerous intentions lost some thunder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Walter Borgola withdrew the gun and sat back behind his desk, watching Cole Hawkins.
He hadn’t expected the man to deliver so fast. Not even a day ago, Cole stood in front of him with nothing.
And then he’d walked in with a shit-eat
ing grin on his face, delivering the mother lode. Well, almost. There were three culprits and only one pair of hands.
Displays of emotion like this always made Walter feel a little bit ill. He liked his people to be contained and small, but he’d learned he had to let them have their triumphs. They were like children, really.
Cole pushed his glasses up on his nose and related the story of tracking the thieves. Apparently he’d heard about a Malibu heist similar in nature to the one that had happened during the party.
It made a certain amount of sense to Borgola that Cole would succeed in something like this. Most of his guys were experts in the protective end of security, the head banging end, whereas Cole came out of the investigative side of the game—he’d been a P.I. in Michigan—a fixer, as his kind was known as. Which meant a P.I. who investigated witnesses and jurors and used the information to make the cases go the right way. And if worse came to worse, killed them.
A bit of hair fell over Cole’s eyes. A shaggy look. The man reminded Walter of a dog he’d had once. Hair always in the eyes. Bringing something dead to his doorstep. Not that smart, but persistent.
Walter motioned at the burlap bag. “So who do we have here?”
“Hands, just like you wanted. The late Dieter Wiess, Swiss national. Resident of Sao Paolo. International jewel thief. It’s like a movie, this guy. Not such a pretty ending.”
“Where’s the rest of him?”
“Cable Canyon. I picked up his trail yesterday morning. You would’ve loved it—I carjacked the guy—total lucky break. But you have to be ready to jump on those things.” Cole went on for a bit, clearly proud of himself. He’d had to purchase a saw and the baggies en route to the canyon. He wanted him to know he purchased them out of his own money. Angling for a bonus. Didn’t he see he was doing what he was hired to do?
Still, Walter was pleased. He’d been smart to hire him. Diversify, they always said on the financial shows. They were talking about your investment portfolio when they said that, but the advice certainly worked when it came to a man’s attack dogs.
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