MAKE HER PAY

by Roxanne St Claire

  The guard looked hard at her, trying to see around to the other side of the bike by standing on his toes and not leaving the entrance to the little guardhouse.

  “She lives here?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “Who is she?”

  “No clue, pal. I just pulled her off a bar stool at Friday’s because she was about to be attacked by every horny dude in the place. This is my random act of kindness for the day,” he added, rolling his eyes.

  “I can’t let you in without a name.”

  He shrugged. “Then she’s all yours, buddy. Hope you have an empty trash can, in case she pukes again.”

  The guard made a face. “Can’t you, uh, get her …” He cleared his voice. “Miss, can you turn around?”

  Con felt her head slowly lift, then plop down in the other direction.

  “Hi, honey.” She dragged the word out and Con could feel her drunken smile against his back. “Where’s Mikey? Did he go home already?”

  The guard frowned at Con. “I never saw her before.”

  “I never saw you before,” Lizzie said, straining to lift her head and pointing a wobbly finger at him. “And I never saw him before.” The finger poked at Con’s shoulder. “And you never—”

  “What’s your address?” he asked.

  “My address? Umm…” She dragged the sound out. “It has a six in it, and the street is River Run.” She giggled. “It’s all River Run, so that’s kinna dumb, huh?”

  The guard’s frown deepened. “Then how you gonna find your house?”

  “I’ll know it when I see it. It’s my parents’ house— and, oh fuck, are they gonna be mad.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Liz.”

  “Your last name.”

  Con said, “I think she said her last name was Dix.”

  “Maybe I said I like dicks,” she said with a drunken tease. She tried to lean closer and almost wobbled off.

  “Mr. Dix left an hour ago,” the guard said, flipping through papers on a clipboard.

  “Thank God!” Lizzie said. “He freakin’ hates when I drink.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Con said wryly, sharing a look with the guard. “If you can’t let her in, I understand, man. But I’m leavin’ her here because, seriously, she’s about to fall off the back and you can have the freaking lawsuit, not me.”

  The young guard shook his head and reached for the button that lifted the gate. “Just get her home, and don’t tell anyone I did this.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back if she can’t find her house.”

  The guard nodded, clearly hoping that didn’t happen.

  “All right, sweetheart, hang on. We’re taking you home now, nice and slow.” Con moved ahead as the gate was raised for him. “Nice work, Ms. Dare.”

  She squeezed his waist a little. “And we found out Dix isn’t home. That was brilliant.”

  “Just because he left doesn’t mean no one’s home,” Con warned. “But it’s a good piece of information to have.”

  Along with a lot of other random facts that resided in his memory about Gerry Dix. The guy wasn’t married, and his lovers weren’t exactly the kind that spent the week with him in his winter home. Knowing his clients’ weaknesses had been an important, sometimes life-saving, part of his former job.

  Gerry’s house was completely dark but for a few small landscaping lights. Con spotted a house under construction two lots away, with two Dumpsters in the unfinished driveway.

  He pulled the bike between them, hidden enough so that it wouldn’t be seen by someone driving by unless they were looking for it. Still, Lizzie could see the entire property around Dix’s house.

  “Give me your cell phone, Lizzie.” He programmed his number into speed dial as he talked. “Your job, your only job”—he added a sharp look—“is to warn me if someone is coming anywhere near that house.” He finished the program, tested it, and his cell phone vibrated. “If our target comes home or a guard goes to check the house, you press one and alert me. I will get out however I can, and make my way behind the next house and come up behind you. If you have to move for any reason, circle the lake, then come right back here. If that’s the case, press number two on the phone before you do.”

  He tested that one, and a different rhythm of vibrations buzzed in his pocket.

  “What if Dix comes home, goes right in the garage, and you’re stuck?”

  “I won’t be if you press one. That’ll alert me.”

  She drew back, shaking her head. “You really can’t just go to the door, flash a badge, and demand he give it to you?”

  “And have him alert Flynn Paxton with one phone call?”

  “Okay. It’s just … dangerous.”

  “You just do what you need to do out here.” He wiped some of the makeup under her right eye. “By the way, you’re cute when you’re drunk.”

  She grinned. “So maybe I have a second career as an undercover government agent.”

  “Maybe.”

  He stepped away from the bike, turning sideways to get between it and the Dumpster as she slid into the driver’s seat and peered at the house.

  “Con, what if someone’s home?” she asked. “Do you have a Plan B?”

  It was no problem for him, just a nuisance. “As long as they’re asleep, I’m fine.”

  “And if they’re awake?”

  Still not really a problem for an accomplished thief. “There’d be a light visible. My gut says Dix is out for the evening.” And really stupid about security, considering he was a fine-art collector. “We just have to hope he didn’t take his new medallion with him. Stay alert.”

  He slid out from the cover of the Dumpsters, scanning every visible inch of the house.

  These guarded and gated communities were a joke. They had a snotty-faced twentysomething at the entrance and some idiot driving around in a golf cart who was probably jacking off in an empty lot right now. They had shrubbery right up against every window, dozens of easy-access sliding glass doors, alarms that were just as often turned off as they were on, and at least one out of every five left their doors unlocked.

  Dix had actually locked the utility room door next to the garage; that was the most common one left open. So Con made a complete pass around the perimeter, looking in every window, checking out the pool, getting the lay of the land for a quick getaway.

  He could get in this house six different ways, have the alarm disarmed in less than fifteen seconds, and get to the top ten most common hiding places in under five minutes.

  If Gerry Dix had designed this house the way he had the one in the Hamptons, then there would be a vault built into a wine cellar that was invisible to a casual visitor, behind a locked door that Con could pick.

  If Gerry didn’t want to think too hard when he was in his winter home, then his vault combination would be the same as it was up in the Hamptons, and Con had used one of his favorite tricks to get that combination—he’d left his video phone on the bar where the vault was hidden, politely excused himself while the client opened the vault, and recorded the number in his files when he got home.

  The safe combination was Gerry’s home phone backward, so he’d had Avery text him Dix’s phone number in Vero, and sent up a silent prayer that Gerry was unimaginative and lazy.

  Because if he was, this would be a very easy job.

  He returned to the utility room door, always an easy one to crack and guaranteed to have an alarm pad within two feet of it, but there was a dead bolt across it and he didn’t have time to remove it. He lightly jostled the door, enough to alert a dog.

  All was silent.

  The back slider would probably be easiest. These kinds of homes never installed a security bar on the sliders. Undersized apartments with nothing of value but a laptop inside? Bars all over the place.

  The family room slider was locked, but the diningroom door wasn’t, which didn’t surprise Con at all. Still, there would be an alarm. He peer
ed in, but couldn’t see the digital flash of an alarm pad anywhere. He’d have to move fast, straight to the utility room near the garage.

  He slid the glass soundlessly, just enough to lean his head in and listen. If anyone lived, breathed, or walked in this house, he’d hear it.

  Silence. A clock ticking. The rhythmic tap of an overhead paddle fan. Meaning Gerry hadn’t left town, just the house.

  Inside, he moved stealthily toward the kitchen, rounding it to the utility room he’d tried to open before. The keypad was right at the door, flashing red. Armed.

  He had a few special tools in his backpack, but all he needed for this was a screwdriver and flashlight. He slipped a flathead out, popped the cover off the pad, and shined his light on the rubber numbers. Only two were slightly depressed, the six and the two. Damn. Most people used four numbers for their alarm, so one or both of these were used twice. He had about five seconds left.

  Most people used four numbers, but many people used their address, especially for second homes. He pressed 6-6-2 and the light turned green.

  One barrier down.

  Outside the utility room, he scanned the layout of the first floor. A huge curved staircase with a wroughtiron rail ran up the center with a living room and dining room on either side. He guessed the office was the only other front room.

  No basements in Florida, so a bar or wine closet was usually off the family room. He headed that way, taking in the details of standard high-end décor and slightly musty smell of a house that was barely lived in.

  If Dix didn’t have a vault in his wine cellar here, then he’d check the master closet or the office for a safe.

  The family room was sports themed, with multiple TV screens and a full bar with stools. No sign of an entrance to a wine vault. Con walked around the bar to a door he suspected was a storage closet, opened it and found … another door. Metal and bolted.

  No need to be neat, since Gerry would know he was robbed ten minutes after he got home. With luck and timing, Con would be long gone from St. Richard’s Island by then.

  He brought out his gun and fired once, destroying the lock. Behind the door was a floor-to-ceiling safe with a combination lock.

  Taking out his phone, he clicked on the text with Gerry’s phone number and tried a combination, spinning the wheel easily. Click. Click. Click.

  Three cheers for creatures of habit. He opened the walk-in safe, flashed his beam of light, and swore.

  There must have been thirty small jewelry cases. Evidently Gerry liked more than just religious artifacts. Kneeling down, he started snapping open the cases, just as his phone vibrated with the warning from Lizzie.

  He flipped open two, then heard the rumble of the garage door.

  Shit. He had less than three minutes. Two more boxes, one empty, one full of diamonds.

  But no Our Lady of Sorrows medallion. The sound of the garage door closing was like trumpets of warning in his ears. He really did not want to come face-to-face with Gerry Dix.

  He scooped up the remaining boxes, pouring them into a makeshift apron of his T-shirt, and, kicking both doors closed just to buy himself a little more time, bolted toward the slider he’d left open. He didn’t bother to reset the alarm, because Gerry had to know by now that it wasn’t set.

  Just as the kitchen door from the garage opened, Con eased through the slider door and flattened himself against the wall long enough to hear which direction Dix was headed.

  To the safe, of course. Probably with a gun in hand, since he saw his alarm had been disarmed.

  Holding the boxes in his T-shirt, he ran across the expanse of the pool deck, through the next yard, around the house under construction, straight to the Dumpsters.

  “I heard a gunshot!” Lizzie whispered when he got there. “Oh my God, how much did you steal?”

  “It’s in one of these.” He let go of his shirt, and the leather and velvet jewelry cases tumbled to the ground.

  Instantly, they were on the ground, opening.

  “Holy crap,” she exclaimed at a million-dollar necklace.

  “Don’t get attached, Lizzie, just open. And don’t let anything fall on the ground.”

  On his third try, he had it. “Here it is. Turn around and let me put this in the backpack.”

  She did, and he tucked the box safely in the pack she wore.

  “What about this other stuff, Con? Are we going to just leave it here?”

  Ripping off his T-shirt, Con swept all the boxes into it and wrapped it up like a makeshift pouch. “Get on the bike, Lizzie. I’ll drive.”

  “You’re keeping all that? Con, you can’t!”

  “Get on the bike, Lizzie, fast!” He hopped on in front of her, the sack of boxes dangling in his left hand, his right turning the key and thumbing the starter button. The bike roared to life. The second he felt her thighs around his and her arms grab hold of him, he rumbled to the road, straight for Dix’s house.

  Just as they reached the front, the security lights exploded and every house light glowed simultaneously, bathing them in brightness. Con slowed down just enough to hoist the bag and get some muscle behind his throw, when the front door opened and a rifle aimed right at his head.

  Damn. If he was killed the first time he didn’t steal, he’d be pissed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dix hollered, lowering the rifle a fraction.

  “Returning what I don’t want.” He tossed the shirt.

  The rifle dropped six inches. “Con Xenakis? You son of a bitch—”

  The rest was drowned out by the roar of the bike as Con took off. The bike exploded with speed, just missing the wooden gate as it slowly lifted to let them out, then he tilted so far right to get onto A1A, his jeans almost kissed the pavement and Lizzie let out a shriek.

  Con righted the bike and tore into traffic, but got stuck at a light. When it finally changed, he barreled along, one eye ahead, one eye in the sideview mirror. “What was he driving?” he asked.

  “Big, dark SUV. Maybe a Cadillac.”

  Gerry Dix was a vindictive son of a bitch, and he’d probably figured out what Con had taken by now. Or maybe he didn’t even wait to do inventory.

  He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a black Escalade roaring up the road behind them.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  WHEN LIZZIE TURNED around and saw the lights of the SUV, a scream lodged in her throat.

  “Hang on,” Con called.

  She clutched his stomach tighter, squashing her thighs against his. Wind whistled through her helmet and smacked her face every time she leaned around Con’s bare back to look in the rearview mirror.

  She did anyway. The SUV was gaining on them. He whipped to the left, accelerating to a heart-stopping speed that made her squeeze her eyes shut. The left? They were in the left. That meant …

  Lizzie opened her eyes to confirm they were on the wrong side of the street, headed into oncoming traffic. The lights were a half mile away, but in an instant they’d be hit.

  She gripped tighter instead of screaming, and wished to God she’d had a chance to say good-bye to Brianna.

  A car whizzed by, the horn blaring. Con flung them around another car, more horns blasting. The bike swayed left and right, braiding the oncoming traffic as if the cars were merely cones in a motorcross route. The cacophony of screeching brakes and furious horns added to the insanity, deafening even over the bellow of the full-speed motorcycle.

  She stole a glance to the right. They’d outrun their pursuer by about fifteen car lengths. Con rolled them to the left again, doing another tip-until-you-touch turn that stopped Lizzie’s heart, righting them as he turned left again into a side street.

  “We’re not far from my sister’s house,” she said, amazed she still had a voice. “We can go there for the night.”

  The blare of horns and screeching brakes drowned out his answer. She whipped around to see the Escalade doing exactly what they’d done—crossed oncoming traffic to follow t
hem.

  Con hit the gas and they launched forward, but the SUV almost caught up. Lizzie turned to see a half-bald man stick his head out the driver’s side as he managed to pull up almost next to them.

  “Give me the fucking medallion, Xenakis!”

  Before she realized what was happening, Con had his gun out, the muscles of his back tensing as he shot twice at the front right tire, then, if it was even possible, increased their speed to what felt like a hundred and careened through the residential neighborhood, eventually working their way back to the highway, where he tilted the bike and took a right.

  “I live in the other direction!” she hollered.

  “We’re not going there.”

  When he slowed down to the same speed as traffic, Lizzie breathed for the first time, still checking the rearview for that big Escalade.

  Finally, he pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, rumbling to the back behind the building so they couldn’t be seen from the street, his bare chest heaving from the effort.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We can’t stay here tonight. We’ve got to get back to that boat before Paxton takes something else, or blames us for this one.”

  “Tonight?” He didn’t really think he could navigate that treacherous inlet at night, did he?

  He pulled out his phone and hit one number. She thought she heard a woman’s voice answer.

  “We need a boat. Fast. Have it at Sebastian Marina, ASAP. Paxton left us stranded and we need to get back on board.” There was a pause. “Big enough to get us through the inlet, but something fast.”

  He gunned the engine again, rolling out.

  “The marina’s about two blocks from here,” she called out, glancing up and down the road for the Escalade.

  “Listen to me,” he said over his shoulder. “We’re going to move fast. We’ll ditch this bike in the lot and get to the dock as fast as possible. Not that I expect Dix to come looking for us, but I don’t want to take chances.”

  They parked and he took the backpack from her, then they ran to the dock in silence. One of the marina workers was waiting with a twenty-one-foot twin outboard with a cuddy cabin in the bow, keys in hand.