The Revelation (15 page)

“I’m positive,” I say, leering at her. “There’s no
point in doing it if I don’t do it phenomenally, right?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Kat

Josh, Henn and I are sitting in a dive bar in
Henderson, Nevada, just down the street from the fifth and final
bank of this morning’s money-stealing tour. As far as we know,
every single money-transfer went off without a hitch, exactly
according to plan—but all we can do now is sit and wait to hear
from Jonas to find out whether or not the feds were able to access
the money.

“Just say as little as possible,” Henn coached me
this morning as we stood across the street from the first bank on
our agenda. “Be pleasant and polite but completely
unmemorable
,” he added—but then he looked me up and down and
rolled his eyes. “Which is like telling LeBron James or an
Oompah-Loompah not to be memorable.”

“Henn,
come on
,” I whined, trembling. “I’m
freaking out. Just tell me exactly what to do.”

“Don’t freak out, Kat,” Josh said, putting his
muscled arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “You’ve
got this.”

“Indubitably,” Henn agreed.

I rubbed my face. “Just tell me exactly what to do,”
I said, my voice wobbling. “Because I’d rather not go to prison for
robbing a bank today.”

“Well, you wouldn’t go to prison for ‘robbing a
bank,’” Henn corrected. “You’d go to prison for multiple counts of
bank fraud, grand theft larceny, identity theft, and conspiracy,
probably.” He snorted with laughter, but neither Josh nor I joined
him.

“
Dude
,” Josh said.

“Not at all funny,” I added, gritting my teeth.

“Sorry,” Henn said, stifling his grin. “Hacker
humor. Gotta keep things light and bright or else you go a little
cuckoo. But, okay, listen up. When you go in there, just think,
‘I’m filthy rich and this is
my
money and I’ll do whatever
the fuck I want with it.’ It’s all in the attitude. You gotta have
swagger.”

“Just like baggin’ a babe,” Josh added, winking.

“Exactly—except, for God’s sake, don’t ‘dick it
up.’” Henn cast a snarky look at Josh. “That might work in a bar,
dude, but we’re in my house now.”

Even through my anxiety, I couldn’t help but
grin.

Henn grinned. “And
never
flirt. You’ll be too
nervous and it’ll come off as weird. Just open with a simple
pleasantry to get your nerves out—maybe like, ‘how’s your morning
going?’—and then,
boom
, launch into instructing the teller
about the transfer in a clear, calm voice. Don’t explain
why
you want the transfer or act apologetic—they’re not doing you a
favor here—it’s
your
money.”

“Jesus,” I mumbled, putting my hands over my face.
“You guys really think I can pull this off?”

“Of course,” Henn said. “The trick is to
be
Oksana Belenko—not
pretend
to be Oksana Belenko.”

“Wax on, wax off, Kat,” Josh added reverently.

I laughed. “I know, right? Henn’s totally Mr.
Miyagi-ing me right now.”

Henn rolled his eyes and forged ahead. “You already
look
the part—thanks to Josh’s impeccable sense of style—now
all you have to do is
be
the part.”

I looked down at my ridiculously priced designer
outfit—Prada dress, Louboutin heels, and Gucci bag—all supplied by
Josh the day before during a whirlwind shopping spree. “Oksana
Belenko wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Prada,” he’d
insisted.

“I have to admit, being dressed like a
mill-i-on-aire
definitely makes me feel more
Oksana-Belenko-ish,” I said, staring at the bank across the street.
I tried to smile breezily, but I couldn’t do it.

Josh assessed my ashen face for a long beat. “Henn,
give us a minute,” he said, and without waiting for Henn’s reply,
he cupped my entire head in his palms like a bowling ball and
kissed me full on the mouth. When he pulled away from kissing me,
still holding my head firmly, he leveled me with his sapphire-blue
eyes. “You’ve got this, Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he said quietly,
gazing with intensity into my eyes—and then he did the thing that’s
rapidly becoming my Achilles’ heel: he gently touched the slight
indentation in my chin.

And, just like that, my stomach stopped turning over
and my jaw set.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Freak-out officially
over.”

Josh kissed my forehead. “There’s my girl. Okay,
Henn,” he called over his shoulder. “Oksana’s ready to rob a bank
now.”

“Yeehaw,” Henn replied. “Oksanta Claus is coming to
town, bitches. Let’s do this.”

And now here we are, an hour and a half later, all
transfers completed, drinking beers and Patron shots in a seedy
bar, waiting to hear from Jonas.

Just like Henn promised, the whole thing went off
without a hitch (or so it seems thus far). Each and every bank
believed, without a doubt, that I was the one and only
mill-i-on-aire
(many times over) Oksana Belenko—and
therefore entitled to do whatever I pleased with
my
millions
of dollars. Of course, I crapped my Stella McCartney panties
(another gift from Josh
)
every single time I waltzed into
yet another new bank and informed the teller of my desire to close
my account—especially when a teller went to get his or her manager
for “standard approvals.” But, each and every time, my
panty-crapping turned out to be completely wasted energy because no
matter the approvals or security clearances or identification
required at any particular bank, thanks to Henn, I always checked
out as Oksana Belenko.

Indubitably
.

Josh throws his head back, laughing at something
Henn just said.

I sip my beer, still trying to get the shakes
out.

“‘Oksanta Claus is coming to town’?” Josh says,
laughing. “Where do you come up with the shit you say, Henn?”

Henn shrugs. “I just get divine inspiration, what
can I say?”

The waitress passes our table and Josh flags her.
“Another round, please.” He holds up an empty shot glass and shoots
her a panty-melting smile.

The waitress visibly swoons. “You got it,
sugar.”

I bring my beer to my lips again, and my hand
visibly shakes.

“You okay, Kat?” Josh asks.

“Yeah.” But the truth is, I feel like I’m gonna
barf—and not from the Patron. Today was insane. It’s one thing to
want to do something outrageously scary to help your best friend,
and it’s quite another to physically force yourself to actually do
it while crapping your pretty undies the entire time. As I found
out today, thinking about doing something brave (or tremendously
stupid) and doing it are two very different things.

“Do you need—” Josh begins, but his phone rings and
we all jump.

“Here we go,” Henn says, rubbing his hands
together.

Josh puts his phone to his ear, his eyes bugging
out. “Jonas,” he says evenly, and then he listens. “Oh, thank God.”
He addresses Henn and me. “We did it, guys. They got it all.”

Henn fist-pumps the air, but all I can do is lean
back in my chair, my body melting with outrageous relief.

“We’re in a bar in Henderson,” Josh says. He looks
around and his eyes fall on a television behind the bar. “Yeah,
they’ve got one, but it’s not on.” He listens for a moment and
rolls his eyes. “Really? We’ve been sitting here wondering this
whole fucking time, shitting our pants, and you didn’t—” He listens
again and smiles wickedly. “
Oh
. Well, then I forgive you.”
He snickers. “I’m sure you were. Okay, we’ll turn on the TV and
check it out. I’ll call you right back.” Josh flags the waitress.
“Hey, could you turn on the TV—put it on the news?”

“Sure, sweetie.” She walks over to the bartender,
says something, and the TV comes on—and, literally, instantly,
there’s no doubt our crafty little
Oceans’ Eleven
crew has
hit a grand slam homerun.

“Just keep it here,” Josh calls to the
bartender.

On the screen, a female reporter is talking into the
camera while a banner declaring “Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las
Vegas” scrolls beneath her. Behind the reporter, law enforcement
officers in Kevlar vests are marching in and out of a cement
building, carrying boxes.

“Hey, could you turn up the sound, man?” Josh calls
to the bartender.

“... being told by federal authorities the terrorist
plot was ‘sophisticated, imminent and massive,’” the reporter is
saying.

I’m confused. They’re calling The Club
terrorists
? Maybe I don’t fully understand the implications
of that word. The Club was plotting
terrorism
?

“... and that the terrorist organization has ties to
the Russian government.”

Henn chuckles. “Dude, it’s like I’m a fucking
ventriloquist.”

“Straight from your puppeteering mouth into the
reporter’s,” Josh replies, his eyes fixed on the screen.

I’m totally confused. What the hell are Josh and
Henn talking about?

An older woman with dyed blonde hair appears
on-screen being escorted into a dark sedan.

“... in this footage from earlier, we see one of the
alleged terrorists being taken into custody,” the reporter
says.

“Is that Oksana?” I ask.

Henn nods. “Yup.”

“She’s a
terrorist
?” I ask dumbly.

The look that passes between Henn and Josh in
reaction to my question makes me feel like I must be having a total
blonde moment. What the heck am I missing here?

The reporter continues: “... the names of the two
alleged terrorists killed during the raid have now been confirmed
by authorities—”

“
Henn
,” Josh says insistently, yanking on
Henn’s sleeve.

“Yeah, I know,” Henn says, batting Josh’s hand away
like he’s swatting at a fly.

“... the two men killed in a shoot-out with federal
authorities at the scene were Mak-sim Be-len-ko and Yu-ri
Na-vol-ska,” the reporter says slowly, clearly doing her mighty
best not to screw up the pronunciations of the names.

“Oh shit,” Josh says, beaming, and Henn high-fives
him.

“Both,” Henn says.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

What are they talking about? My brain is struggling
to process. The Maksim guy who got killed is obviously that creepy
Max guy who ordered the hit on Sarah and demanded a freebie from
her. Well, good riddance to that bastard and may he rot in hell.
But who’s the other guy who died in the raid? Yuri something? Sarah
mentioned a Yuri during our meeting with Agent Eric, I think—yeah,
it was when Henn played that voicemail from her attacker—

I gasp. Holy shitballs. I just got it.
Both
.
Henn meant that both men directly responsible for the hit on Sarah
died today.

My entire body erupts in goose bumps.

Oh my God.

I don’t know how Jonas did it—and what Josh and Henn
had to do with it, but those two bad-guys biting the dust today
doesn’t seem to be a coincidence. It seems I’m not watching a news
story unfold on the television screen—I’m watching a PR
campaign.

“Josh,” I blurt. But before I can say another word,
he’s standing next to me, pulling me up from my chair, and
enfolding me in his muscled arms.

“We did it,” he breathes into my lips. “We saved the
world.” With that, he kisses me with such ferocious intensity, my
knees buckle.

When Josh breaks away from kissing me, he moves on
to Henn, wrapping him in a massive bear hug. “Thank you,” he
mumbles into Henn’s ear. “You’re my brother for life, man.”

My heart pangs at the earnest tone of Josh’s voice.
If I didn’t realize it before now, today’s victory obviously meant
something deeply personal for him.

Josh’s phone rings and he pulls away from Henn,
rubbing his face. “Yo,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, we just saw
it.” He presses his lips together, obviously containing his
emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Jonas. You left no stone unturned.”
He listens. “I know. We can finally breathe again... No, no, no.
Don’t second-guess yourself, man. It was the perfect measure of
force—like a fucking sniper.” He listens for long beat. “Wow. I
didn’t know if they’d go for that. Fucking fantastic.” He beams a
smile at Henn and me. “Yeah, they’re both standing right here. I’ll
let you tell them yourself. Hey, guys. Jonas has some exceedingly
good news for you.”

Josh hands the phone to Henn, a huge smile on his
face, and puts his arm around me.

“Hey, big guy—congrats,” Henn says into the phone.
“You’re welcome. I told you, I always wear a white hat.” He listens
and his eyes go wide. “
Tax free
? Are you kidding me? Oh my
God.” Henn looks at me, grinning from ear to ear. “Guess what Kitty
Kat? We’re each getting our million bucks completely
tax-free
.”

“
Tax free
?” I shriek—and then I promptly
burst into gigantic, soggy tears.

Josh embraces me and I wrap my arms around his neck,
sobbing like a kid on her first day of kindergarten.

“Looks like you’ll be opening that PR firm sooner
than you thought,” Josh coos into my ear. He kisses my wet cheeks
and then my lips. “Ssh,” he says gently, stroking my back. “You did
so good today, babe. You deserve every penny. You kicked ass.”

Clearly, he thinks I’m crying about the money. And I
am. That’s a shitload of money. Holy shitballs, especially
tax-free. But that’s not the biggest reason I’m crying, I don’t
think. Mostly, I think I’m just relieved that the threat of danger
to Sarah (and myself) is now, finally, blessedly, over. And I’m
also sobbing with relief that I’m almost certainly not gonna get
carted off to prison today—which is good, because God help me if I
had to call my dad from jail. And, finally, I think I’m crying for
no other reason than the fact that I
really, really
need a
full eight hours of sleep. Holy Sleep Deprivation, Batman—I can’t
keep going like this. Even the Party Girl With a Hyphen needs to
freaking
sleep
occasionally, for the love of God!