A Beautiful Heist (4 page)

“Oh?” My jaw clenched. New agents are trouble. Always trying to assert themselves, striving to impress the boss—just the sort of thing that made my job more difficult. But I shrugged. I didn’t want Templeton to worry about my confidence. An Elite thief wouldn’t worry.

“She’s young and zealous. Name of Nicole Johnson,” Templeton said.

The name didn’t sound familiar, nothing I’d heard Jack mention. She must have been very green. “Do I need to be worried? What have we got on her?”

“Nothing much yet. But the intel team is working on it.” His tone was vaguely dismissive.

An uncomfortable prickle scaled my spine. If I was going to be doing bigger jobs, riskier jobs, I needed to know my adversary. I needed to know about the new FBI agent who could be hunting me down. It was a matter of survival.

“I can help with that intel,” I said. I could probably find her photograph in the time it takes to order a pizza. “I could get to know her—”

“Cat,” he said firmly, with a side order of irritation. “Stay away. They can handle it. You do what you’re good at. Besides, it really didn’t work out so well the last time you tangled with the FBI, did it?”

This was a punch in the stomach.
Jack.

“That’s in the past. And clearly a mistake. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think we can take the chance of you getting personally involved again, can we? You need to stay far away from anyone involved with the FBI.” He paused, for emphasis, I assumed. “The last thing we need is you getting back together with Jack.”

I knew Templeton hadn’t quite forgiven me for this yet. I was reminded every time it came up. And I got it, I really did. What had happened with Jack threatened everything. I could understand why Templeton didn’t want me getting close to anyone in the FBI. The thing was, he had nothing to worry about.

“That is never going to happen, Templeton, because Jack and I will never be back together.” Somehow, it didn’t seem to matter how many times I’d said that exact phrase to myself. Whether lying in bed at night, alone, staring at streetlight shadows on the ceiling, or leaning against shower tiles as warm water streamed down the nape of my neck and hot tears sluiced down my face—saying the words out loud just never got any easier. My heart, just then, felt rather old and sore and tired.

“Just stay out of it, Cat.”

I said nothing.

“I’m serious,” Templeton said. His voice carried the weight of warning. “If you get personally involved with the FBI again, you could put us all in jeopardy. I’m afraid the Agency would be forced to remove you from their roster. Permanently.”

I nodded. “I understand, Templeton.” And I wasn’t specifically planning to go against his wishes. But a part of me was thinking I could easily do a little digging. It’s not like I would have to act on the information I gleaned, right?

“I’ll be in touch with your next assignment. Remember, stay out of trouble.”

With that, Templeton’s pew creaked and he slid off into the shadows, the diamond ring I stole tucked safely in his jacket pocket.

I waited a few minutes, then I, too, slipped away into the darkness.

A thick mist curled around the discarded armchairs and rusted shopping carts that littered the dark city alley of Delridge neighborhood, not far from downtown Seattle. Jack Barlow walked among the shadows, fists clenching and unclenching within the pockets of his brown leather coat. Against instinct, he maintained an unhurried gait and schooled the muscles of his face. To an outsider he might have looked comfortable, unconcerned. Which is exactly the way an FBI agent ought to appear at any given moment.

In reality Jack was anything but relaxed. His stomach muscles tightened. An FBI agent should not be on the way to the meeting he was. An FBI agent should not be meeting with criminals and underworld types. It would be different if it were to bust or trap them. But to
collaborate
with them? He had worked his whole life to capture people like this, and now he was going to rendezvous with them, because he needed their help, and they needed his.

These thoughts made Jack’s insides crawl. These, and the fact that he was not carrying a gun. Firearms and other weapons were prohibited where he was going, to the very hornet’s nest of Seattle underground. And they had told him he’d be checked at the door. Which Jack could live with, in any other part of the city. But not in this neighborhood.

As he passed under a cracked, leaning lamppost, Jack heard something that did not belong. A faint stifled sound, abruptly cut off. He turned sharply and peered into the shadows. At the far end of the alley there was movement and sharp scuffling sounds—unmistakably, a struggle. There were three lumpy shadows, two of them much larger than the third. Two men were attacking someone. A woman. Jack ground his teeth. He felt a hot surge of rage.

Without hesitation Jack acted. He moved like a predator toward the struggle, assessing the situation as he went. His vision sharpened and his pulse hammered. He sized up his opponents. They hadn’t seen him yet. He guessed they were hopped-up on something, meth perhaps. Jack had a few inches of height over the taller one. He could take them down. Then he saw the flash of a knife blade.

“Back off. Now,” Jack growled. He moved toward them, always moving, something his training and experience had taught him. The men turned their heads. The taller had small steel bars piercing his eyebrows. The other wore a grimy baseball hat; filthy hair stuck out beneath the hat in scraps. Both men carried knives. They held the woman on the ground with her hands behind her, driving their knees into her back. Her clothes were torn and she stared at Jack with terrified eyes. She looked about forty, with plain shaggy brown hair and a long nose. Her shoulders and knees jutted out at bony, gawky angles.

“Help me—” she choked out.

Jack’s rage turned to steel, his vision expanded to include all surrounding details, and his mind rapidly advanced, playing out the next few minutes with cold, hard efficiency. He continued moving forward.

“Who the fuck are you?” said the pierced one.

“Buddy, just turn and walk away,” the grubby one said. “This is not your problem.”

The thought of turning and leaving was not even a glimmer of an option for Jack at this point. “Actually, it is my problem,” Jack said.

Jack continued to advance, forcing one of them to come at him. The pierced one, eyes rabid, rushed him with a knife. Jack bobbed and caught him in the jaw with a powerful kick, sending him to the ground. The woman curled up like a potato bug, protecting herself from the surrounding maelstrom.

The grubby one jumped Jack’s half-turned back, attempting to stab his knife into Jack’s ribs. But Jack was ready. He reached back and grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted hard and drove his elbow into the man’s throat. The man dropped like an anvil. But the other was up again, uttering a primal growl as he flew at Jack. His knife ripped the air in a violent arc. Jack dodged it and smashed him in the cheekbone, then chopped him at the base of the neck. The man’s eyes fluttered and he too crumbled, unconscious.

Jack instinctively reached to his left hip.
No handcuffs.
He scanned around and ripped a dangling chain off the grubby one’s belt. With it he tangled the inanimate men together, arms behind their backs.

Jack strode to the woman. “You okay?” His gaze raked her for major bleeding or other injuries. She trembled all over but nodded and mumbled something vaguely reassuring, barely comprehensible. Her face was swollen and bruised but Jack found no sign of major trauma.

Jack placed an anonymous 911 call using the woman’s cell. He then hid in the shadows just long enough to see the woman safely put inside an ambulance, and the thugs in a cop car. He didn’t need the hassle of being involved, officially Especially considering where he was headed.

Weaving through alleys, he felt a warmth inside, satisfying and genuine. Doing that sort of thing, being that guy, it felt right. It was right. Then Jack frowned, mulling over his true purpose tonight, his meeting with the underworld.

Screw the meeting, he thought. He stopped and swiveled. And then hesitated again. Jack scrubbed his hair and took a deep breath.

No. He had to go.

If this were a perfect world, Jack would keep his life simple. He would stay on his side of the law and the crooks would stay on theirs. But life was never that straightforward.

Jack liked things to be black and white. And these days, his life consisted of way too much gray. He squeezed his jaw tight. Damn his father for doing this to him. Damn his father for—even beyond the grave—being able to reach up and screw with his life.

Jack pivoted and continued on his way, toward the meeting that would make him no better than all the other criminals in this world.

 

The two supersized humans at the back door of the club checked Jack for weapons, as he knew they would. Jack’s every fiber sizzled with caution as he stepped from the cold, dark night into a warm, glowing, fragrant restaurant. His eyes never stopped flicking around the room, noting white tablecloths, a string quartet, chilling champagne. Jack blinked, briefly distracted. This was not what he was expecting to find in such a seedy part of town. But then, even underworld types liked to have a nice foie gras now and then. And lord knows they can afford it. The round tables were filled with men. Old men, battle scarred and dead eyed, and young men, jumpy and twitchy and lavishly dressed.

The hostess approached Jack. She was a woman well past her prime, wearing a high ponytail and too much makeup.
That cake layer might be thick,
Jack thought,
but it’s not going to protect you from gunshots, sweetheart.
She ushered him through to a private room at the back of the lounge. It was dark, velvet-wallpapered, with brass lamps and mahogany bookshelves. Two men were seated in leather armchairs surrounded by tendrils of cigar smoke. One was older, at least in his sixties. He carried the appearance of a gentleman: sterling hair, well-groomed hands. Jack knew him as Mr. Oliver Cole. Jack could recognize many of the local criminals. Most had done time, or at least been brought up on charges, even if they’d managed to slither through the cracks.

The younger man, however, Jack did not recognize. He was lean and puckish, with the teeth of at least two grown adults jammed into his mouth.

“Welcome, Jack,” Cole said with a smile. He introduced the younger man by the name Wesley Smith.

Jack simply nodded. He was not about to pretend to be nice. He was here and, as far as he was concerned, that was enough.

Jack’s eyes roved over the bottle of single-malt whiskey on the table, the Rolex on Smith’s wrist. All bought with dirty money. Jack’s mouth twisted as if he were tasting something sour.

He could have easily ignored the summons, the message he’d received on his phone that had led to his coming here.
Your help is requested,
it had said. The directions to this meeting had followed.

His heart had stopped, briefly, when he’d read that message. After all this time he was finally being called upon to take up his father’s quest. Jack had made a promise to his father, long ago. He would keep his word. He would help the criminals in their quest. And—God help him—he would probably help them steal.

He wondered, what had changed now? What was happening, now, that had caused these people to contact him?

Jack took a seat. They offered him a drink and after a moment’s hesitation Jack accepted a glass of single malt. He took a sip: burning molasses smoke, an exquisite pleasure.

“I must tell you,” said Oliver Cole, swirling his drink, “it’s been a long time since we’ve had an FBI agent in here. And any visits we’ve had in the past . . . well, let’s just say that we tended not to offer them drinks.” He looked at Wesley and the two laughed.

Jack cringed. He felt an immediate impulse to get up and leave. He should not be here. This was a mistake. And yet . . . and yet. He had good reason to stay. He forced himself to remain where he was. It was time to find out.

“Let’s get to business, shall we?” Jack said in a low, humorless voice.

“Of course, Jack, of course.” Cole smiled, but his tone wasn’t condescending or dismissive anymore. He needed Jack’s help—that much was obvious. He didn’t want him to leave.

“In your message you asked for help,” Jack said. “Why now? What’s happening?”

Wesley opened a file and produced a glossy color photograph. He passed it to Jack. It was a picture of a magnificent jeweled egg.

“What’s this?” Jack asked. “A Fabergé Egg?”

“Not just a Fabergé Egg,” Wesley said. “The interesting part is what’s contained inside.”

Jack gripped the photograph tightly. “Are you saying—”

Wesley nodded. “This is where the Gifts are now.”

Jack looked at the Egg. Black enamel, gold filigree, jewel-encrusted surface: it was stunning. A thin seam ran around the center of the Egg, clamped tightly shut, containing an amazing secret. If they were right about it.

“So where is this Egg?”

“Well, that’s why we’ve contacted you, Jack,” Cole said. “The location has been traced here, somewhere in Seattle.”

Jack processed this, his breathing shallow. It was hard to believe. After all those generations, all the men and women who’d spent their lifetimes searching. Could it finally be surfacing? A small warmth flickered to life deep inside his chest—could he possibly be part of the team that finally revealed it?

Mostly Jack didn’t believe it. They’d been fooled before. When it came to hunting down biblical artifacts, there were always false leads and wild goose chases.

“So why was I called in?”

Wesley looked at the elder man, who gave a single nod. “We’re going to need you to do some work for us, Jack,” Wesley said.

Jack knew that by
work,
here, they meant things that Jack would not be able to share with his department. Or anyone, for that matter.

The older man scrutinized him with a penetrating stare. “Are you sure you’re up for this? Can we count on you?”

It took Jack a long time to answer. There was no easy choice here. If he entered into this, at the end of it his career could be in ruins. And would he be able to live with himself? After spending his whole life working against crime, now he was contemplating crossing to the other side? The danger level would be far higher than in a regular, aboveboard investigation. But there was his damn promise to his father, before he’d died.

Growing up, Jack had despised everything his father had been about. Except one thing. His father had been part of a larger quest: the hunt for the long-lost Gifts of the Magi. Yes, the biblical artifacts of lore, the legendary gold, frankincense, and myrrh. It was a quest that had been passed down through countless generations, always in secret, always within underworld circles. Jack knew that, for his father, it had been more than a pet project. It had been his reason for living. And the last time Jack had seen his father alive, John Robie had made his son promise that one day he would, when called upon, continue the quest.

Jack couldn’t simply scrub that from his memory, much as he might like to.

Of course there was something else, too. A feeling of doing the right thing, of helping with something that was bigger than him. Jack knew if there was any chance of finding, and reclaiming, what was held inside that Egg—if that’s where the Gifts were now concealed—it would have to be done outside the bounds of the law. He could have sat there forever, trying to figure out another way. But there wasn’t one.

When Jack finally spoke, his voice was firm. “Yes. I’m in.”

Before they could get any further, however, the hostess knocked at the door. She informed Cole of a telephone call. “I have to take this. Wesley, fill Jack in on the rest,” he said, and closed the door behind him with a soft
click.

Jack took another sip of his whiskey and watched Wesley Smith over the rim of his glass. He didn’t trust new people. This man was no exception.

Wesley reclined in his chair and spoke. “Before we get into it, Barlow, I want to know why you’re doing this.” He rubbed his chin and cast Jack a direct look. “I’ll be honest. Mr. Cole says you can be trusted, but I need a little more convincing. So tell me, what’s in it for you?”

Jack studied the other man’s thin face. He saw in Wesley’s countenance the same dislike and distrust that he, himself, felt. If they were to work together, they were both going to have to deal with that.

“Did Mr. Cole tell you who my father was?” Jack asked.

“Nope.”

Jack shrugged and looked up toward the coffered ceiling. “His name was John Barlow. But his alias, and the name he was known by in your circles, was John Robie.”

Wesley’s eyes went wide. “Well, fuck me,” he said. “That’s
you?
But—everyone says that Robie’s son didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“That’s true. I didn’t.”