Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  “That’s not what he wants, and you know it.”

  I swallow the bile rising in the back of my throat.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t take advantage of your offer. Perhaps he still has some small shred of humanity left. But I dare say that kind of luck is once in a lifetime. Poke the bear again, and I have no doubt you’ll be eaten alive.”

  I told Reynard everything when I arrived, including what happened with Ryan in the Caribbean, what Capo did to me at the Palace, and how Ryan found me at the Ritz. It was only by chance that I pulled off my sweater and a strand of my hair caught on the small metal tracking device under the collar. I destroyed it immediately, but not before swearing a blue streak mostly directed at myself.

  Mostly.

  “Thank you for the advice. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a plane to Washington, DC, to catch and the world’s largest blue diamond to steal, or the bear is really going to have something to be angry about.”

  I turn and continue down the aisle. Again, Reynard follows so closely behind, I’m surprised he doesn’t trip me.

  “We need to talk about your American.”

  “He isn’t my American.”

  “Oh-ho! Really? Perhaps someone should inform him of that fact. The man is completely infatuated with you!”

  “He’s probably taken a lot of hard hits to the head. He’s a soldier.”

  “Good God!” he scoffs. “If what you know about men was made into a book, it would be filled with blank pages! He was a soldier. Now he’s a hired gun with a hard-on for a woman whose life is beholden to one of the most dangerous criminals who’s ever lived. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy in the making!”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re completely failing.”

  “I’m trying to make you have a conversation. Mariana, stop.”

  Reynard clasps my shoulder, pulls me up short, and turns me to face him. He says, “Do you know what a hero needs more than anything else?”

  “Great hair? A compelling backstory? A cool name and a cape?”

  “A villain. And do you know what happens when a hero finds his villain?”

  “They live happily ever after in the pages of a comic book?”

  Radiating annoyance, Reynard purses his lips and exhales.

  I ditch the jokes and answer seriously. “War.”

  “Exactly,” Reynard replies softly, nodding. “And if you don’t shake your American, he’s going to start a war with the Devil and drag us all into hell.”

  “You’re forgetting that I already shook him.”

  “Did you? Because I get the feeling the man is a little more resourceful than you’re giving him credit for.”

  Aggravated—because he’s right—I pull Oliver Twist from the bookshelf. It yawns open, revealing the dank tunnel beyond.

  Reynard sighs, realizing I’m not going to respond. When he speaks again, he sounds resigned. “He’ll be watching the shop. We have to assume he’ll have video surveillance on us within hours, if he doesn’t already.”

  “I know.”

  “Which means you can’t come back—”

  “I know!”

  At my sharp tone, he stiffens. I blow out a hard breath and scrub my hands over my face.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is my fault. I know I messed up. He’s just so…he’s so…” I search for the right word, but can only come up with one. “Beautiful. In every way. I’ve never met anyone like him. He makes me feel like I’m worth something.” My voice breaks. “He makes me feel like I could be someone better than I am.”

  With infinite gentleness, Reynard strokes a hand over my hair. “We’re creatures of the underworld, my darling. We have no business in the dealings of heroes.”

  My throat constricts. I whisper, “Just once, I’d like to be a hero, too.”

  Reynard watches in astonishment as a tear crests my lower lid and slides down my cheek. Then he surprises me by engulfing me in a hard, heartfelt hug.

  “It will all be over soon,” he whispers, an odd vibration in his voice. “You’ll honor the oath and then you’ll be free. Then you can live whatever kind of life you like, anywhere in the world.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, loving the sound of those words, but knowing in a dark part of my soul that they’re untrue.

  Capo will find a way to keep me, blood oath or no. All these years and all these jobs to pay off a debt have been more than promises kept. They’ve been a safety net.

  Without that safety net, it’s going to be a fast and hard fall straight into the arms of a monster.

  I pull away, wipe my cheeks, and force a smile. “Here.” I hand Reynard the copy of Oliver Twist. “Keep this safe for me. You know it’s my favorite.”

  He takes it, cradles it against his chest, and looks at me with a goodbye in his gaze. His next words almost break my heart.

  “See you on the other side, my darling.”

  I run into the tunnel before he can see the fresh tears welling in my eyes.

  At two o’clock in the morning a week later, I’m breaking into the Smithsonian Institution.

  I’ve left my hot-wired Mini Cooper not far from the Federal Triangle Metro station and am headed swiftly on foot toward an industrial heating unit adjacent to the butterfly habitat garden on the museum grounds. I’ve already switched the Mini’s plates, but if it’s somehow identified in my short absence, the Metro will provide another quick escape route.

  On the side of the large aluminum heating structure, I crouch down behind a thicket of shrubs, sling my backpack off my shoulders, remove a pair of safety goggles and thick nitrile gloves, and don them both. Then I uncap a glass beaker filled with a viscous greenish liquid and tip it against the aluminum, working quickly to draw a four-foot square.

  In a few moments, the liquid reacts with the metal and starts to bubble. Soon it has eaten through enough for me to pry the square loose with a flathead screwdriver. Leaving it and the empty beaker on the grass, I put the screwdriver and goggles back into my pack, sling it over my shoulders, and crawl inside the heating duct on hands and knees, carefully avoiding all the corroded edges.

  It’s silent and black as a crypt, except for the hazy yellow beam from the pen-size Maglite clenched between my teeth.

  From my entry point, I navigate slowly through the heating ducts into the southeast wing on the second floor of the Natural History Museum. At this time of night, the security staff is at its thinnest, but I’m careful to make as little noise as possible. Contrary to how it looks in the movies, breaking into buildings through HVAC vents can be extraordinarily loud if one isn’t careful.

  And extraordinarily dangerous if one isn’t light. Aluminum ducting isn’t made to hold the weight of a grown man. A two-hundred-pound male would crash right through the ceiling.

  And judging by the dent my left knee just made, I should probably cut back on the carbs.

  After what feels like forever, I reach the Gems and Minerals Hall, where the Hope is displayed. I pop the grating off an access panel and peer down into the museum. It’s dark, quiet, eerily still. The only sound is the wild thrumming of my heart.

  Since the floor is a dozen feet below me, I’ve brought a rope knotted with footholds. I tie it off around a metal connector fitting, then slither down, leaving the Maglite on the lip of the duct for the trip back.

  I land on the floor in a soundless crouch on one hand and one knee. Then I’m up in a whip-crack movement, headed toward my next target, the museum’s computer system, only a short jog away from where I’ve entered. The lock on the door is a biometric fingerprint scanner, but it’s a simple pattern-matching sensor unit, easily fooled.

  Inside the room is a large computer terminal that runs the museum’s custom software. It’s secured by a username and password, but I already have those, too. I log into the system and navigate to the security portal. Then I alter the museum’s hours of operation, setting opening time to one minute ago.

  Before I hit save changes, I scr
awl my signature dragonfly icon on the screen with magic marker and take a deep breath.

  The interior of the museum is about to light up like a football stadium. Once that happens, I only have sixty seconds at most to get the diamond and get back into the ducts before guards swarm the entire wing and I’m trapped.

  I exhale, say a silent prayer, and press the button.

  The room floods with light.

  As fast as I can, I run out of the computer office and through a door that leads into the Geology Hall. Almost instantly, I spot the Hope Diamond’s display case. Because I’ve set the museum to open, the case has erected itself from the floor as it does automatically during public viewing hours.

  And because every light in the museum has turned on and all the perimeter doors have unlocked, all the guards in the vicinity of the west wing are now aware that something is wrong.

  Forty seconds.

  The illuminated pedestal of marble and security glass that holds the Hope stands alone in the middle of the room. The glass is too thick to break with ordinary means like a hammer, and it would take far too long to cut through with a UV laser or dental bur, so I’m manipulating sound frequencies instead. I take a battery-operated ultrasound shock wave generator from the backpack, press the focus tubes against the glass, turn the dial to the highest decibel setting, and switch it on.

  Alarms blare overhead. The noise is deafening. I can’t even hear the sound of the safety glass as it splinters into a spiderweb of cracks.

  Thirty seconds.

  Because the glass is laminated, it stays in a single sheet instead of exploding. I have to punch out a hole with a rubber mallet to get to the diamond, which—because the excessive vibration has triggered an internal sensor—is rapidly descending into the base. I snatch it from its velvet perch just before the vault closes over it.

  The Hope is as big as my fist, dark as a sapphire, glittering like it’s alive. I stuff it into my backpack and sprint back to my rope, still dangling from the ceiling. Using the footholds, I climb up to the ducts, pull the rope in, then crawl like mad, listening to the sirens and men’s frantic shouts. Boots pound against the floor below as guards flood Geology Hall.

  I make it out with seconds to spare. Now I don’t have to be quiet, I only have to be swift.

  When I finally see the square opening I entered through, the night sky sparkling with stars beyond, elation floods me like wildfire.

  My skin is electric. Every sense is sharpened. Every nerve is a firecracker.

  I’m invincible. Euphoric.

  Alive.

  Grinning like mad, I tumble out of the duct and sprint through the butterfly garden. The Mini is still parked right where I left it. I gun it and fly down a side street toward my safe house, cold wind whipping through my hair from the open window, a hot pulse of victory burning through my veins.

  I did it! I did it! I actually pulled it off!

  I take a corner at top speed, but am immediately forced to come to a screeching, tire-smoking halt, because the street in front of me is blocked by a line of police cars.

  My heart stops. My stomach drops. My mind wipes blank, except for a name, played on repeat.

  Reynard.

  My capture equals his death warrant.

  In front of the line of black-and-whites stands a large man with his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest. I can’t see who it is because all the police vehicles have their headlamps on and emergency lights running, but then he steps forward, and his face clears from the shadows.

  All I can focus on is his grin.

  His perfect, shit-eating, American grin.

  Rage erupts inside me like a supernova exploding into space. “SON OF A—”

  “Peach farmer, actually.” Ryan leans down to look at me, his blue eyes shining with mirth. “But you probably already knew that, didn’t you, Angel?”

  He reaches through the open window and wraps his hand firmly around my wrist.

  16

  Ryan

  Whoever coined the phrase “If looks could kill” would have to create something substantially worse than death if he saw the expression on Mariana’s face right now.

  Her look isn’t simply murderous. There’s a holocaust behind her eyes. Planets are being destroyed. Entire universes are getting incinerated by the sheer heat, power, and enormity of her fury.

  It’s so cute, I want to kiss her.

  I open the door and pull her from the car, listening to her sputter, “You lying, scheming, untrustworthy prick!”

  I chuckle. “Uh, hello, kettle? Yeah, it’s the pot calling. We’d like our hypocrisy back. At least I didn’t drug your OJ.”

  Her back is so stiff, her spine might be in danger of snapping. The whites of her eyes glow all around the pupils. She’s pulling hard against my grip, but she’s not going anywhere.

  Not without me, anyway.

  I lean in close to her ear. “I like this outfit, by the way. Very heroin chic. Nice touches with the filthy hoodie and the dirt smudged on your face. You must fit in real nice with all the drug addicts and indigents at that fleabag motel you’ve been holed up in for the past week while you planned the job, hmm?”

  She makes a noise I heard a man make once right before he shot me. It’s a real hair-raiser of a hiss, vicious as all get-out, like some unholy combination of a badger and a rattler and Nosferatu on the hunt.

  Coming from her, it’s as hot as a naked roll in a habanero patch.

  If I didn’t have the wool to pull over everyone’s eyes right now, I’d drag her off into the bushes and have my way with her, filthy clothes and dirt stains be damned.

  Her voice a raw scrape of betrayal, she says, “You just killed him, you know! I hope you’re proud of yourself! I hope you can sleep easy knowing you’ve got Reynard’s blood all over your hands, you heartless—”

  “Oh ye of little faith.” I tweak her nose. “Be quiet now, woman, your man’s got work to do.”

  Her expression is priceless. Priceless. I wish I had a camera. This is one for the books.

  Grinning, I turn back to the squad cars and yell, “Zuckerman! C’mon over here and meet my colleague! I told you she could do it!”

  Mariana goes slack against my grip. She makes a small retching sound, like a cat trying to expel a hairball.

  I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing out loud.

  A pudgy, sweating, middle-aged bald man in a gray suit that fit well thirty pounds ago pushes past the policemen milling around their squad cars and heads toward us with a sheepish smile. He sends Mariana a little wave.

  She mutters, “What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.”

  Smiling at the approaching Zuckerman, I reply under my breath. “Just savin’ your ass, honey. You can thank me later. I’ve got some real good ideas how.”

  “Ms. Lane!”

  In his enthusiasm, Zuckerman practically falls on top of Mariana. He grabs her hand and pumps it up and down like he’s trying to inflate her. “I’m so pleased to meet you!” He laughs nervously, his cheeks a damp, cherubic pink. “I know I probably shouldn’t be thrilled that you pulled it off, but I’ve been telling the board for years that we needed to update our security protocols. And now I have proof, thanks to you! We’ll definitely get that funding I applied for now!”

  In response, Mariana faintly wheezes.

  I suggest, “Why don’t we go inside and have some coffee, and Ms. Lane can debrief you and your head of security about what holes you need to plug in your system, yeah?”

  “Oh yes, definitely, I want to hear all about it!” Zuckerman says with glee. “Oh goodness. I hope I get a promotion out of this. You’re a genius, Ms. Lane. When Mr. McLean approached us this week with his offer to do a penetration test, I must admit I had my doubts that this kind of thing actually worked, but I’m so happy to say I was wrong!”

  He claps, hopping a little.

  Mariana looks like she’s been Tasered.

  Zuckerman waves us toward a squad car. “Let
’s have one of the boys drop us off at the main entrance. I hate to go anywhere on foot, don’t you?” He turns and starts to amble away, but stops when I call, “Mr. Zuckerman.”

  He turns back to me. “Yes, Mr. McLean?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  He blinks like a baby bird. Then he throws his hands in the air. “Oh my stars! Ha ha! Silly me! How could I forget?” He hurries back to us, says behind his hand, “Don’t tell the board I forgot to ask for the diamond back. They’ll have me skinned!”

  Smiling, he holds out his hands to Mariana.

  When she doesn’t move, I take the backpack from her—wresting it off her shoulders when she resists—and hand it to Zuckerman.

  “Heavy!” he exclaims, wide-eyed.

  “Tools,” Mariana says, the way someone might say “Shoot me.”

  “We’re right behind you, Mr. Zuckerman. Lead the way!” I clamp my arm around Mariana’s shoulders, ignoring the blistering string of curses she lets loose under her breath.

  Thirty minutes later, we’re in Zuckerman’s office with the head of the security team and the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, both of whom have been called in from home, where they’d been fast asleep.

  They’re pissed as hell. Apparently, they weren’t in on the pen test idea.

  Zuckerman, meanwhile, is glowing like his wife just gave birth to his first child.

  As for me? I’m having what could be described as the time of my life.

  Mariana still wants to slice off my balls and shove them down my throat, but her rage has settled from thermonuclear to merely atomic. She’s only glanced at me once since she sat in a chair across from Zuckerman’s desk. I handed her a coffee, and she sent me a look that could liquefy steel.

  When I winked at her in response, the air around her shimmered.

  Pretty sure she didn’t dig the wink.

  “How the hell did you get past the biometric fingerprint scanner on the computer room door?” barks the head of the security team, a man unfortunately named Butts. He’s a big guy with a big gut and a big ego who’s having a hard time accepting the truth: a woman snuck onto his turf and snatched the world’s most famous diamond.