Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  She gawped as the door closed behind them. He’d arrived ahead of her. Way ahead. With time to cut outside lighting and unlock the entrance. He’d waited for her. The realization rocked her. Oh God, she was a gullible fool, walking right into his trap.

  He ran his hand across his bald dome. The growth of light hair looked as if he’d dipped his head in sand. Like her, he wore black. The museum’s low security lighting lent a sallow cast to his features. Aquiline nose, a distinctive beak. Strong bones in a lean face. Beady eyes, a buzzard looking for carrion. About Thomas’s height but nothing like him.

  She tightened her shoulders, banking down a shudder of revulsion. “How did you know to come here?”

  He barked that nasty laugh. “On the drive from the airport, I saw taxis toting that on their roofs.”

  The beam from his penlight illuminated his answer. An advertisement for the newest exhibit. The floor-to-ceiling banner displayed the waxen Cleopatra wearing the necklace.

  She’d missed that piece of the puzzle, but Thomas and the task force probably hadn’t. That’s why Thomas had stationed operatives here.

  Operatives. A balloon of hope. As Zervas dragged her deeper into the building, she glanced around. Cameras, motion detectors? DSF guys?

  “Don’t bother, Cleo. I’ve taken care of the guards and disabled the security devices.”

  Hope deflated and stole her breath. What had he done to Thomas’s people? She hadn’t the strength to protest as Zervas marched her up the dark and unmoving escalator.

  ***

  Five minutes after the cell-phone blip vanished, Thomas and two of his people left the Wagon Wheel, Pagano driving their rental SUV. Cassidy and Kirby would remain until Hunt’s team arrived.

  His tracking program showed other signals. Three separate blips from buttons. She must’ve found them in Mimi’s clothing. Wore them on purpose. She wanted him to find her. The tightness inside him eased a millimeter. “She’s at the wax museum. GPS says a ten-minute ETA. Pagano, make it five.”

  In response, the driver muscled the big vehicle past a green Jaguar sedan and through a red light. He jumped lanes, hurtling by the late-night traffic on the Strip.

  Thomas tuned out the complaints of brakes and horns. And Lucas, who was coordinating with SA Hunt to send reinforcements to the motel and the wax museum. Thomas would take any shit Hunt dished out about his unauthorized raid on Zervas’s motel. Bottom line, his sister was safe.

  But not Cleo. He was an idiot for pulling his people from the wax museum. Zervas must’ve seen the Cleopatra posters. If Zervas hurt her, was a dead man. Fuck.

  If Thomas had only listened to her. Maybe… He checked the text message. Cleo.

  GONE TO TUSSAUDS. Z XCHANGE A FOR NCKLCE. PLZ COME.

  Dammit, if only he’d read this earlier. He sucked in a desert-dry breath and made himself work out tactics.

  The SUV screeched to a stop at the Venetian entrance. Pagano tossed the keys to the valet and the three of them took off running. Stairs and a few turns took them to the darkened ramp.

  “No lights,” Lucas whispered. “Venetian security guards should’ve reported that.”

  “Zervas.” Thomas withdrew his Sig, checked it as they approached the glass wall.

  Del Rio shone a penlight on two small objects littering the concrete. “Looks like the asshole stomped out a phone battery and one of your trackers.”

  “But not the others. Cleo put more trackers in her clothing.”

  “Smart girl.”

  Lucas had no idea. Thomas nodded. He tried the glass door. “Unlocked. They’re inside. You two use the employee entrance. I’m going in here.”

  “Roger that,” Lucas said.

  “Low lighting only at night,” Pagano said. “Enough to find your way.”

  Thomas thanked him. Then Pagano and Del Rio disappeared around the building.

  Inside the wax museum, Thomas tuned in to the building as he let his eyes adjust. Hum of air conditioning, electrical clicks, creaks of expansion and contraction. All normal. Odors of floor cleaner, warm wax. Life-size figures loomed on either side of the ticket entrance. Michael Jordan. Indiana Jones. Ahead of him an escalator.

  Nowhere to go but up.

  He climbed quickly on the balls of his feet, silent in rubber-soled shoes. A sign on the curving corridor pointed to the Hollywood stars exhibit. Random thumps from above, maybe plumbing. Or footfalls.

  At Lucas’s voice in his earpiece, he pressed against the wall. “Report.”

  “We’re in the Operations Office. Two Venetian guards, dead. Looks like single bullets to the head.”

  His mouth tightened. More deaths to lay on Zervas. “What else?”

  “Alarms and cameras shut off. Pagano’s nearly got the cameras back online. Will have a visual A-sap.”

  “Hurry, dammit.” They didn’t need his urging but dammit to hell, Zervas had Cleo.

  ***

  Zervas, forbidding and silent, marched Cleo through the maze of exhibit halls. The wax figures, posed as if about to speak or move, appeared like apparitions in the dim lighting. If she hadn’t seen the artistry of their creation, their ghostly forms would freak her out. But somehow the lifelike presence of Whoopi and Johnny Depp buoyed her. She could use Captain Jack Sparrow’s sword or his wits. He would know how to slow this grim march to give Thomas more time.

  Slow, yes. When she stubbed her toe on an invisible protrusion in the floor, she stomped her feet to catch her balance. She gave Zervas a clumsy me grimace.

  He caught her elbow and shoved her ahead of him.

  As they passed Arnold Palmer and Tiger Woods scoping out a putt, she stumbled. But the soles of her sneakers clomped barely enough to be heard outside the room.

  If anyone was listening.

  She touched the tracker button inside her tee neckband. Thomas, where are you?

  Finally they reached the gallery labeled World Icons. Past Gandhi, Churchill, Genghis Khan, Mother Teresa, and the last few American presidents, there she stood.

  As if she’d stepped out of history or out of the new film, the Queen of the Nile held court beside a gold-painted chaise. Her hand cupped the cobra’s head capping a golden staff. A gold crown banded her dark hair. She wore white silk, the perfect backdrop for the gold collar and its gem-studded capelet.

  Cleopatra’s necklace.

  A gasp slipped from Cleo’s throat. No more delay.

  Zervas led her into the middle of the room. “Stand there. Don’t fucking move.”

  Leaving her, he moved closer to Cleopatra. He set the pistol on the chaise and hefted the capelet’s edge. “Heavy gold. Fucking real. Finally.”

  In the beam of his penlight, Cleopatra’s eyes glittered and her smile seemed encouraging. “The necklace should bring you a good price,” she said, relieved at the steadiness of her voice. Keeping him talking would take up time. “But you can probably get a whole lot more for the computer chip. You have a buyer for that too?”

  His hand stilled on the clasp at the wax figure’s nape. He cocked his head, his eyes boring into hers as if searching for deception. “The chip. Explain.”

  Either he didn’t know the chip was explosive or he didn’t have it. “You know, the chip you gave René to attach to the necklace. That chip.”

  His smile matched his carrion-feeder eyes. “So that assassination attempt was all a charade.”

  She shook her head. “Yousef’s plot was real. Just thwarted.”

  “And used to make me think the Met had the original necklace. And make Yousef believe it contained the computer chip.” He scratched his chin with the gun barrel. “But you think I have the chip. So the copy did not contain anything.” He turned toward the Cleopatra figure. “Or it’s here.”

  Thank God he didn’t have it, but where was the damn chip?

  He returned to working loose the clasp, a slow process one handed. “Moreau screwed up. Fucker was supposed to put it in the copy. Funny how things work out. Now I’ll have both.”

&n
bsp; Cleo waited for him to examine the necklace. Take all the time you want.

  He lifted the heavy ornament loose and placed it on the chaise. He played the penlight’s narrow beam over the underside. Straightening, mouth tight, he picked up the gun.

  He stalked to her, prodded her chest with his weapon. “No chip. It’s not there. Where the hell is it?”

  She held out her arms, palms up. “I don’t know.”

  “Fucking liar!” He backhanded her with his gun hand.

  The blow spiked through her head like an electric charge, knocking her to the floor. Pain drilled her. Her vision dimmed, and her breath came in short gasps.

  “Tell me,” he roared. “You must know. You were there. Where the fuck did Moreau hide it?”

  Oh God, she had no idea. Her brain flashed René’s last moments... last words… a gesture.

  But then, suddenly, she did know.

  ***

  Cleo’s outcry burned Thomas’s ears. Clenching his jaw, he crept to the World Icons entrance.

  She sat curled up on the floor, one arm raised in defense. Blood trickled down the left side of her face. Zervas stood over her, right fist clenched around his Ruger 9mm.

  Thomas had been afraid before, but always for himself or his men. Or for his sister, first the drugs, now tonight. This was worse. Red haze singed the edges of his vision.

  He tunneled his thoughts. Focused on the situation. He couldn’t take a chance with Cleo’s life. Couldn’t wait for Lucas to get in place.

  He stepped around the corner, Sig in his hands. “Put down your weapon and step away from the woman.”

  Without flinching, Zervas grabbed the thick mass of Cleo’s hair and yanked her backward against him. He jabbed the pistol against her head. “I’ve been expecting you. Fucking Galahad. Just like the old days. But I came out on top in Iraq and I will again.”

  Something flared in Cleo’s eyes, whether relief and hope or fear Thomas couldn’t tell. He needed her alert, able to react quickly.

  “Hurt her again, Marco, and I’ll kill you.”

  “You’re in no position to threaten. You shoot me and I’ll blow her away.” Zervas’s lips pulled taut around his teeth. No eyes involved. An enemy’s smile. He stroked Cleo’s jaw slowly, lovingly with the barrel of the Ruger.

  She shrank from the metal’s obscene caress, with fury and contempt on her pale face.

  “Sig Sauer. Nice weapon,” Zervas said. “Better than army issue, right, Captain? Put it on the floor or she bleeds.” He aimed the Ruger at her bent left knee.

  No choice. Thomas set the gun down. Straightened, hands fisted at his sides.

  “Now kick it over there.” Zervas indicated the wall to Thomas’s left.

  He complied. The pistol skittered across the floor and thunked against the baseboard. Twelve, fifteen feet away. A stretch to reach it if he had the chance.

  “Now the one in your ankle holster.”

  A nice right cross would wipe off that damn smirk. Thomas’s fingers cramped and he uncurled his fingers. He lifted his pants legs above his ankles to display only his socks.

  “And now for the bulge in your pocket. With two fingers, remove the weapon.”

  “Only my phone,” Thomas said, holding up the device.

  “No spare sidearm? You’re slipping. Been behind a desk too long.”

  “Maybe. But you’ve been underground for too long. Your crimes have caught up to you. You can’t escape. The FBI and the task force are on their way.”

  Zervas yanked Cleo’s hair. Jammed the pistol against her head. “The bitch is my ticket out. Don’t forget I have your sister. A call from me and she dies.”

  “I don’t think so. Does the Wagon Wheel Motel and Resort ring a bell?”

  White blotches appeared on Zervas’s cheeks. His expression serrated. “You’re guessing.”

  “Andie’s safe. Hawkins and Nedik are under arrest. The FBI has blocked the funds you still had access to. You’re done, Marco. Put your gun on the floor and give up.”

  The other man shook his head. “I won’t go to prison again. The redhead goes out with me and this.” He let go of Cleo and scooped up the necklace. “And there’s one more thing.”

  “Thomas, he wants the computer chip,” Cleo said, wincing. The purple swelling of a bruise bloomed at her temple. Her voice was thready, but her gaze was clear. In control. Determined. Trusting.

  “The computer chip?”

  “The bitch here says you think I kept it.” Confident mask firmly in place, Zervas smiled. “News stories reported the chip was removed from the necklace at the Met. But there was no chip. So where is it?”

  Cleo’s right hand moved up from her stomach to her throat. She didn’t hold her locket for comfort as he’d seen her do many times. Instead she pointed to the locket with her index finger.

  Because her back was against Zervas’s legs, he couldn’t see her pantomime.

  When Zervas again focused on the necklace, Thomas chanced another look down.

  Cleo tapped the locket, then spread her fingers wide in a burst.

  If a grenade had exploded in front of his face, he couldn’t have been more shocked.

  Not Cleopatra’s necklace, but Cleo’s necklace.

  “I’m in the gift shop,” Lucas said quietly in Thomas’s earpiece, “To your right. Got a clear shot. Give me the word.”

  Even if Lucas made a kill shot, Zervas could still pull the trigger. Could still kill Cleo. Maybe gunfire wouldn’t explode the chip. Maybe it would. Neither was a chance he’d take. He cleared his throat, the signal to wait. “The chip’s in the original. You have it in your hand.”

  “Nice try, asshole. I already examined the fucking thing. No chip.”

  “You didn’t look closely enough,” Thomas said in a reasonable tone. “Moreau was an expert jeweler, a craftsman. He hid it well. Look between the gemstones.”

  Doubt crimped the other man’s forehead. He stepped away from Cleo and scooped up the heavy collar. Holding it close to his face, he kept the gun on Cleo. Greed was making him sloppy. Instead of taking the necklace and his hostage, he wanted more.

  Always wanting more, that was Marco Zervas. This time he would have nothing.

  Thomas glanced from his enemy to Cleo. Put his free hand to his throat and pantomimed ripping the locket’s chain free.

  The corners of her mouth lifted in brief acknowledgment. She gripped the necklace and yanked. The links bit into the tender flesh of her neck but held. Another tug. A silent snap left the thin gold chain dangling on either side of her closed hand.

  He shut his eyes for a second. Called up the numerals. Then keyed the explosion code into his phone. All he had to do was press Send. He cut his eyes toward the far corner to her right. Sweat poured down his back. Could she throw it far enough away? More than six feet?

  Understanding shone in her eyes. Her hand started to move.

  Eyes on Zervas, he shook his head. Not yet.

  Zervas raised the pistol, aimed it at Thomas’s chest. “There is no chip. You’re a fucking liar. I’m getting out of here. As soon as I kill you, Captain.” Confusion and fury chased across his gaze. He might shoot them both.

  “Now!”

  The locket and chain flew across the room, bounced between two figures.

  Thomas pushed Send.

  The corner exploded in a fireworks burst of color and noise. The wax bodies splintered. Legs and arms leaped into the air, dark suits shredded and aflame. Shrapnel from the metal stands flew outward like molten daggers.

  One of the molten pieces struck Zervas in the leg. He cried out and bent to his smoldering pants leg.

  Thomas slid across the floor. Dived for his Sig.

  Zervas turned back, saw Thomas. Fired.

  Thomas jackknifed up, weapon in both hands. Aimed.

  Zervas’s bullet struck his left side, a two-by-four that knocked him backward and drilled pain through his torso. Black dots swarmed before his eyes. He sucked in a hissing breath but maintaine
d a grip on the gun.

  The sprinklers whirred on, dousing everything in cold water and the smells of smoldering cloth, melting wax, and gunpowder.

  Blood stained Zervas’s ruined pants leg, but he stumbled closer, smiling. He held his pistol aimed squarely at Thomas’s head.

  “No!” Cleo surged up from the floor. She grabbed Zervas’s gun arm and swung him around.

  The Ruger fired, the bullet zinging into the wall. Zervas flung her down as if she were a pesky fly. Slammed the gun butt on her head, dropping her in a heap.

  Blinking away the daze and the water in his eyes, Thomas pulled the trigger.

  A hole opened in Zervas’s black shirt. Blood spread and his gun arm faltered. But he stumbled forward a step. “Not dead yet, asshole.”

  “You will be.” Thomas fired again. And again.

  The gun fell from Zervas’s hand. He clutched at his throat. Blood poured crimson between his fingers. He tumbled backward onto the floor. Still. Eyes vacant. Blood pooled, turned pink in the water beneath him, and then flowed no more.

  Lucas rushed in. Picked up the Ruger. “He’s done for. Thomas?”

  Thomas breathed against the white-hot pain in his side. Struggled onto his knees. Crawled toward Cleo’s crumpled form.

  “Never mind me. Cleo, check on Cleo. She’s...” Everything.

  Chapter 29

  CLEO FLOATED UP from somewhere black. A dozen bass drums thundered in her head. A throbbing agony she’d never experienced before. Wet and chills. Shivering awareness lifted her up another layer to a foggy gray. She tried to open her eyes, but hadn’t the strength.

  Nausea crawled up her throat. Worse than the pain. She breathed in shallow pants. Must wake up.

  Through a semi-consciousness muddled by the incessant drumming, she felt cool air and rain on her face. Big, gentle hands cradled her, moved her onto her back. She heard voices. Both deep, one anxious, speaking her name.

  “Cleo, wake up. God, please.”

  Thomas.

  She opened her eyes a crack. Fought through the swirling confusion and pain. Slowly the room came into focus. The wax museum. Not rain but sprinklers.