A Beautiful Heist (19 page)

I raised my chin defensively. “Excuse me?”

“Montgomery, he’s a good guy. You, my dear, are a bad guy. And bad and good don’t mix. It’s like roller coasters and egg salad.”

I took a sip of my ice-cold Stella Artois. “What about ‘opposites attract’?”

“Sorry, babe, I don’t buy that.”

I became aware of Ethan’s proximity to me, beside me on the sofa, and the way he was looking at me. I was not getting involved with him. Absolutely not. I did not need more heartache.

“Tell me, Montgomery, why do you do this? What keeps you in the criminal game?”

“Well, it’s complicated,” I said. I dug into a container of shrimp and spinach curry. I sipped more beer and felt a distinct tingling in my legs.

“I’ve got nowhere to be,” he said.

And then—maybe because of the alcohol—maybe because I needed catharsis after my awful day, or maybe because I felt like I could trust Ethan, after what he’d done for me today, I found myself telling Ethan all about my sister, Penny. He watched me thoughtfully as I told him.

“And that’s why I keep doing it,” I said at last. “That’s why I can’t get out—not until I finally make amends.”

“Okay, Montgomery, but you don’t seriously think you would quit, then, do you?”

“Yes. I have to.”
How am I supposed to get my fairy-tale ending otherwise?

“Montgomery, there’s no way. You wouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t choose to be ordinary any more than I would.”

I frowned at him. “And what makes you think you know me?”

He smiled mischievously. “Well, I admit, I don’t know you as well as I’d like to, right now”—at this point, his look took on a smoldering quality—“but I’m pretty sure I’m right about this.”

I realized, belatedly, that I’d probably had too much to drink.

Right. Focus, Cat. Do not give in to temptation.

“Think about it, Montgomery,” he continued. “What was your life like before you discovered your skills?”

I nodded, chewing noodles. “Pretty bad, actually. I mean I was just a kid. But I was always mediocre at everything I did. So garden variety. Nothing special.” I bit my lip; it wasn’t easy to admit this. “I hated it.” My insides twisted, remembering how I felt when I was young. And I wondered just how far I would go to avoid feeling that way again.

“Right. So when you discovered your hidden talents—how did you feel then?”

Alive.
I didn’t say this, though.

“Like, all of a sudden, you had a place in the world, right?” he said. “A purpose. There aren’t many truly great thieves in this world ... but there are a whole lot of accountants, sales reps, and middle managers out there. All living lives of quiet desperation.”

I flashed him a wry smile. “Oh, so you’re quoting Thoreau now?”

“I’m serious. Do you really want to be one of those people? I’m sure you’ve got people like that in your life right now. Think about it—do you really want to turn out like them?”

I looked down, frowning. I instantly thought of my parents. As much as I loved my mom and dad, I could see how their choices left them vaguely unfulfilled and unsatisfied. And, ultimately, insignificant in the world. My heart crushed with a desperate desire to avoid that fate.

“There was a girl in school when I was a kid,” I heard myself saying, “and she was going places. She was a singer—truly talented. Everyone could tell she was destined for greater things. And she was. Early on, she left, to have a spectacular career and glamorous life. Kelly Bishop—you might have heard of her?” Ethan’s eyebrows rose in recognition of the name. I nodded. “I longed for that. Not singing—I knew I couldn’t sing well enough to be a star. Or dancing, for that matter. Or sports, or music. And believe me, I tried it all, desperate to find my one special thing.”

“Well, Montgomery, being a thief is your stardom. And yeah, maybe it means you’re the villain. But better
that
than nothing.”

The rain had started; it poured down the windows in sheets.

“You know what?” I said. “You’re right. I
am
the bad guy. And like you said—what’s wrong with that? I’m good at it.”

“That’s my girl.”

My head was wheeling with a new feeling of empowerment. It felt good. Possibly the Stella Artois was contributing but I didn’t care. Ethan stretched an arm out and touched the back of my neck with his warm hand. It was like his fingertips were electric.

To hell with caution. I turned toward him and gazed at him from under lowered lashes. He was no novice; he knew exactly what I meant by that look.

Suddenly we were in his bedroom, tearing at each others’ clothes, groping and rolling together, half naked. Then a lucid thought pushed itself into my fuzzy brain.
Oh my God, did I have spinach in my teeth from that shrimp curry?
I tried to forget about it. But dammit, now the thought was in my head, I couldn’t get it out.

I mumbled something vague to Ethan about needing the washroom, disentangled myself, and darted into the en suite.

I quickly checked my reflection, and sure enough, an enormous piece of spinach adorned the space between my left front incisors. A frantic, semidrunk scramble through Ethan’s medicine cabinet searching for dental floss came up empty. Desperate to get back to that warm, strong embrace in those tangled sheets, I savagely picked at my teeth with my fingernail, and the most stubborn piece of spinach ever finally relented its hold.

Of course my gum was now bleeding.

I stopped that with a cold cloth and perhaps more pressure than strictly required, and at last I emerged from the bathroom. I noted that the delay had the effect of heightening my anticipation even more. My legs quivered with nervous excitement.

Ethan was lying bare chested on the bed, propped up on one well-carved, tanned arm. “Everything all sorted out, Montgomery?” he said. One eyebrow was raised, and he was wearing his signature smile of mischief.

“Yes, thank you,” I said primly.

“Good. Then come here.” His voice was suddenly low, velvet, with a raw edge.

What came next was a hot blur.

The old stone monastery, tucked into the hills, was surrounded by masonry walls and a black iron gate. The night sky swirled chalky black and gray, heavy with the impending storm. A strong wind flipped the leaves on the trees and showed their pale underbellies. Jack glanced up at the starless, moonless sky. He hoped the monks would arrive before the rain did. He adjusted his night-vision goggles and trained his sight line on the monastery gate.

He shifted for comfort. A futile endeavor, when hiding in bushes. A cluster of sharp sticks poked him in the side.

This had better be worth it. They were badly in need of information. Ever since losing the two monks that day of the stakeout, Wesley had been struggling to ferret them out. He had, interestingly, learned that they were indeed men of the cloth. But that was the only solid bit of information he could find. Jack’s job tonight was to observe and glean a few more details.

Jack knew, of course, that the mere fact they were monks was no guarantee of benevolence. Corruption within the church was rampant. On the other hand, what if their motives were good ones? Could they possibly all be on the same side? It was up to Jack to find out. Jack felt a stirring, the feeling of being on the cusp of something very big. Maybe they were actually going to succeed this time.

Jack’s mind flashed with a memory of his father. It was a time when John Robie had come home after a long trip overseas. He’d arrived home late at night and crept into Jack’s room to check on him.

Things were bad between them at this point. Jack knew his father was a thief. Yet he wasn’t old enough to leave and be independent. He was a prisoner in a criminal household and he hated it.

But they did have moments of civility.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, still awake, when he saw the deep lines and dark shadows in his father’s face.

John Robie sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked softly. “We lost it. Again.” His voice was flat and quiet.

Jack knew about his father’s quest. He knew that it involved several other people all around the world. The object of the quest was something ancient, called the Gifts, which had been lost long ago. Beyond that, he knew little. Far less than he knew now.

It was the only thing Jack admired his father for. But something had been bothering Jack lately. “Dad—when you finally do locate the Gifts—will you have to steal them?”

“Yes, Jack. We will have to steal them back. That’s what we’ve been training for. That is the legacy of the thieves. It’s the quest that has been handed down through generations.”

Jack rolled over, turning his back to his father. It was not what he wanted to hear. Stealing was wrong.

And yet—here in the bushes at the monastery—here Jack was, part of the plan that would do exactly that. Jack had taken up the mantle from his father. And the strange thing? It felt like the right thing to do.

Just then Jack saw movement within the magnolia bushes next to the monastery gate. A subtle movement, but unmistakably unnatural. Someone else was there, hidden. He sharpened the focus on his binoculars, training them on that area. Who was there? Were they waiting for the monks like Jack was? Their position was too close for observation. It was the sort of position one would choose for an ambush.

Before Jack could do anything more, headlights shone and a taxi pulled slowly up the driveway. Wesley’s intel had said the monks would be arriving in a cab. Jack immediately began to shift closer to the gate, positioning and preparing himself for whatever came next.

The two monks clambered from the taxi just as the rain began to fall in its first delicate drops. Standing next to the cab, they fussed with their bags and cloaks and finally located a yellow umbrella. Jack watched the taxi drive away. The monks turned toward the gates, walking ever closer to the row of magnolia bushes. Jack gritted his teeth. What was he going to do now? It was like watching two little antelope innocently springing toward lions crouched in the grass.

As the cab’s headlights disappeared down the hill, two men emerged from the bushes, moving with the coiled danger of cobras. One was a muscle-bound steroid monster, the other a wiry man with the physique of a hard laborer, older than the other and although smaller, clearly much more dangerous. Jack spotted a dragon tattoo on the man’s forearm; he recognized it from the attack in the parking garage. They positioned themselves between the monks and the monastery gate.

The monks, however, hadn’t noticed a thing yet as they struggled to open their umbrella. In a moment they gave up on it and turned to dash into the monastery. They froze when they saw the two men.

“Who are you? What do you want?” demanded one of the monks bravely, the tall one with ears like doorknobs.

“Just to chat,” said the wiry, more dangerous man. Both thugs loomed closer, menacing, intimidating. “You two need to stop meddling in things that are bigger than you.”

“What are you talking about?” The monks exchanged a quick, panicked glance. Jack could see the Adam’s apple of the tall man bob as he swallowed. They blinked against the falling raindrops that splattered on their hair and faces. “We don’t know what you mean.”

The wiry thug closed his eyes with a pained expression.

“Sure you do,” said the steroid monster. “And as long as you mind your own business, you won’t have any trouble.” Rain was now splashing down in small puddles on the gravel.

Jack stayed hidden, for the moment, holding his breath.
Just agree,
he silently willed the monks. Just tell them what they want to hear.
Okay, no problem ... sorry to bother you—

“We can’t do that,” said the shorter, darker monk. He held his chin defiantly but his voice was tight and pitched high. “This is too important.”

Jack winced. He knew in the next moment he’d be forced to cross the line, knew that he wouldn’t be able to sit and watch. His muscles tightened in readiness. He pulled out his handgun. The two thugs looked at each other. With no further comment they withdrew their weapons—a crowbar and a knife—and began to close the gap between themselves and the monks.

And that was enough. Jack leaped down, kicking the crowbar from the wiry man’s hands. Everything after that became a pinpoint focus of physical movement. With the advantage of surprise, Jack had a shaved second in which he brought the butt end of his gun around to smash the back of the guy’s head, knocking him out cold. Jack spun, just as the second guy was coming at him with his knife. It was too fast to get a clear shot—he knew he might hit a monk. Jack managed to dodge the thrust of the blade—steroids gave the guy strength but not speed or agility. But Jack couldn’t avoid being brought down by the sheer mass of the man. The full force hit Jack like a train as they slammed into the mud. A searing pain fired into Jack’s leg like a hot needle—he looked wildly downward at the knife plunged into his lower leg.

The thug ripped it loose, ready to strike again.

Jack gasped for air and struggled away on the muddy ground. He flipped himself over and aimed the gun at the man who was bearing down on him.

A loud crack echoed against the stone walls. The man crumpled in a giant heap, bleeding from a chest wound. Jack rose, heart pounding. Then, he heard a strangled sound directly behind him. He spiraled, raising his gun automatically, to see the wiry man, consciousness regained, holding a knife against the throat of a monk.

Jack froze, arms raised, gun pointing forward, leveled on the attacker. He rasped for breath. The other monk was several steps away and cowering by the magnolia bush.

“You don’t have a shot, Barlow,” the thug growled. “It’s too dark. And I’m pretty sure you’re not the type to risk killing a monk.”

He was right. On both counts. Jack knew his night-vision goggles lay on the ground back in the shrubs, of no use to him now. There was too much chance of missing the shot. And if he missed, Jack had no doubt the guy would cut the monk’s throat. The thug backed up slowly toward the monastery gates, pressing the knife to the monk’s throat. He had to stop him getting into the monastery. He couldn’t allow a hostage situation.

Jack then noticed a dim lantern above the monastery gates. That could do it—just a little more light. The rain was heavy now, streaming down all their faces in ribbons.

“Where are you going to go?” he challenged the thug. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Why don’t you just back off, put down the knife, and we can talk about it.”

The thug took another step backward, dragging the monk with him.

Jack’s eyes were riveted to the two men. He didn’t blink. His breathing slowed, everything moved in crisp, slow motion. Raindrops fell from the sky, stretched out in time like a nature documentary. Just a few more steps ...

A sharp red circle appeared on the thug’s forehead. He buckled and landed in an unmoving pile. Jack lowered his gun, exhaling, satisfied with his aim. The monk fell away, gasping. Jack was by his side in two strides. The monk was not badly hurt, the only visible wound a thin line of red on his white throat. The other monk staggered over. Jack inspected them; overall, no major injuries. Just bruised and scared.

They sheltered beneath the overhang of the gate. Rain streamed down in a waterfall over the ledge, hammering on the ground and creating a deep channel in the mud. Jack took out his cell phone.

He hesitated before dialing Wesley’s number—but what choice did he have? There were two bodies and he needed them taken care of, ASAP. And he couldn’t make an official call. Too difficult to explain.

He felt a tug across the line between right and wrong. Admittedly, there was a certain comfort in aligning with the “other” side—the side that did not question, that accepted that certain things simply needed to be done. Did he like that his mind was raking in this direction?

The rain sounded snare-drum beats on the stone ledge above them. Jack punched in Wesley’s phone number.

“Don’t do anything,” Wesley said flatly after Jack described the situation. “We can handle it.” Jack pressed the phone to his ear so hard it almost hurt, but he could barely hear over the rain.

He looked at the two dead bodies, at the water drops falling into their open, upwardly staring eyes. He was too far in now. He shivered, and uttered a curt “Fine.” He disconnected the call and stared out into the rain.

The reedy voice of one of the monks pushed through his awareness. “We can’t thank you enough, Jack.”

Jack turned and regarded them carefully. “How do you know my name?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. The monks exchanged an uncertain glance. Their robes hung off them now in sopping drapes.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to need an explanation and I’m going to need it fast. Who are you? And what are you up to?”

The Latin-looking monk gave the taller one a brief nod. “I’m Brother Anthony and this is Brother Franco. We’re seeking the Aurora Egg,” he said. “Just like you.”

This did not come as a huge surprise. Jack had already pieced together as much. What he wanted to know was why. Jack leaned back against a cold stone post and scrubbed his face. “Fine. The church is involved. Why—after all this time?”

Brother Franco coughed and looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Actually the church isn’t involved. Not officially. It’s just us. Technically, we’re not supposed to be here.”

Jack frowned and rolled his hand in an onward motion. “Go on.”

“We’ve been trying to make our case for a long time, but our superiors have totally dismissed the evidence that we’ve put forward.”

Also not a surprise. The church often denied the existence of biblical artifacts. Until they were pressed beneath its nose, that is.

“But soon, there will be no disputing things,” Brother Anthony said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Because we know where the Egg is now. Without a doubt. Its precise location.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. Now this, this
was
a surprise. “Its precise location?”

They nodded, heads bouncing like bobble-head dolls. “I’m sure that’s the reason behind this attack,” Brother Franco said, sparing a brief, grim glance toward the bodies in the mud. The rain had lightened now; drops fell in gentle threads.

“Okay, so where is it?” Jack asked.

“The Gorlovich family has it in their possession.”

“Not helpful—already knew that. Besides, that family has a million places they could be keeping it. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay. It’s in the Starlight Casino. In the vault named Bagreef. An anagram for Fabergé.”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly and he froze. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Jack frowned, considering all of this. He looked at the monks carefully. Jack was wary—he didn’t want to reveal too much, in case there were pieces they didn’t know. But he had to get to the bottom of things. “Just so we have this straight—you believe the legend is true?”

Both monks nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mr. Barlow,” Brother Franco said. “We know, just as you do, that the Fabergé Egg contains the long-lost Gifts of the Magi.”