Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

T he confessional smelled like paneling and regret.

The hard bench under Conrad's ass squeaked as he tried to find a comfortable position. Conclusion? There wasn’t one.

On the other side, where the supplicant would normally confess his sins, a bearded Irishman filled the space. "Father, The shamrocks are blooming."

Conrad was no priest. “Must be our lucky day, my son.”

Call sign. Answer.

The operative, whose face was vaguely obscured by the screen, relaxed a fraction. Not enough to make much of a difference, but so did Conrad. They were both on high alert—it was automatic and natural after being in this business for so long. He trusted no one, and he knew the man he was meeting with felt the same way.

A religion of sorts.

"The jewel is secure, and so is her bodyguard."

"Does he suspect anything?"

"He's always suspicious, but at the moment, he's a bit distracted by her.”

"Any sign of the ring?"

"None. They are solely focused on figuring out who framed her."

"Do they have any ideas?"

"A woman who once did some work for the Red Hearts has started her own version. The Brit thinks she stole the sparklies.”

“Is she good for the kidnapping, too?"

"There are two kinds of jewel thieves," the Irishman said. He went by Dolan McGraw, but Conrad knew that wasn't his real name. It had been years since they had crossed paths, but Conrad's network included spies from many different countries and organizations.

Del had run a high-end, specialized program that connected Truman Gunn to a scant few operatives residing in the U.S. One was married to his boss, another was on a specialized CIA team, and the third was the one ‘confessing his sins.’

Conrad was glad neither of them had to actually do that today. They’d be here until Christmas and then some.

“Low-end thieves need quick cash,” Dolan said. “Urchins on the street like the Brit used to be, gangs and terrorists who need funding for weapons, those sorts of folks. High-end thieves are a different breed. They’re connoisseurs. They steal for the thrill, to fund their lifestyle, and/or to improve their reputation.”

He didn’t need schooling but let it pass. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“The sparklies from the museum wouldn’t attract low-end thieves—too risky and too much work to snatch them. But high-enders are rarely kidnappers. It’s not their typical MO. Too messy. They get in and get out, sell off the goods on the black market, and live it up until the next score. According to the girl, there was a mastermind behind her mother’s gang, and he’s free.”

This was news to him. “You have an ID?”

“Nope. He pulled a Charlie’s Angels on the group, never revealing his identity, so it’s possible the Red Hearts don’t even know who he really is.” He scratched his chin and cleared his throat. “I’ve messaged the woman on an old bulletin board where a lot of her kind post jobs and recruit. The Brit wants to draw her out—see if she can lead him to the goods and the girl’s dad. Might have an answer by the time I return.”

“And you’re sure the girl doesn’t have the opal?”

“She’s not wearing it and I searched her backpack. It’s not there.”

Damn.

“Can you get them out of my hair?” Dolan asked. “I’ve got…a situation I need to take care of. They’re cramping my style.”

Knowing Truman—which he did now after reading the profile Michael finally got out of Brigit—Conrad knew the man wouldn’t stay put long. He’d be in the wind before nightfall. Better to have some say in which direction he went.

“I’ll leave a key with an address for a place in Virginia under the philodendron at the back entrance. Send him there.”

“Have you looked into the Brit’s mentor?”

Curious that Dolan was planting that seed, he decided to play dumb. “Should I?”

“Heard he’s in town. Doesn’t add up in my book.”

His either. “Why don’t you reach out and say hi?”

“Better if I ignore him for the moment. I don’t want him sniffing around, if you get my drift. I’ve always believed him to be a good guy, but his appearance right now with all of this going on is too coincidental. Makes me antsy.”

Convincing Michael to leave the bug in the chair had been quite the feat, but Conrad had insisted they not give themselves away. If they acted as if they hadn't found it, they could supply Bastian with false information, possibly even lead him into a trap of his own making. The idea of it made his blood race. “He’s not clean, but I haven’t uncovered his spots yet.”

Rustling came from his side as if Dolan were reaching into a pocket. Conrad tensed. “I've got a gift for you. I'll leave it on the seat. Thought you might find it interesting. I'll look for that key. Good day, Father. May the shamrocks continue to bloom."

After he exited the confessional, Conrad waited for Dolan to leave the church. He found a fat manila envelope on the man's vacated seat and took a moment to pull the stack of intel out far enough to scan the top page.

Holy shamrocks and beer. Interesting was an understatement.

Stone was going to shit his pants when he saw this.

The thought made Conrad smile.

Emma jumped when the back door opened abruptly. She and Truman were sitting at the kitchen table, her heart in her throat. They were both anxiously awaiting their next step, but she honestly didn't know what that was.

The post from Gani was a bust. The reply was straightforward and clear cut: an emoji of a middle finger.

Truman had chuckled, but she could see the disappointment on his features. She hated seeing it reflected in his handsome face. She knew he'd experienced too much of it as a child.

Her dysfunctional family situation had certainly left her with scars, but nothing compared to what he survived as a kid on the rough streets of the East End. That much he’d shared with her during their time together. She was grateful for the man who had yanked him out of that life and sent him to a private boarding school. Although, to hear Truman tell it, the place was worse than the streets.

Eventually, he’d landed in a military school and seemed to like it. While he wasn't a violent person by nature, he enjoyed outwitting others and making fools of them. Which, apparently he got to do a lot of while he was there.

Not that he wasn't deadly. He simply kept that part of him buried so deep that no one saw the threat of his demons surfacing until it was too late.

She hoped she never saw that part of him. She'd come close that night in her flat, but behind his cold, steely gaze, what she'd seen had been hurt, not hate.

After seeing the middle finger, she'd had an idea. It was a long shot, but she’d remembered her mother's AOL address and password. It was a method Catherine had used back in the day to notify team members when there was a new heist to plan. Emma logged in, finding the inbox mostly empty, but she and Truman had devised a message to send to the contacts who were not in jail. If even one of the backup team replied, they might have a way to get info on the Mastermind.

They’d been waiting for going on ten minutes. So far, none had responded.

Dolan took off his jacket and hung it up, removing a key and a scrap of paper. His gaze scanned Truman’s bare chest. “Put some damn clothes on, will you? Jesus.”

Truman scratched at his chest, breathing deeply to fill out his pecs. “I can’t help it if I work out and you don’t.”

Dolan made a face and tossed the items in his hand onto the table. The key slid across the surface to stop in front of Truman. "Get out."

Confused, Truman eyed it and then the scrap. Emma leaned forward so she could read what was written on it. An address in Virginia.

Truman followed Dolan’s back as the man left the kitchen. "What is this?"

"Your new home,” Dolan said.

Truman and Emma exchanged a glance. Truman scrambled after him. “What are you talking about?”

Emma caught up to them in the office.

“What the bloody hell?” Dolan stared at his desk before turning a menacing glare on Truman. “I told you not to touch my stuff!”

Ignoring the daggers shooting from the man’s eyes, Truman dangled the key in front of his face. “Are you kicking us out?”

Dolan huffed and sat behind the screens. “I scored you a safe house. You’re welcome.”

Truman frowned, eyeing the address. “Scored it from whom?”

“None of your damn business. It’s a place to hide, and it gets you out of my hair. Get your stuff and leave.”

“You’re sure it’s safe?” Emma asked.

Dolan peered over one of the screens. “Safer than here.”

A chill tickled the base of her spine. Was that a threat? A prediction? “I’ll get the backpack,” she said to Truman.

He nodded, and, as she left, she heard him update Dolan on the emoji and email. The walls between rooms were thin, and she caught bits and pieces of the rest of the conversation. “AOL…reply…”

After slipping on her sneakers, she grabbed the backpack and stuck a few of the liquid IV packages, along with nutrition bars and two bags of M&Ms, inside. Grabbing Truman’s shirt, she returned to see him and Dolan peering at one of the screens.

The sleep, along with the orgasm, had calmed her nerves, leaving her with a warm, light feeling. That had been wiped away with Gani's reply. Now, with Dolan throwing them out and acting uptight about them being here, her frayed nerves went into the red zone again. “What is it?”

Dolan’s fingers pecked furiously at the keyboard. Truman caught the shirt when she tossed it at him, and his face broke into a smile. “We got a reply,” he said, and the printer came to life.

A bird fluttered in her chest with expectation. She snatched up the printout and read. It wasn't the reply she’d hoped for, though, and the fluttering stopped. She glanced at Truman’s smiling face. “How does this help?”

“She believes the email came from your mother, and she responded.”

“Yes, but she says she doesn’t know who's behind the stolen diamonds or my father's disappearance."

He raised a finger. “But she replied. We can use that."

Dolan spoke from behind his screens. "The IP address is local."

“Excellent, "Truman said. “Gani has to know that Catherine can only use email through the official federal links system, and that corresponding through an AOL account means she has an illegal cell. Even so, she's denying any knowledge because she's afraid of whose monitoring this account."

Emma reread the words, but they all blurred together. "You think she's bluffing?"

"You said she and your mum were close years ago.”

"Like sisters,” Emma confirmed.

“We’re about to test that bond.” He turned to Dolan. “One more favor, mate? Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

The man grunted. Emma wasn't sure if it was a yes or a no, but Truman plowed ahead. "Send a reply. Here's what I want you to say."

As Truman leaned over Dolan’s shoulder, reciting what he wanted to convey, Emma felt that brief flutter in her chest again. Gani had been the closest thing she'd had to a real aunt, and truth be told, she’d missed her. Would Gani take the bait?

Gani owed Catherine for keeping her safe from the Feds during the arrests and subsequent trials. Her mother never gave up Gani's name or any reference to her. Although Emma felt a twinge of guilt for misleading the woman now, it was time to call in that marker.