To Catch a Thief

by Christina Skye

  “Nothing serious. Just…climbing stuff. But I’m tired and confused. Have you heard from my father lately? There’s something going on, but he isn’t making any sense.”

  “What has he told you?”

  Nell shrugged. “Something about numbers and promises.” She frowned at an employee carrying a tray with pastries for a nearby customer.

  The twelfth viscount Draycott drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Nell realized several people in the café were studying him discreetly, wondering if he was someone important. “Your father gave you a number? Did he say why, Nell?”

  A movement to her left, down an aisle with children’s books, caught her eye. She flinched.

  Dakota Smith walked silently down the aisle and sank into the seat beside her. Another man, the mirror image of Denzel Washington, emerged from the opposite aisle.

  “No,” Nell whispered.

  “Who are you?” The Englishman fixed his cold stare on Dakota. When the Denzel Washington look-alike sat down beside him, Nicholas drew a sharp breath. “Don’t tell me you’re part of this, Teague.”

  Nicholas knew this man?

  “You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, Draycott,” the man called Teague said curtly. “Let’s go outside and get started.”

  Nell closed her eyes, hit by weariness and panic.

  Trust no one.

  She’d remembered her rule too late.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RAIN HAMMERED at the windshield as the black SUV cut through the sluggish traffic.

  So far none of the three men were talking to Nell. Nicholas had spoken quietly on his cell phone for the past five minutes, but Nell had only caught one word in five.

  She watched her father’s friend put away his phone. When he turned around, his face was grim. “She’s not involved. I want that absolutely clear.”

  Neither Dakota nor his friend responded.

  “What agency do you represent?”

  The man called Teague flashed a badge that only Nicholas Draycott could see. Apparently it was enough to satisfy the Englishman.

  “I see. In that case your people messed up. That’s why Nell’s father contacted me. He knew what was going to happen because he was approached before he left prison.”

  “Approached by who?” Dakota’s gaze didn’t leave the road.

  “An inmate who wanted help to sell a major piece of stolen art. He wanted Jordan’s contacts. When Jordan refused, the man threatened him. He threatened to hurt Nell, too.”

  Nell looked out at the rain, breathing hard. Now she understood. They had tried to pull her father back in, and he’d gone to the only person he could trust, his old friend from British intelligence. “So my father is working with you undercover?”

  Draycott nodded. “Only one person over here knows what Jordan’s doing. We had to keep the loop closed.”

  “Why?” Things had changed again, and Nell was struggling to keep up. “If my father agreed to help, why weren’t the officials here notified?” Then the answer came to her, awful in its implications. “Someone here is involved. That’s the only possible reason.”

  The brave, stubborn fool, she thought. He did it for me. To protect me the only way he could.

  “What exactly did your father tell you, Nell?” Nicholas asked quietly.

  “He told me I could be in danger. He told me to leave and go away. Somewhere remote, like a mountain in Thailand.”

  “What was the number he gave you?”

  Nell hesitated. She trusted Nicholas, but she wasn’t sure about the other two. For all she knew, either one of them could be the traitor.

  “You can trust them, Nell. I’ve worked with Teague before.”

  “I don’t trust anyone right now. First I was chased down an alley. Then he tried to kidnap me.” She glared at Dakota. “For all I know, he’s the one you’re looking for.”

  Dakota turned, his eyes cutting to the Englishman. “If you knew what MacInnes was doing—assuming this story is true—why didn’t you have protection in place for him? And for his daughter?”

  “We did. Jordan had several old…associates watching Nell. Something must have gone wrong.”

  “Where is he now?” Nell leaned anxiously toward Nicholas Draycott. “Can you call him and tell him to cut this undercover mission short?”

  Her father’s friend shook his head slowly. “I can’t, Nell. It’s gone too far.”

  Nell heard the chime of her cell phone from somewhere in the front of the car, but she clearly remembered leaving the phone in her apartment.

  Dakota glanced back. “Answer it.” Nell realized he was holding out her cell phone.

  Stiff with anger, she answered the call. “Yes?”

  “Don’t talk.” Her father’s voice was edgy with adrenaline. “Here’s the second number. Memorize it.”

  “Done,” Nell said.

  “Good. Did you reach our friend?”

  “He’s here with me now.”

  “Trust him, Nell. He’ll take care of you. I’m leaving. I have to help them, but I’ll make contact as soon as—”

  She heard the sudden sound of a door slamming. A car motor whined. Then there was only static.

  She gripped the phone, imagining her father’s danger. The phone shook in her fingers.

  The man called Izzy Teague slid her phone out of her hand and into his pocket, then pulled a plastic box from beneath the seat. “Your arm is bleeding. Why don’t I have a look? You banged yourself up last night, I understand.”

  Nell barely realized that he was examining her arm. She winced as he pulled up the old bandage.

  “Your father? What did he say, Nell?” Nicholas Draycott looked worried.

  “He said he’s leaving and that he has to help them.” Nell took a sharp breath. “They’ll kill him if they find out what he’s done.”

  Draycott leaned over to touch her shoulder. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s Jordan. Right now I’m far more worried about you. I want you to come to Draycott Abbey. It’s the one place I know you’ll be safe.”

  “What about my father? What if he needs help, Nicholas? Who’s going to help him?”

  DAKOTA WAS FITTING new pieces into the puzzle. They were going to need Nell’s help to reach her father, wherever he was. To ensure her help, it was important that she know what she was up against.

  “Give her the file,” he said flatly, glancing back at Izzy. “The complete one this time. She’s entitled to the whole picture.”

  Izzy frowned. “But Ryker—”

  “Stuff Ryker. See what she can pick up from the documents. Show her the photos of the museum guards and all the dealers who have been interviewed. Maybe she knows one of them.”

  Izzy hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Ryker’s going to chew bricks when he finds out.” He stared out at the rain and then shrugged. “You’re right. She knows this world. She might spot something that we’ve missed.” He looked down at the sound of low humming. “How did we live before cell phones?” His eyes narrowed as he checked the screen. “That’s my liaison at the FBI. What am I supposed to tell him?”

  “Nothing.” Dakota took a sharp right turn, and the control tower of the airport loomed out of the rain. “Let Ryker handle it.” He snapped a look at Nicholas Draycott. “You have safe transport for her? Things are going to get hot back here.”

  Draycott nodded. “That has been arranged.”

  The viscount looked cool and professional, but Dakota wasn’t paid to take chances. “You’ll have to keep her off the radar, you know that. But she’ll need constant access in case her father calls.”

  The Englishman smiled briefly. “We’ll manage our part. Meanwhile, I suggest that you start working on those numbers. They must have great importance for Jordan.”

  “Already running possibilities,” Izzy cut in. “I’m eliminating international phone exchanges and map coordinates. I tried the prison database but nothing there matched. Next we’ll try offshore banking accounts.”
r />   Nell paled. “You know the numbers? Were you monitoring my phone?”

  None of the men answered.

  A plane thundered by, wings dark as it climbed up through the driving rain. Beyond the security fences, more planes lined up for takeoff, filled with bustle and normalcy.

  Some of that normalcy was an illusion. People never realized the constant threats to the nation’s security, Dakota thought. And that was only right. If a threat made it onto the front page of the New York Times, then he and his team had messed up.

  “It could be some kind of art database,” Nell said slowly. “Maybe a number from a list of stolen pieces. Or possibly it’s a museum acquisition number. I can check those for you, not just here, but around the world.”

  “I could do that too—but you’ll do it faster. Let Ryker chew bricks.” Izzy nodded at Draycott. “Looks like you two have a plane to catch.”

  Draycott Abbey

  Sussex, England

  WIND PLAYED over the English roses, filling the air with perfume. The moon drifted behind racing clouds and silver light fell on weathered gray walls.

  In the clear night air the old abbey seemed to dream, alive with forgotten legends and painful secrets, its beauty earned at fearsome cost.

  A figure moved in the shadows of the Long Gallery. Light swirled along the gaunt aristocratic face, brushing the fine lace at his cuffs. He was out of place in these shadows, out of place in the bustle and clamor of the twenty-first century, a world too loud.

  Too fast.

  Too…real.

  His eyes dark with memories, the guardian ghost of Draycott Abbey crossed the silent rooms, past the paintings of kings and heroes and sad-eyed patriots.

  When he stopped, it was to stare up at his own portrait, painted by the hand of Sir Joshua Reynolds, with the abbey captured in golden sunlight behind him. Now there was an artist, Adrian Draycott thought crossly. No posing and braying, only a brush that spoke, unerring in its color and grace.

  But this noisy world was a different place from the one he’d known in life. Then he had been lord and master; now he was nothing. Anger swirled up, filling the darkness with the weight of sad memories.

  Without warning the air churned. He felt the sudden weight of danger, as he had so many times before.

  A gray shape ghosted from the shadows, tail high, amber eyes agleam. The cat’s cry was low and restless.

  “I agree, old friend. It begins again. If I mistake not, there will be meddling and pain before we see an end to it. Maledetto,” he whispered, the word cold on his tongue. “Fools. Their greed knows no end.”

  The cat wove between Adrian’s booted feet, head raised while the air shimmered between them. For an instant light seemed to swirl in lazy patterns over the hard-faced portrait on the wall.

  Adrian studied his likeness critically. “It was a night of high play, and all of us in our cups. That must be the reason that Cavendish staked such art—and lost it in one roll. Poor bastard.” The eighth Viscount Draycott stared out over the moat, over the wooded hills, remembering a night of recklessness and loss centuries before. He had done all he could to protect that night’s treasure. The diary was still hidden.

  But the art was gone….

  Somewhere out over the dark hills, a clock chimed twelve times and then once more, a low, phantom sound that made passing travelers cross themselves and hasten their step.

  In a swirl of lace and velvet the abbey’s ghost strode off through the moonlight. “The wine cellar first, I think. And after that the library, Gideon. The same path I walked that night. Perhaps the danger is already here.”

  The great gray cat flicked his tail, jumping onto the sill of an open window. Light shimmered over the room with its priceless paintings and antiques.

  And then in the space of a heartbeat, the ghost and his oldest companion were gone. Only the curtains moved in a breeze that was suddenly cold.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “RYKER WILL GO nuclear when he hears about this.” Izzy watched Nicholas Draycott’s chartered plane move into position for takeoff. “Especially the part about the FBI holding back the Zayed connection.”

  “He’ll live,” Dakota muttered. “It didn’t play right for me. The father, absolutely. The daughter…” He shook his head. “Not the type. Too independent to work with a team and too smart to think they could pull it off alone. At least now we have a trail to follow. By the way, who is this Draycott person?”

  “Impeccable British family as old as time. In point of fact, he’s the twelfth Viscount Draycott.”

  Dakota didn’t look remotely impressed.

  “Don’t worry, the man’s got a solid military background. Ex-Special Air Service, with years of fieldwork. He spent a good deal of time in Southeast Asia until he was captured and tortured. I can find a dozen highly placed references to his reliability. In fact, I just got done sending the list to Ryker.” He raised a brow. “Any other concerns about Draycott?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  “Hard case, aren’t you?” Izzy punched up an address on the Explorer’s GPS. “How about we go pay a visit to that warehouse in Oakland? I’m thinking Ryker’s contact at the shipping company might be onto something.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m in the mood for some B and E.”

  Izzy nodded at the plane taxiing down the runway. “Her old man’s got guts, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I only hope his guts hold out. He’s going to need them if the October Twelfth people realize he’s sold them out. How about the number MacInnes gave Nell? It could be a private courier service with a nine-digit tracking number.”

  “I’ve traced all the big commercial carriers, but zip. It will take me longer to access the smaller ones. One more reason to go see the warehouse in Oakland. Their company could use nine digits.” Izzy gave a little two-finger salute to the air as Nell’s plane gathered speed and lifted off into the rain. “Smooth sailing. Say hello to the abbey ghost for me.”

  Dakota’s gaze cut across to Izzy. “What?”

  “Just a legend. Even the smallest cottage has to have a betrayal or beheading in its past. You know how the Brits are about their history. And Draycott Abbey is a heck of a lot more than a little cottage, trust me.”

  MORE RAIN, Dakota thought, working his way through the crush of morning rush hour traffic. Wasn’t it ever sunny here in the Republic of California anymore?

  His boyhood memories were all about sun and sky and the flash of water spilling through the bottom of steep canyons. Growing up on the rugged coast north of Mendocino, he’d climbed most of the mountains near his house. With only a distracted uncle for family, he’d been given the run of the coast. Often as not, his schoolbooks were ditched in a bush near the bus stop while he went in search of his own form of education, tramping the high forests or scavenging on the beach.

  By the time he was ten, he’d lost both of his parents. They had died within a year of each other, one from leukemia and the other in a late-night collision caused by a drunk driver from Malibu. Dakota hadn’t spoken for three months, confused at first, then angry at being left alone. But eventually he’d settled in with his uncle, an ex-army sniper. He found his feet in the solitude and the foggy forests that could be as dangerous as they were beautiful. His uncle had taught him to track deer, shoot a rifle and orient by the stars. By the time he was fifteen, Dakota could live for a month in the mountains with nothing but a knife and a canteen. All in all, it had been excellent groundwork for his SEAL training.

  Dakota hadn’t been back to California since his uncle had died six years before, and he didn’t care to dig up old memories now. There was no point. One thing he’d never disagreed about with Ryker: emotions could get you killed faster than an Uzi burst.

  Ditch the emotion.

  Focus on the mission.

  But the fog and rain outside his window kept bringing flashes of memory from a past that had once been full of the joy of wonder and discovery. He seemed to hear the co
mforting boom of his father’s laughter as he taught Dakota how to tie a trout lure and the grace of his mother’s hands as she worked on the one-of-a-kind art quilts that had kept the family in cash between his father’s disappearances doing work that was never defined for agencies that were never named.

  With the eyes of an adult, Dakota now knew that his father had been part of the shadow world of espionage, taking short-term assignments that wouldn’t keep him away from his family for long. From his memories, the money must have been tight, too. Despite popular belief, intelligence work didn’t make you a millionaire. Not unless you sold out. Dakota had done some searching after he joined Foxfire, and his hunch had been confirmed. But he hadn’t probed deeper. Best to let the cold truths lie, while he remembered more important details, like the flash of emotion and warm colors of what family had once meant to him.

  All of which explained why Dakota Smith understood Jordan MacInnes’s devotion to his daughter better than most people. Any good father would do just the same, sacrificing himself without hesitation to save the people he loved. He understood Nell’s fierce need to protect in turn.

  Family complexities were a serious obstacle, to be avoided at all costs, but Dakota remembered how deep the pull of family could be embedded in the soul and why no other loyalties held so much risk.

  “You listening to me, Smith?”

  “Of course I’m listening,” Dakota lied.

  “Ryker’s on the phone. He wants an update on that warehouse layout within the hour.”

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get your camera ready.” Dakota’s gaze cut across to Izzy. “What did he say about the plan that Draycott cooked up?”

  Izzy covered the phone. “Don’t ask.”

  HOLT BROTHERS SHIPPING, LLC, sat in a messy sprawl at the edge of Oakland’s construction district. Lit even in daylight by tall halogen lights that cast sullen circles against the rain, the warehouse looked as if it had seen better days. A derelict truck on two wheels rusted in one back corner, while a load of recycled newspapers lay moldering in the rain.