CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"What's your beef with these people? The Robicheauxs. What have they done to you?" asked Mark. Tim was moving folders around his desk, then sat back, staring at the other man. He didn't owe him an explanation, nor did he feel he should offer one. But he might need him to help.

"What do you mean?"

"Tim, you've been chasing down anything and anyone related to this Robicheaux guy that you say died two hundred years ago. That's a long time for a family to hold a grudge against someone. What the fuck kind of vendetta is that? He's gone. We're making money hand over fist on this scam, and you're hell-bent on chasing some dead dude's family."

"His people are alive," said the man, shoving his coffee mug forward on the desk. He knew for a fact that his people were alive, and they might have what he seeks.

"You're hiding something, and I don't appreciate it," said Mark. "I've done what you've asked without questioning anything, but now, I feel like you're putting my ass on the line, and I don't appreciate it."

Tim stood, walking around the desk and closing the door to his office. He'd kept more than a few things from Mark only because he knew he wouldn't understand. How do you explain that you sold your soul to a witch so you could become the wealthiest man alive and destroy another man? How do you explain the need to kill a man who was your better in every aspect of life? Women, money, business, sailing, relationships. Marcel Robicheaux was always better than him.

"I don't pay you to ask questions, Mark. I've told you what you need to know. This family has something that belongs to me, and I'm going to get it."

Tim stared at the man, shaking his head. He knew he wasn't being honest with him, but he was paying him a helluva lot of money to do as told. That was okay up until now, but he wasn't going to die for him or do any time for him.

"Alright, Mark. But just so you know, before Sheffield died, he said the girl lied. That was the original portrait, but it was recently reclaimed by the family. They took it right from their walls. They just walked in, asked to see the girl, then three men took it off the wall and walked out. So, there's no way we're going to get to it now."

"Damn," he muttered beneath his breath. "I need that portrait. If they took it, they live in the area of New Orleans and have it in their possession."

"Dude, you need to explain. What the fuck do you want an old painting for?" laughed Mark.

"It's worth millions," he said, silencing the other man. "Beyond millions. Beyond your wildest dreams. That portrait is hiding something I need. I just know it."

"So, we need to find the girl and figure out why she lied," said Mark. Tim nodded at him.

"Yes. Find the girl, and we'll find the portrait or at least figure out why she lied to me." He rubbed his jaw, feeling his body heat up. "She was a tasty little morsel. A little full around her ass, but I could make that work. Maybe I'll borrow her for a while and show her what liars get when they try to fool me."

Mark stood, gathering the things he needed and opened the door, then shut it slightly again. He was willing to do most things for money, but he might have just reached his limit on all fronts.

"Look, I'll kill assholes like Sheffield all day long, but I won't rape or kill a woman. Whatever her reasons were, let it go. She's not a Robicheaux, not related to them at all."

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"I'm certain. For what it's worth, Tim, I think you should leave these people alone. I've done my research, and they are not a family you want to fuck with. I'm talking dozens and dozens of them with some very wicked skills that neither you nor I can match. And I'm man enough to admit that."

"What kind of skills?" asked Tim, eyeing the man suspiciously.

"They were all military. Special Forces. They are not just the average guy. They were the best of the best. The older ones were called the Robicheaux Rangers because they were so good at what they did. Generations have followed, and now they have dozens more just like them."

"What are they doing now?" he asked.

"They own a private security company, run multiple businesses, even work with the government. I think you need to back off from them, Tim, or you're going to have a mess on your hands."

"I don't care what you think," he said with a sour expression. "I need that painting, and I need what it hides. Find it for me."

Mark stared at the other man and shook his head.

"I can't do that. I'm done. I won't fuck with these guys. I enjoy my life too much. You've paid me to do what I've done. No beef. I'm walking away. Good luck." Mark left the room walking across the concrete floor, listening as the hackers found a way into whatever non-profit they were calling. He heard the click of Tim's dress shoes on the floor but didn't bother to turn around. He should have.

The echo of the firearm had the hackers scrambling beneath their desks, covering their heads. For a moment, Mark thought he'd missed. Then he felt the burn in the center of his back but kept walking. Then another shot rang out.

"No one walks away from me," said Tim. He looked at the hackers as Mark's body fell face down on the concrete flooring. "Get him out of here and dump him somewhere. The rest of you, keep calling! There's money to be made."