Chapter 41

41

Abe slid behind the wheel of the sleek Jaguar and gripped the leather steering wheel.

Leo leaned in through the window. “Zak’s putting a trace on Einar’s phone, but until then, Fox is sticking with you to make sure you don’t get yourself killed—or do something else ridiculously stupid that’ll tick me off.”

Filling every inch of the passenger seat, Fox popped the clip on his weapon, then grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him in one piece. It’s virtually my day job at this point.”

Abe shoved the car in gear and peeled away from the Dorchester.

The headlights sliced through the downpour, until the illuminated facade of the National Gallery of Art came into view, blazing with light. Towering and majestic, the building rose out of the night like some ancient fortress, its grand columns and pale statues casting long shadows against the dark sidewalk.

Fox leaned forward, peering through the window as the Jaguar rolled to a stop. He let out a low whistle. “National Gallery, huh? This guy, Einar—he strikes you as a Rembrandt fan?”

Abe fired Fox a look. “Calculated guess. There was a Rembrandt print in the office.” Anything was better than sitting and waiting for Zak to track the bastard down.

Fox gave a wry smile, pushing open his door. “Nothing says ‘elite operation’ like some educated speculation.” He hopped out of the car.

Abe followed suit. The rain had softened to a mist that clung to the air, shimmering in the streetlights. Adjusting his suit jacket, he crossed the road with Fox, the art gallery before him harboring the one person who threatened to destroy everything that mattered to him. A kaleidoscope of light spilled onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, refracting off puddles and casting halos around the elegant figures emerging from the gallery. Women shimmering in sequined cocktail dresses tottered past.

Abe hurried through the glass doors to a blast of warmth and noise. The atrium pulsed with life and color. Pounding bass reverberated through his chest, thunderous rock music pouring from massive speakers that flanked the entrance. Vibration thumped up through his boots and hit his teeth.

Einar was here. He was sure of it.

He wiped rain from his face, scanning the crowd. His disheveled appearance drew no attention—just another guest caught in the weather.

“Upstairs?” Fox adjusted his sodden tux as they faced a sign. ‘Rembrandt Exhibition—Upper Gallery’ in flowing script.

“Follow me.” Abe took the stairs three at a time. His breath came in controlled bursts as adrenaline scoured his veins.

At the top, an ornate floor plan was framed on the wall. Abe scanned it. The exhibition split into two wings, a maze of interconnected rooms forming a looping pathway through the gallery.

A server appeared beside him, holding a silver tray of golden champagne flutes. “Drink, sir?”

“No, thanks.” Abe forced a tight smile and brushed past her. “Fox,” he murmured, “I’m heading for the east wing. You take the west. We’ll meet in the northernmost room.”

Fox nodded, slipping into the crowd with a nod and disappearing smoothly into the throng.

Abe headed in the opposite direction into the first exhibition room, every sense heightened. Rembrandt’s masterpieces lined the walls; earth toned hues and faces emerging from darkened backgrounds. As he moved deeper into the gallery, the lively sounds of the atrium faded, giving way to the hushed murmurs of art enthusiasts and the soft, deliberate clicks of designer heels on polished floors.

The full art crowd was out tonight—a strange mix of elderly women with more money than taste, likely scouting pieces for their drafty old estates, and men in colored turtlenecks carrying tiny dogs with matching sweaters. Abe surveyed the room, hunting for Einar’s unmistakably thinning hair. The hubbub of voices swelled around him, and the claustrophobic heat after the cool of the night made his wet clothes stick to his skin.

None of it mattered.

Finding Freya was the only thing of importance, and he had failed her.

Failed to keep her safe, to anticipate Korolov’s next move. The thought of Korolov, smug and one step ahead, gnawed at him. He should have known better, should have been faster, smarter. He would tear heaven and earth apart to find her. And when he did, Korolov had better be a thousand miles away, because if Abe found him first, he wouldn’t be able to answer for what he’d do.

He rounded a corner. A crowd clustered around a painting. The group shifted, opening a gap, and through it, Abe spotted a man slipping between two women. The man held a champagne flute in one hand and an art brochure in the other.

Abe’s gaze dropped.

Cowboy boots on his feet. The man was engrossed in the brochure, flipping pages to plot his next stop. He looked up—and froze, showing the whites of his eyes.

Einar.

For a second, they just stared at each other.

Einar’s champagne glass smashed against the marble floor as his glossy brochure fluttered to the ground. He bolted, ducking behind a group of startled onlookers. Headed straight for the emergency exit stairs.

The weasel crashed through the exit door, Abe just a few steps behind. At the top of the stairwell, Einar whipped around, skin blanched with fear. “I didn’t do anything!” he sputtered, before turning to run.

Abe didn’t waste a second. He threw himself forward, crossing the distance in a dive that caught Einar off balance, sending them both tumbling down the first flight of stairs to the landing below. They hit the floor as one with a heavy thud, Einar screeching as they came to a tangled stop.

The impact drove the air from Abe’s lungs, and scored lancing pain through his injured shoulder, but rage was a purer fuel than oxygen. He rolled out from under Einar’s weight, surging to his feet.

Before the bastard could find his footing, Abe grabbed his collar, savagely hauling him upward until they were eye to eye.

Einar squealed, legs flailing mid-air as Abe held him effortlessly at arm’s length.

Abe bared his teeth as he fought to stay in control and not smear Einar across the wall. “This is where you talk and say the things I want to hear.”