Chapter Three

September 25

The Outskirts of Paris, France

C lara slowly turned from the easel. Men in loose-fitting military attire lined the walls, each holding a rifle trained on her. Their faces betrayed nothing, but their stance indicated a readiness to kill.

The heavy door opened with a groan. A man stepped into the room, escorted by more armed guards. Above her, one of the fluorescent tubes was improperly connected or on its last legs; it flickered and hummed. The man stepped forward, his face shifting in the changing light alternating between man and ghoul. Lucien Kite stopped twenty feet in front of her. He was an unattractive man—mid-fifties with wiry black hair and a crooked nose. A custom suit peeked out from beneath his cashmere overcoat. His smile chilled her blood. An image of this man holding a crowbar flashed in her mind. He may have been wearing the right clothes with the facade of civility, but Clara knew from her research Lucien Kite was no gentleman—he was a gangster at heart.

“Ah, the infamous Lynx,” Kite said. “It’s an apt moniker. You are a man of stealth, agility, and cunning.”

Clara blew out a breath, feeling a modicum of relief that Kite didn’t know her identity. Or her gender. She stood silently, waiting for him to continue. The soles of his wingtips ground against the sandy cement as he stepped closer—the sound combined with his menace, setting her nerves on edge.

“You’ve angered a lot of people, some of whom reached out to me. More importantly, fuckhead, you’ve angered me.” Lucien Kite smoothed the velveteen lapels of his topcoat as if to regain his air of courtesy.

“I knew Girl with a Sunflower would be too tempting to pass up. I dropped the hints, revealing tidbits of information with all the elements to lure The Lynx.”

Clara wanted to scream at her gullibility. The whole thing was a setup. She had become so confident in her abilities, so skilled in her methods, she hadn’t done the proper due diligence researching the sale and provenance of the piece.

One thing Clara did do, however, was plan for contingencies. So, she focused on her captor, every movement and every overpronounced syllable indicating a man trying to convey an image that was not his true essence.

Lucien Kite rounded her, brushing her shoulder with his own, forcing Clara to sidestep. She fought the urge to cover her nose as he inspected the painting. Even the most expensive cologne was sickening when overused. The smell was overpowering despite the barrier of her ski mask.

“It’s really quite breathtaking— Girl with a Sunflower .”

If he noticed her lack of response, he didn’t show it. Her captor wandered to one of the restoration tables and examined a chemical bottle. “In a world without law enforcement or insurance, people who lose valuables have very little recourse.”

Clara nearly spat. He was referring to the Black Market and purchasers of stolen and illegal goods. She resisted the urge to refute his remark and instead scanned the room, exploring her options. Guards stood at every door and under the high windows, their weapons at the ready. She counted mercenaries and measured the distance to the exit.

Kite returned to the easel. “It’s the original, as you well know. I couldn’t risk The Lynx getting wind of a fake, so I baited the trap with my own expensive cheese.”

Clara felt her face heat under the mask.

Kite continued, “God, the waiting was painful. Watching the dark web for the perfect piece. It took months. My people studied you, your methods, your victims, the items you prefer.”

Clara nearly scoffed. The people she robbed were the farthest things from victims.

“That’s when I saw it—a long lost Renoir, seized by the Nazis. Best of all, the so-called rightful owner was not only alive but also gave lectures about the stolen art of World War II. I knew it was only a matter of time before it caught your eye.”

Every word Kite spoke made Clara feel more and more foolish.

In the center of the room, the nearly invisible rappelling wire hung from the ceiling. At the end of the cord, the clip for the carabiner at her waist rested on a pile of rags.

Without looking up from the painting, Kite said, “Envisioning an escape, are we?” He turned to the nearest sentry and jerked his chin to the ceiling. The guard muttered something in German, aimed his rifle, and shot the spool retraction mechanism. Metal pieces rained down atop the crumpled wire. Clara wouldn’t be leaving the way she had come.

The man in charge faced her. He nodded to a guard who brought a folding chair and set it beside her. Another minion took out his phone and held it up, ready to record.

“My clients have lost too many valuables to your thievery. They need assurances. So I’ll unmask the bandit and kill him slowly. Live stream. Your victims will enjoy hearing you beg for your life.” He chuckled. “Or death.”

He commanded the guard who had brought the chair. “Search him, then tie him down.”

The lieutenant strode confidently to Clara. He squinted at the beam from her headlamp, then pulled it off and crushed it with a heavy boot. She could smell his breath through her mask as he lifted both hands to begin the pat down. It wouldn’t take long for him to realize the truth.

She pressed the button on her utility belt. Five, four, three, two…

One.