They drove to the Augustine in a hired luxury sedan with leather seats and a polite, professional driver named Dan. Dan and Sully had clearly known each other for a while, and they chatted sports on the way. Well, when Sully wasn’t grumbling about the cat.
Nate felt a little weird being chauffeured but set it aside, determined to get into character. He wasn’t used to wearing suits or going to art auctions, and he had to pass as someone who did… Though he thought he’d do okay. He was an even-featured white guy in a good suit, so more than half the battle was already won. And god knew he’d spent enough time observing wealthy privilege in action.
When the Augustine’s glowing windows came into view, Sully added his own reminder: “These people can tell a fake when they see one. You have to believe the lie you’re selling—you belong here, you’re one of them.”
Nate was busy unwrapping the Bubble Yum he’d pulled out of his pants’
pocket. He popped two cubes of the pink, sweet gum into his mouth and started chewing.
“Or you can go with the Bubblicious,” Sully said, disbelief and disgust warring across his face. “Jesus.”
“Bubble Yum,” Nate corrected. “And I’m cool.”
Sully didn’t look reassured, but let it drop. He pulled a slim case out of his jacket and opened it.
“Here,” he said, handing Nate what looked like tiny, pale kidney bean. “Put this in your ear.”
An earpiece walkie talkie! How very James Bond-y. “Use it sparingly,” Sully added.
Nate fitted it into his right ear. “You saying I talk too much?”
Sully pulled a face but didn’t answer. He took out his money clip, unfolding a couple of large bills to hand up to the driver. They had arrived across the street from the Augustine, where well-dressed men and women were piling out of their own expensive cars and filing through the front doors, all the men in suits and ties, the women in fashionable eveningwear and heels. Valets buzzed back and forth, opening car doors and handing out tickets.
“Keep it parked on 21st, Dan. Across from the south entrance,” Sully said, and Dan nodded, sliding the bills into his breast pocket.
They got out of the car and started for the front as the sedan pulled away, ducking past a speeding taxi. When they reached the walk, the excited chatter of the arriving bidders filled Nate’s ears. Nate carried his head high and tried to keep himself nice and focused on what was ahead.
“Wow. There’s a real work of art.”
Nate turned, saw Sully watching a cherry-red coupe pulling to a stop at the curb. Nate had never been a big car guy, but he knew the classics. The priceless ones, anyway.
1955, ’56 Mercedes Gullwing, 300SL. Standard Gullwings went for more than a million dollars. If it was a ’55 alloy, one had recently been auctioned for four and a half.
The sporty, gleaming roadster could have rolled off the assembly line the day before, it looked that good. The driver’s door opened, the shining metal rising out and up like a bird’s wing, and a tall, middle-aged man climbed out.
He had aging-Spanish-model good looks, bronze skin, short black hair going silver, and the set jaw of someone used to getting his way.
Sully gritted his teeth. “Shit, Santiago Moncada.”
“As in the House of Moncada?” Nate stared at the guy, who was charming the valet that had stepped up to take his keys. Armando Moncada’s son and heir was one of those men who was aging incredibly well. He could have been forty or sixty, and he was all smiles and expansive gestures. He asked the valet to take care of “mi cariña”, stroking the Benz’s hood with a light hand, and handed off a fat tip. The valet made promises, nodding eagerly.
“He thinks the cross is his by birthright,” Sully said. “If he buys it before we can grab it, kiss the gold goodbye.”
Oh. Not encouraging news. The cross was second up on the bidding schedule. As soon as any item was sold, the art handlers would pack it off to a secure room for pickup by the buyer. But barring unforeseen circumstances, Nate figured he needed ten minutes, tops, to do his part.
Without another word, he and Sully headed for the doors again. As they moved into the gathered elite, Nate repeated to himself that he was superior to all other beings, that he was the richest, the best-looking, the smartest. By the time they stepped into the Augustine’s palatial lobby, he had damn near convinced himself.
* * *
The Augustine’s bidding Aoor was just off the lobby, and it was a beaut—a grand, ballroom-sized atrium dominated by its chandelier, a giant cascading waterfall of lights and chains suspended from the ceiling that swooped down to just over the first Aoor. Beneath it, a hundred velvet-backed chairs faced the raised platform at the room’s far end, a giant video screen above and to the left running slides of the items to be sold—Spanish paintings, jewelry, and artwork primarily from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. There were two buffet tables decorated with artfully arranged platters of expensive hors d’oeuvres, and a full open bar. Display cases along the walls—or tucked into one of the room’s multiple alcoves—showcased some of the items up for sale, and were being inspected by small groups of sharp-eyed bidders. A few staff, art handlers in red jackets, moved around with purpose. New York cocktail conversation in multiple languages filled the airy space, echoing up to the balcony railings that overlooked the bidding Aoor.
Sully checked his watch—still plenty of time before the start—and headed for the bar, Nate at his heels. The kid was checking out details—the guards’ positions, the security door next to one of the buffet tables—but he was doing it discreetly, and with the perfectly bland face of the terminally unimpressed. Not too bad, considering his jaw was packed with bubblegum.
Sully ordered a Manhattan to sip—he had a one-drink rule when he was working, clear head and all that—and dropped a fifty on the bar, then turned to look around the room, Nate at his side casually assessing the environment. Sully recognized a few faces—a rich widow with an art fetish, a fat hedge fund manager who moved in collectors’ circles, a prominent socialite who liked jewelry and her dumb-as-rocks husband. As expected, there were a fair number of people with some claim to Spanish ancestry, so it took him a minute to locate Moncada amid the sea of dark-haired men.
There you are. Moncada was near one of the front windows, talking to someone, a slender woman in a backless black dress who turned her head slightly and—
Oh, hell.
He’d recognize that profile anywhere. She looked good… great, in fact. She was growing out a platinum bleach job, and her dark roots set off her exotic features perfectly—wide, almond eyes and golden brown skin, high cheekbones and pouting lips. Her body was Olympic athlete quality, lean with muscle, and her dress was tight and Aattering, a lot of leg showing. She wore spike heels.
She turned a bit more and spotted him. Those lying lips curved into a smile, and she blew him a kiss.
“You see that?” Nate asked, wonderingly. “The woman with Moncada, she’s Airting with me.”
“Not Airting, and not with you,” Sully said. “That’s Jo Braddock. You ever see her coming, run the other way.”
“She’s coming my way now,” Nate said, and sure enough, Braddock was gracefully striding toward them, eyes glittering, a smirky look on her perfect face.
“Then you know what to do,” Sully said, watching her, and Nate took the cue, wandering off toward the display cases. Sully kept his gaze on the incoming threat. She’d nearly killed him, last time he saw her. She wasn’t holding a weapon, so that was something.
“Victor,” Braddock purred as she closed in, her lightly accented voice warm and friendly. “Long time without the pleasure.”
“Never long enough, Jo, never long enough.”
She smiled, signaled for a drink. That smile looked playful from a distance, but up close it was razor sharp. “What’s the matter? Feelings still hurt after San Sebastian?”
“My feelings?” Sully scoffed. “You’re something else.”
“What ridiculous scheme have you cooked up this time? We both know you can’t afford the thing you’re after.”
He kept his tone light. “If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”
“You do tend to ruin everything,” she said, just as breezily, accepting a martini from the bartender, taking a small sip.
“I’m not the one working for Moncada,” he said. “That’s low, even for you.”
Braddock shrugged with a tilt of her head. “Whatever gets me to the gold.” A practical philosophy in a highly attractive package. There’d been chemistry once upon a time, a brief, intense Aing with feelings on both sides… but mistakes had been made all around. And then there was the whole attempted murder thing. The woman had no heart. “Doesn’t matter who you hurt along the way,” he said.
She leaned in, fixing him with her startling, clear gaze. She smelled like sweet oranges, her breath a memory of taste.
“You taught me that,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And I’ll always be grateful.”
Before he could think of anything to say to that, she was walking away, moving like the trained killer she was beneath her trappings of beauty. He watched her casually join a couple of big guys by the door—a white fifty- something man built like a truck, and an even broader, taller Black man who was twenty years younger, both in fine suits, both wearing the hard, narrowed expression of paid professional muscle.
Terrific. Sully took a healthy swallow of his drink and looked around for Nate. The kid was standing by a tall, narrow display case in one of the alcoves off the main Aoor, undoubtedly the case with the cross… and walking up to join him was Santiago Moncada.
This was just shaping up to be a truly lovely evening. A number of people were already taking their seats, smoothing out their catalogues. Sully drained his glass, and seriously reconsidered his one-drink rule.
* * *
The cross was exquisite, the pictures didn’t do it justice—or maybe it was just seeing it up close and personal that made the difference, but Nate found he couldn’t look away. It was just over seven inches tall, the engravings in and around the tiny precious stones super fine and clear: a four-pointed star at the junction of the cross’s body and the lower bar, lines in a geometric pattern at the top extension. The six larger garnets at the cross’s tips seemed to glow in their setting of heavy yellow gold.
Nate realized he had company and looked up. Santiago Moncada was standing right next to him, staring at the cross with a hungry look in his eyes.
Walk away or engage? Nate hesitated a second too long, and realized he might as well dive in. Fake it ’til you make it.
“Pretty cool, huh?” he offered, because that’s what entitled Nate might say.
Moncada spared a glance at him, then went back to admiring the work of art.
“That’s a one-of-a-kind, solid gold altar crucifix, hand-crafted in Barcelona in the early sixteenth century, so yes,” Moncada said, drily. His accent was pronounced, but in a smooth, aristocratic way, and his English was perfect. “Pretty cool.”
“You know your crosses,” Nate said, letting himself fully inhabit his superiority. Just a couple of extra-rich guys, hanging out. He chewed his gum, owning it.
“My family has been looking for this one for a very long time,” Moncada said.
“That’s funny, so have I,” Nate said, and earned a longer look from the older man. A more discerning one. Nate let him look, uninterested in any lesser man’s opinion.
“You’re a collector?”
“I dabble,” Nate said. “Abstract expressionism is more my thing. But I also like crosses.”
Moncada’s expression changed, a subtle tightening here and there—and his charming aristocrat face slipped for a split second. The look he gave Nate was haughty, entitled, and deadly serious.
“I don’t dabble,” Moncada said, maintaining Alpha eye contact for a long second before continuing, his words cold and deliberate. “This cross has a tragic history. Eighteen men died trying to hold onto it. So much blood, so needlessly spilled.”
Holy shit. Nate hung on to his poker face, but barely. Behind Moncada’s eyes was the absolute imperiousness of a sociopath, protected and coddled by generations of immense wealth and power. He looked at Nate like he was an insect, not even worthy of being stepped on by his overpriced shoe.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” A cultured voice came out of the hidden, quality speakers at just the right volume, interrupting their interaction. “If you will please take your seats.”
Moncada abruptly broke eye contact and turned toward the chairs.
“Good luck to you,” he called as he walked away, the friendly charmer once more.
Shaken, Nate looked for Sully. His partner was still by the bar, watching Nate with a stony expression. His lips moved, and he spoke directly into Nate’s ear.
“Done chatting up our arch-nemesis?”
Nate automatically reached for his ear to blot out the excited rustle and chatter of the bidders. “Pretty sure he just threatened to kill me.”
“Don’t touch your ear like that,” Sully snapped, walking toward the assembled chairs. “You look like an idiot. Get a move on.”
Nate dropped his hand. He saw one of the guards start for the door he meant to go through and got ready, fresh adrenaline dumping into his veins.
Showtime.
* * *
Victor fucking Sullivan.
Jo Braddock kept an eye on him while she waited for the auction to start, Scotty and Hugo Aanking her. They had eyes on him too, but they were also watching the crowd, checking for anyone who didn’t belong. Moncada had requested a seat near the front, and had reserved one for her, but Sully was a back-row kind of guy and she didn’t like the idea of him sitting behind her, especially not while she was wearing heels. He was a bumbler, reckless, but he had a few talents. Mostly for getting himself into trouble, and then back- stabbing whomever was closest… but that level of persistent self-interest could complicate things. She’d learned that the hard way.
She watched Moncada talking to some trust-fund baby over by the display case with the cross. Sully was right, Santiago was not one of the good guys, but he had the resources and was willing to pay for top-of-the-line everything to get what he wanted. He was ruthless, too, which she admired in a man. No point in playing if you didn’t come to win.
The auctioneer, a narrow man in a Brioni suit, stepped onto the auction platform at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please take your seats.”
Braddock looked at Sully automatically, saw him staring toward Moncada, who had finished with the pretty boy and was heading for the chairs. Sully’s lips were moving.
Who’s he talking to? She immediately started scanning the room. There was no way Sully didn’t have some cockeyed, ill-advised plan—
There. The kid Moncada had been chatting with dropped his hand from his ear, and looked around. Was he chewing gum? She saw him focus on one of the entrance guards, who was moving toward the southern security door by one of the buffet tables.
She shot a glance at Sully, who was casually walking to the seats, then turned her full attention to the young man. Twenty-ish, Midwestern good looks, well-built. He looked vaguely familiar, something about the set of his eyes… She couldn’t place him. He fell into step behind the guard at a distance, but not overtly.
“Watch the doors,” she said.
“Aye,” Scotty said, softly. Hugo shifted his massive bulk very slightly, exhaling through his nose.
The security guard had reached the door’s keypad and was tapping in the code. The kid ambled toward him, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world. The guard opened the door and stepped through. The kid scratched his nose and tapped the closing door as he walked past it, a little pat done quickly and neatly, right by the handle.
He kept moving. The door closed, and the young man stopped at the buffet table, drawing nobody’s attention. He selected a square of something and popped it in his mouth, then grabbed two more.
Gee, where’d the gum go?
Braddock looked at her team. Scotty nodded. He was ex-special ops, retired to the lucrative end of the private sector, a hulking silver-haired tank with a neat goatee and a thick burr. Hugo had seen it too, his sharp gaze fixed on the kid. Hugo was a former boxer turned bodyguard, dark skinned with fashionable stubble. He rarely spoke but he was whip-smart, fiercely loyal, and even bigger than Scotty. She’d once watched Hugo beat a man to death with his fists. It hadn’t taken very long.
She didn’t have to say a word. Scotty wandered toward the kid, and Hugo headed for the service stairs, past the lobby. The kid was still eating, but he was undoubtedly about to head through the door he’d gummed open. She’d have liked to watch—Sully’s new baby was talented—but the boys would take care of him, and Moncada was already seated, looking around impatiently.
Braddock headed for the front, through the settling bidders, the last of the small crowd finding their chairs. Moncada was going to buy this cross, and she had some leads on the second. With his money to throw around, somebody would give up the right information… And there was no way she was going to let Victor Sullivan fuck it up, not any part of it. He’d disappointed her more than enough for one lifetime.
* * *
Nate ate one more of the delicate, puffy squares of cheesy goodness as he stepped away from the buffet table—just a last bite before joining his seated comrades—and then stepped to the door, opened it, lifted the gum and was through. Nothing sneaky or furtive, nice and easy.
The door was still swinging closed when he started walking down the empty hallway in front of him. He slung the chewed gum to the Aoor and wiped his hand on his jacket. There were staff offices to either side, a couple of closets of cleaning supplies. He figured the guard had taken the branching west corridor, that one led to a camera monitoring station. He hurried past it, ready to act the fool if anyone saw him—belligerent, embarrassed, where’s the bathroom in this place?
The stairs were to the right at the end of the hall. There was an elevator, but the guards would get an alert if it went into use. Nate stepped into the stairwell, listened—nobody going up or down—and started up, taking the steps at a jog. There were three sets of stairs in the Augustine, including the fancy ones that curled up and around the atrium, but these were the least traveled, inconveniently located at the back corner of the building.
His workouts made the long climb a breeze, though he popped a thin sweat. At the top Aoor he eased the door open into another corridor, this one industrial, and stopped to listen before stepping through. It was quiet up here, only a few open spaces connected by hallways lined with vents and cables, machines humming quietly.
This was going to be the tricky part. There was no good excuse for him to be up here. He’d bluff if he got caught, he had a bullshit explanation about wanting to watch the auction from the top of the atrium—there was a balconied overlook off one of the twisting halls—but it wasn’t much of an alibi, and the fake names that Sully had given to the event planners wouldn’t hold up under any real scrutiny. On the other hand, the only reason anyone would be on the top Aoor would be to adjust the building’s thermostat or fuss with the breakers, neither of which was necessary during an auction. There was a very good chance that he wouldn’t be bothered at all.
Nate thought he heard something in the stairwell below him, a slight echo like a single footstep. He froze for a second—Where did that come from? Someone behind me?—then solved the problem by stepping into the hall and gently closing the door. He turned left and walked quickly through the quiet corridor, which was packed with ventilation pipes and thrumming metal boxes. The atrium went all the way up through the middle of the Augustine, which meant lots of equipment was routed around the giant, open space. He hopped over a massive ventilation pipe, then another. The room he wanted was west and a little north of him. He hurried but made as little noise as humanly possible.
He passed the small offshoot that would take him to the maintenance room’s eastern entrance, off the balcony—in full view of anyone below, if they happened to look up—and hit the building’s northwest corner, turning south. Ahead on the left was the door he wanted, an unassuming slab of metal that would put him where he needed to be.
Nate arrived in front of the maintenance room door, took a deep breath, and tried the handle, ready with his picks if there was a problem. There wasn’t. The door opened into a surprisingly spacious room, walls lined with vents and pipes. Giant climate control units studded the open Aoor, along with a few tables and desks. Nate counted three computers up and running, including a laptop open on a wheeled table, but no one was manning them.
The auxiliary power for the Augustine was routed through a locked metal box midway along the room’s western wall, about the size of a refrigerator, the industrial gray of painted steel framing a plexi window that revealed cords and fuses. If he needed further confirmation, there were a couple of high voltage warnings slapped across the thing.
Sully’s quiet voice crackled in his ear. “Cross is up next. How we doing?” Nate reached into his jacket, pulled out the steel-cutters. “We’re doing.”
Kicking ass and taking names, he added, but only to himself, turning the device on. He set it just over the lock on the steel panel, the cutters slicing through the thin sheet easily with a sewing machine sound, a narrow strip of metal curling from the casing. It wouldn’t take a minute to cut around the lock; he’d yank the fuse, and while chaos reigned he’d head downstairs and pop out the south exit. Assuming Sully could get his part done, they’d be riding away from here with the key before anyone even knew what had happened.
Nate tamped down his satisfaction, focusing on the task at hand. He’d congratulate himself when the cross was in their hands.
* * *
The first piece was a fine painting, oil on copper, by Bartolome Perez. The bidding on Our Lady of Good Counsel opened at $400K, the auctioneer gently coaxing the price up between three interested parties, then two. Santiago Moncada shifted in his seat, impatient for the second lot. Next to him, Ms. Braddock sat stiffly. She’d sent her employees to chase down a potential problem, but had assured him that all was in hand, nothing to concern himself with.
As if I might be concerned. He’d waited too long for this cross to surface. La Cruz de la Hermandad belonged to him. The rest of the world was unaware of the fact, it had been lost so long ago, but no matter; tonight, he would have it in his hands, and it would lead him to the treasure that had been stolen from his House. He’d tried to get his father interested, but the old man was losing touch with reality, talking about atonement for his life of sin. Sad, really. Armando Moncada had been a great man in his day, proud and strong, merciless to his enemies, but that time had passed. Now he was just an old man afraid to die. Santiago was the last of the Moncada line… Although once he’d secured their rightful fortune, he’d take a young wife and create a new heir.
The painting was at 580K and still going up. Moncada shifted in his seat again, annoyed, half tempted to buy it just to get to the next lot… But, of course, that would draw unnecessary attention. He could be patient when it was necessary, no matter what his father believed.
At 600K, one of the two bidders dropped out. The auctioneer called the final bid, looking for a raise, but it was done. The auctioneer clutched his small gavel and tapped it on the dais.
“Sold, for six hundred thousand,” he declared, and the slide of the painting disappeared from the big screen left of the low stage. A brilliant, glowing shot of La Cruz de la Hermandad appeared in its place, and Moncada felt a Aush of excitement. Finally.
“Next up, a gorgeous piece,” the auctioneer said. “La Cruz de la Hermandad. Can we start at two hundred thousand?”
Moncada raised his hand, not bothering with the paddle in Braddock’s lap.
Billionaires were always recognized at auctions.
“I have an opening bid of two hundred from Mr. Moncada,” the man said smoothly, gaze darting around the assembled bidders as someone else raised a paddle. “Make that three hundred thousand, do I have four? Now it’s four hundred thousand, five is next. Do I have five?”
Moncada put his hand up again, unconcerned with the other bidders. Whatever the cost, he would have it. He would find the hidden gold and prove to his father, once and for all, that his long-held interest in their history was more than some silly game.
* * *
The thin spiral of sheet metal dropped to the Aoor.
There! Nate swung the door to the power box open, finding the fuse he wanted at a glance—third row from the top and over two. He didn’t need to cut it, only pull the small box out of the grid.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, reaching for the fuse—
—and the door to the box crashed open wide. Behind it was a tall, gray- haired man in a fancy plaid three-piece suit with murder in his beady eyes. Nate backed up a step.
“Shoont a come oot to pleh wi’ ta big boyes, wee’n, cuz yer aboo tuh git a propre Sco’ish walcom.”
Nate stared at the mean-faced stranger. “I literally have no idea what you just said.”
“I said: yae shouldn’t a come oot to plee witta big boys, wee’un, cuz yer aboot tuh git a propre Scottish walcome.”
“I’m getting two or three words of this, max,” Nate said, stalling, and the Scotsman snarled, grabbed his suit jacket, and threw him across the room.
* * *
“… five hundred is the bid from Mr. Moncada,” the auctioneer said. “Looking for six…”
A slender, plastic-faced older woman in Dior two rows in front of Sully raised her paddle.
“There we are,” the auctioneer said. “Six hundred thousand. I have six.”
Jiminy shitmas, where’s the kid? When the gavel came down, one of the handlers would take the key out of its display case and carry it back to a locked and heavily guarded vault. There’d be no way to lift it.
“Kid?” Sully asked, unable to keep the note of desperation out of his low- pitched voice. “What’s the hold-up? You there?”
Nothing. It was the sound of weeks of preparation going down the drain. “That’s seven hundred thousand, from Mr. Moncada,” the auctioneer said.
“Do we have eight?”
Sully’s jaw clenched. Come on!
“No takers?” The auctioneer was professionally slightly disappointed. “Seven hundred it is? Seven hundred going once, going twice…”
Sully put his paddle in the air.
“There we are! Eight hundred thousand from the gentleman in back. Do I have nine?”
Santiago Moncada looked over his shoulder at Sully, his expression tightly furious. Sully gazed innocently back at him.
Moncada turned front and raised his hand again. “Nine hundred—”
Sully’s paddle shot up, as the auctioneer’s practiced eye took in the bidders. “—no, make that one million dollars,” the caller said happily.
Now Braddock turned in her seat, shooting a death glare at him. Sully couldn’t help a smirk. He could bid, it was a free country, and she couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.
The auctioneer’s gaze Aipped back and forth between Sully and Moncada as they raised the bid in turn, the others falling out as they got into the upper six digits.
“One point one from Mr. Moncada… Now one point two… Make it one point three… What a contest! One point four million dollars, says the other gentleman…”
Sully helplessly raised the bid, praying the kid would make his move, and soon.
* * *
Nate shoulder-rolled across the boxy air conditioning unit the Scotsman had tossed him over, dropping the sheet metal cutters, landing almost on his feet, but not quite. He stumbled, tie Aying in his face, and the big Scot was after him in two long strides. The man’s burly arms shot out, knocking Nate to the Aoor in front of the laptop desk.
The Scot glowered down at him from the other side, meaty fists curled, and started to reach into his jacket.
Nate raised his leg and kicked the wheeled desk with all he had, driving it into the Scotsman’s not inconsiderable gut.
With an oof, the Scot doubled over, stuff Aying off the desk. Nate was on his feet in a second, but the guy was already straightening up.
Nate ran at the gap between the Scot and a tall metal vent on the wall, pushing off the big man’s rounded shoulder with his left hand, feet going up on the vent as he Aew past. The Scot stumbled forward.
Nate didn’t look back, running for the door, vaulting over the air conditioner in his way. He was reaching for a GUN, get OUT!
Sully was talking in his ear, but Nate couldn’t hear him, too fixated on surviving and the pounding of blood in his head. He could hear the Scot lumbering after him, and Sully was just going to have to figure something out. Nate would rather survive than pull this off.
He hit the door and was through it in a Aash, turning right, back the way I came, around the corner and over a vent pipe, Sully’s silk tie Aapping into his eyes—
—and a giant stepped out of the balcony hall, blocking his path, a man with muscles on muscles. Nate didn’t slow down, he’d run the guy down or maybe edge past—
The giant plucked him out of the air and tossed him.
The world spun and Nate’s back hit the ceiling, hard. He hit the Aoor hard, too, just an instant later, a few steps into the balcony hall. Half his air whooshed out of his lungs. Stunned into brain lock, his body instinctively tried to crawl away.
* * *
“Mr. Moncada makes it an even two million dollars!” the auctioneer crowed. The bidders were rustling happily, pleased by the competition.
“I don’t have all night, kid,” Sully whispered urgently, and raised his paddle.
“Now it’s two point one million…”
Braddock leaned in to Moncada, whispering something. Moncada nodded, and Braddock stood and slipped off to the side. Moncada put his hand up again.
“Now two point two million…”
Sully’s hand went up, his guts in a knot.
“Two point three million! Mr. Moncada, will you counter?”
Moncada glared at Sully again, studying him… and then crossed his arms.
Oh, shit! Sully’s mouth went dry. He’s not supposed to fold!
“Nothing more? Mr. Moncada, you’re willing to let it go? Two point three it is, then. Two point three going once. Two point three going twice…”
“He’s calling my bluff, kid, you’re killing me,” Sully breathed, the full horror of his situation crashing over him as the auctioneer raised his gavel.
Moncada’s arm went up, three fingers out.
“Hold on—Mr. Moncada goes right to three!” The caller couldn’t hide his delight. “Three million dollars! What says the other gentleman? Will anyone challenge?”
Moncada looked back at Sully, mouth a tight line. Sully didn’t dare twitch, trying to hide the screaming frustration he felt. Moncada saw it in his eyes, though, and his lips curled into a small, victorious smile.
* * *
Nate scrabbled farther into the hall, the sound of the auctioneer’s voice growing louder. He managed a deep breath and his thoughts rebooted. Back into the maintenance room through the east side, both guys would be behind him and he could circle through, head to the stairs at the front.
He crawled to his feet and stumbled ahead, risking a look back. The MMA fighter behind him was following but not in any hurry, radiating waves of macho, beat-down competence.
The hallway opened out to the left, a waist-high wooden railing spanning the length of the long balcony that overlooked the bidding Aoor. The top of the giant light sculpture cast strange shadows across the railing, the giant metal supports too far away to reach, but the east door to the power room wasn’t twenty feet ahead, he would—
The door he wanted swung open, and out stepped Scotty McScotterson, straightening his ugly suit. Blocking Nate’s exit strategy with his big barrel- chested body.
Mr. MMA was right on his heels, the Scot was dead ahead. Nate was, in a word, completely fucked.
* * *
“Three million going once… three going twice…”
Sully realized that Braddock was walking down the line of chairs over on the right, headed his way, a killing smile on her own cruel mouth. No doubt she’d offered to kill him for Moncada. She’d do it, too, slide the creepy little Indonesian blade she always carried right across his throat.
“Cut the power, kid! You gotta do something now!”
* * *
The big men closing in, Sully hissing in his ear, Nate jumped onto the railing and launched himself at the massive light fixture hanging over the atrium.
His desperately clutching arms missed the support he was aiming for. He was Aying high—and then he was dropping, falling fast into the hanging mass of lights.
Nate snatched at the bars of light, fingers sliding over burning tubes, and managed to catch the end of one. He grabbed it with both hands, swinging into a dozen hanging chains.
The light burned but he didn’t dare let go as the dozens of suspended lights clanged together like wind chimes. Metal shrieked, glass shattered, and Nate’s sweaty hands started to slide.
* * *
Sully looked up along with everyone else, his mouth falling open. The kid was hanging off the chandelier, three stories up. Chains and light bars swung wildly.
“That was definitely something,” Sully said, voice lost amid the gasps and shrieks of the bidders. Glass bars from the sculpture were dropping like bombs, shattering on the pristine Aoor. Everyone was out of their seats in a second, stepping on each other, knocking over chairs to get out from under the catastrophe about to happen.
The Augustine’s main alarms went off, sirens blaring, safety lights Aashing along the walls. Amid the sudden mass exodus for the front door, the red- coated staff and a handful of guards had moved toward the display cases, following standard lockdown procedure.
“And whoomp, there it is,” Sully muttered, on his feet and heading for the alcove where the cross was waiting. He used the crush of Aeeing bidders to take off his jacket, reverse it, and slip it back on. He’d paid a good and discreet tailor to make the jacket, but he’d pinned the Augustine staff name tag on himself. In the time it took him to cross the room, he’d become an employee.
More glass shattered, a metallic groaning from the giant fixture adding to the chaos. Sully caught a glimpse of Braddock scanning the stumbling rich people, looking for him, but then it was work-time, and he put her out of his mind.
An old guy was taking La Cruz de la Hermandad out of its display case, a guard standing close by, watching the mob freak out.
“Hey, Seth,” Sully said, glancing at the man’s name tag to confirm. He’d done his homework. “Addison told me to get that to the vault, pronto.”
Seth had just finished putting the cross into the velvet-wrapped foam of its silver transport case. He looked up, barely glancing at Sully’s face, his gaze finding the name tag—and he handed the case to Sully, just like that.
Sully nodded a thanks and walked away, following another handler toward the security door. The handler tapped a code and went through… and Sully kept right on walking, heading for the service corridor past the lobby.
* * *
Nate let go of the burning light as he slid down, sweeping his arms through the spaced chains, grabbing three of them together a few feet down. The bars of light they supported smashed below. Rich people pointed and gasped and ran for cover. Nate’s dress shoes scrabbled for purchase, but the chained lights swung out from under him—and he could hear more metal bending and tearing overhead, the sculpture wasn’t made to bear so much extra weight—
The chains he held gave way in a group, dropping him, crashing him into more burning, swinging lights.
No no no—!
He clutched urgently at the collapsing chains, tried to dig into them, wrap himself around something, but it was no good. He headed down in fits and starts, every chain breaking free, nothing but exploding lights under his feet. It was an ugly, destructive slide, the atrium dimming as bulbs burst, as the fantastic waterfall of light disintegrated into a swinging mass of crumpling metal.
Suddenly, there was nothing under his feet, his fancy shoes kicking air. A woman shrieked. He managed to grab on to one of the lower bars, and that broke free, too, and then he was falling. Oh shit, I’m—
Before he could even think dead, he hit the Aoor in a graceless heap, surrounded by broken glass and hot chain. A small crowd immediately gathered around him, reaching for him, random cultured voices asking if he was okay, asking what had happened. He sat up, adrenaline pounding, looking for Sully.
There he was, wearing one of the art handlers’ jackets, walking for the security door past the lobby. He carried one of the Augustine’s stainless transport cases and hadn’t even slowed down to watch Nate’s wild descent to the first Aoor.
“Hey, where are you going?” Nate whispered.
Sully stopped and turned, met Nate’s gaze for just a second from across the room.
“Only one rule in this game, kid,” Sully said, his voice cool. “Don’t get caught.”
Sully turned and disappeared through the security door. Leaving Nate surrounded, and utterly alone.
* * *
It was too bad about the kid, but Sully had the key and the exit was in sight— an employee entrance at the building’s northwest corner. A couple of staff hurried past, but no one was watching him; the vault was ahead and to the right, down a hall, the exit to the left. Fifty feet to go, he was free and—
Jo Braddock stepped in front of him, and in a single, graceful move had her curved knife pressed to his throat, his back to one of the pillars in the empty hall.
Karambit, he remembered randomly. The creepy little talon of metal, cold and sharp against his neck, was a karambit.
“What a plan,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Even more ridiculous than I could have imagined.”
“I don’t know, I think it’s going pretty well so far,” Sully said.
“I think that belongs to me,” she said, the pressure from the knife increasing just the tiniest bit.
Sully held out the case, their hands touching brieAy as she took it from him, her greedy eyes shining… and that was when the guard appeared ahead, coming from the vault area, two more guards right behind him.
Thank god.
“Took you guys long enough!” Sully shouted. “She’s trying to steal the cross!”
Braddock’s jaw clenched. She lowered the knife and turned to face the trio, all of whom had their hands on their sidearms.
“Drop the case and step back,” the first guy said.
Braddock bent her knees, set the case on the Aoor gently. She raised her free hand, still holding her knife in the other, letting it dangle from its retention ring off one slender finger. The guards edged forward, bristling with authority.
“I’ll get this where it belongs,” Sully said, stepping past her, scooping up the case. “Good luck,” he added, and then he was walking away from her and past the guards. The trio were still moving in, convinced they could handle a lone woman without resorting to violence.
Poor dumb bastards.
He heard the first guy go down, heard the shocked, strangled cry and the thud of a falling body. Sully reached the T at the end of the corridor and glanced back, saw Braddock dancing silently between the two standing guards, knife Aashing, blood Aying. The men grunted and wheezed and blocked, but they didn’t stand a chance, not against her.
The exit to his left was unmanned. Sully walked through it, the sound of the deadly melee falling away behind him. The brisk night air felt like victory.
* * *
Some of the nice rich people helped Nate to his feet, brushing glass off him, exclaiming over his surprise drop-in. The one-of-a-kind light sculpture was ruined, but relieved of his weight, it had finally stopped groaning and crashing. Nate saw a pair of security guards moving in and got back into character, fast, looking up at the heavily damaged fixture with a scowl.
One of the guards fixed him with a hard look. “We’re going to have to ask you a few questions.”
“You want to question me?” Nate spluttered, deeply offended. “Are you serious? I want to question you. Better yet, I’m going to let my lawyers ask the questions, starting with who installed those railings?!”
He gestured toward the ceiling expansively. “Are they designed to make you fall? Seriously, look at them!”
Both of the guards and most of the remaining bidders looked up, stepping away from him for a better view—and Nate took the opportunity to stalk away toward the main exit, the very embodiment of angry self-righteous litigiousness, mumbling furiously under his breath. How dare they, he could have been seriously injured, his lawyers were going to dance on the Augustine’s grave…
Nobody stopped him as he fumed his way right out the door.
* * *
Sully put the case down just long enough to lose the jacket, dropping it on the sidewalk at the corner of the auction house. His gaze darted around, watching for anyone in a uniform, but all he could see was a scattering of bidders milling around by the front door.
He picked up the case and walked quickly to the corner, not running, not doing anything that would draw attention. He turned onto 21st and picked up the pace a bit, spotting the sedan idling at the curb. He hurried to the car, shot another look around—nobody—and opened the back door, sliding into his seat with the priceless case on his lap. As soon as the door latched, Dan was pulling away into light traffic.
Sully turned his head—and there was Nate in the seat next to his, glaring, his cheeks Aushed, his hair disheveled.
How?
“Surprised to see me?” Nate asked, bitterly.
Actually, yeah, but no point in making this awkward. The kid had shaken off his fall and gotten out ahead of Sully. Good for him.
“Proved yourself again, kid,” he said. “That was some swan dive you took.”
“Another one of your tests?” Nate asked, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. You were just going to leave me there. Unbelievable.”
Sully bushed off the kid’s anger; everything had worked out and the job was done. He opened the case and took out the heavy cross, marveling at the weight of it in his hand. “Wouldn’t do any good having us both locked up. I had the cross.”
“How about I hold onto it,” Nate said, and held out his hand.
Sully was reluctant to give it up, but the kid just glared at him, waiting.
Sighing, Sully handed it over. “What, you don’t trust me?”
“That’s a joke, right?” Nate snorted, taking the jeweled artifact, but he settled a little once he was holding it.
“Take us to Teterboro, Dan,” Sully called up. The one decent pilot he still knew slept on his plane since his wife had kicked him out last year, at Teterboro. They could charter a Aight out for tomorrow. They’d want to pack up some stuff, and he was going to have to do something about the stupid cat…
He looked at Nate, who was studying the cross. “Unless you want to get dropped somewhere else?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The kid glared at him again, and Sully saw the newborn suspicion in his youthful gaze, the reassessment of Sully as a guy who shouldn’t be trusted.
Better late than never.
“Sorry, Sully,” Nate said. “I’m all in.”