They were locked in this weird hate/eye-fuck situation.
“Thank you so much for taking interest in my job, but after the Van Linsted thing, Mum just wanted me close to home. So I put in for a transfer. I’m home now. Guess you’d better get used to seeing me around.”
“You should go back. I’ll look after your mum.”
Emma laughed at that. “You’re ridiculous. Still playing power broker. It must really burn that you have zero power over me.”
He took a step toward her, but she’d already tuned him out. “So what are you lot up to? I know it’s not to write a fat check. I saw you sniffing around Jameson and Middleton, and I want in.”
The hell? No way, no how. “Don’t know what you’re on about,” I muttered then took a sip of scotch.
“You can’t bullshit me, East. I can see it in your eyes. You trust me and want me to know. And let’s not forget that I got you the video that was the catalyst that set us all on this path. Don't shut me out.”
She wasn’t wrong. “There’s nothing to tell, Ems. Bridge and I have something to do. We’ll catch you later, yeah?”
She blocked our path of escape. Bridge’s body went tight and rigid as he came into contact with her. When he spoke, his voice was pure ice. “Stay out of it, Emma.”
“Or what? You’re going to toss me over your shoulder and drag me out of here? Let’s not forget one simple thing; you need me. I’ll be around when you finally figure out you can’t leave me out of this.” Then she stepped aside and stalked into the crowd.
Bridge glowered after her, looking very much like he was considering clubbing her over the head.
“Well, I’m empty. Join me at the bar?”
He was still looking toward the direction Emma had sauntered when he mumbled, “I’m going to go check on Mina.”
And by check on, he meant shag out his frustrations. But Bridge’s fucked-up relationship was none of my business unless Mina forced my hand. She claimed to love him, so it was better to leave well enough alone.
Suddenly my phone chimed. So did Bridge's. We both pulled them out of our inside pockets, and I frowned as I stared at the text lighting my screen.
Unknown: If you want Garreth Jameson to pay, be out on the balcony in 5 minutes.
Bridge held up his phone as I met his gaze. "Same tosser? Is it Theroux?"
I scowled at his phone. "Looks that way," I muttered as I searched the crowd for Ben. "Let's get to the balcony."
He lifted a brow. “It’s unlike you to be so trusting.”
He was right. Outside of my mates, I trusted no one, let alone a couple of random texts. But I wanted information. Any scrap of information offered was a clue to better understanding.
I didn't even have time to formulate my thoughts before Ben headed in our direction, his long stride rapidly eating up the distance. He held up his phone face out and gave it a little shake. "You get the same one?"
Bridge and I nodded, surreptitiously scanning our surroundings. The message directed us out to the balcony, so I looked up at Ben. "We’re doing this?"
He frowned then gave us a curt nod. "Let's go see what this arsehole wants. And then maybe ask how he knows us or what we’re looking for."
Bridge rubbed his jaw. "I don’t like it.”
“But do you have a better plan?"
Bridge said nothing, so we headed around the bar to the stairwell that led to the balcony.
Once on the balcony, only Ben received a text with a video.
The video zoomed in on the profile of a man in shadow. He was seated next to a painting that caught my breath. If I were a betting man, I’d have said that it was a Miles Kruger.
But my family had all known Krugers in our collection. My great-grandmother, Ruth Du Mont, had been a wealthy Jewish heiress married to a German businessman. At the start of the war, he smuggled her to safety in America, then did what he could to secure her inheritance. He bought art and safeguarded the pieces her family had handed down. He didn’t survive, but when the war was over, unlike so many, she had the things he’d been able to safeguard for her.
She eventually remarried a British doctor, and she and her new husband had spent years completing the collection her first husband had started for her.
Over the years, my mother’s trust had been able to acquire every original piece of art that had belonged to her family, including the Miles Kruger pieces.
But it was said there was a missing one. One that hadn’t been seen since the war.
I let out a long breath. "Is that fucking time-stamped?"
Ben nodded, pointing at the corner. "The newspaper, when you zoom in on it, that’s today's date."
"That has to be a forgery," I mumbled. No fucking way did he have the lost Kruger.
Ben shrugged. "I mean, your family has the definitive collection of Krugers. You would know—or your mother would."
I shook my head. "My sister would, because she's the curator of the collection. But the collection’s in a museum in Monaco. It has been for the last fifteen years."
Christ. If that was a genuine Kruger…
The man leaned forward, partially obscured in shadows. From what I could tell, he was apparently white, older, as he had some sagging in the jaw area. But it was still a strong chin with a slight cleft.
"I'm sure you're wondering who I am,” he began in a strong voice laced with a touch of a French accent. “But that's not important. What’s important is what I’m offering. You and I have a common interest. And we can help each other.”
The man shifted in his seat, and my eyes stayed glued to the painting behind him. That couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.
He continued. “As I said when I reached out to Mr. Hale, I am aware of your Garreth Jameson problem. And I’m willing to assist. Given the need for secrecy, I’ll need to secure your full cooperation before we can move on.”
Bridge lifted a brow. “What, he thinks we work for him now?”
The man’s lips lifted into a smile. “I know what you're thinking, Covington. Or perhaps Edgerton. You hate to be controlled most of all. No, you don’t work for me. But we can help each other if you are amenable. We’ll draw up terms.” He paused. “However, if you are not amenable, unfortunately, this video will go out to the authorities.”
The screen went dark for a second, and then I could see motion. The building was familiar. We’d robbed it a couple of months ago. Suddenly I could see men scurrying like ants out of the building, heading to different exit points.
What the fuck was this? I’d scrubbed all CCTV feeds from the surrounding buildings that night. All security. Everything.
This is a drone.
Fuck. I’d cocked it up.
How were you supposed to check for a private drone?
The video sped up until it showed Ben and Bridge at the van, and Ben ripped off his balaclava.
“Shit.” Ben’s muttered curse was soft.
The man continued. “I know Mr. Hale is thinking that he was lax on security. I assure you, you were not. I’m just very good. And I like knowing who I’m doing business with. If you assist me, I will give you what you want by using this.” He pointed at the painting. “Mr. Hale knows that Garreth Jameson and his family would do anything to get their hands on this. I’m willing to use it to give you what you want.”