Seven of Swords

by Knight, JJ

  My rage builds.

  It's not the loss. I can handle that. The Scandinavian piece was not my favorite tiara, but it was lovely, and I felt it worked perfectly in my living room. Jade must have decided from the moment she looked at it that she was going to steal it.

  But she had to be good. The tiara appeared to be in a simple glass case. But it wasn’t. The case is protected with motion sensing devices. She should have triggered an alarm.

  She knows her way around security. My blood chills as I realize I bedded a woman who works in my trade.

  Either that or she was a distraction for someone who knew that I would be busy elsewhere as they entered my apartment and took the crown.

  That seems unlikely, though. My front door is well fortified. You can’t come in with a key or a code or any other method without setting off an alarm in my master suite.

  The balcony is also protected. It would take a death wish to attempt to climb from any of the others to jump to mine.

  Even so I do not leave that to chance. No matter how distracted I might get, every door and window to this apartment automatically locks and the alarm resets once the sensors determine that no one is outside.

  It's not possible for me to forget. It works on its own.

  No, the thief was already inside my apartment when the tiara was stolen.

  Jade.

  If that’s her name. I highly doubt it.

  Did Sylvester know he harbored a criminal in his ranks? I’ll sure tell him.

  The thing is, she shouldn't have been able to leave.

  My heart thuds faster as I realize that she must have somehow deactivated the door locks. Without my code and fingerprints, you can't even leave this place unless I escort you out.

  Maybe she infiltrated the private cleaning company that I own and has access to this apartment. Maybe she was working with someone on the inside.

  My mind races through scenarios. It seems like a lot of effort for a simple tiara that was not a particularly pricey object. But maybe twenty thousand is a lot to someone like Jade. It's just that if she had the skills to pull a heist inside my own apartment, she should have the ability to pull off a much bigger job.

  After a small panic, I wonder about the key to my bunker vault downstairs.

  I head to my dresser and deactivate the alarm system. When I open the drawer, I relax upon spotting the ancient key exactly where it is supposed to be, nestled between layers of satin.

  The bunker and vault are safe.

  So I lost a modestly valuable tiara to a tricky call girl. It isn't the end of the world. The haul I made last night will make up for it a thousand times over. I just dislike rather intensely being made a fool of.

  The enchantment I felt for Jade has evaporated. A shame, since we were so incredibly compatible in our appetites last night. A call to Sylvester is definitely in order.

  But first, a shower. I want the lilac smell of that beguiling thief off my body.

  * * *

  The call with Sylvester did not go well. He refused to give me the identity of the girl, who he knew as Anna, even after I told him about the missing tiara. He said he would handle it internally and I would be reimbursed.

  I’m not surprised that she gave me a fake name. Most of them do. But Sylvester has access to her bank information in order to pay her, and I will get a little more forceful with him quite soon. This is not a matter of money.

  But first I need to take care of the buyers who are interested in the seven swords. They want photographs and will insist on video of my heist to prove their authenticity.

  I can provide all of that. But I need to edit the material and prepare it. I also need to photograph the swords with a particular assortment of items and printed phrases that would appease their concern that I don’t have them in my possession. All standard. All perfectly acceptable for a purchase of this stature.

  Sylvester can wait. I will find the girl and make her pay for stealing from me. I will also demand to know where she learned her trade and who she works for.

  I take my iron key and slip it into a secure pocket inside the breast of my coat jacket. Funny how people think thieves at my level dress well because they want to look sharp. They don't realize that jeans and T-shirts do not afford a proper ability to conceal.

  My tailor is a genius. Most of my clothing holds the sort of hidden pockets you can’t even imagine unless you work in the trade.

  I ride the private elevator down, so I do not need to concern myself with the network of security cameras. I pass through the closet and into the tunnel without incident. But as I linger by my door, I swear I catch the slightest whiff of lilacs. The scent of that woman.

  It’s impossible. She can't know of the existence of this bunker, much less get as close as the tunnel door.

  But I haven’t gotten as far as I am now by assuming too little. I prepare myself for the possibility that she or some henchmen are inside.

  I activate a sequence on the security pad that will initiate a lockdown in fifteen seconds. Once I am inside, the only way out will be a voice command from me.

  The door slides open.

  I leap inside, snatching up a handgun hidden behind the table by the door.

  But I can aim it at no one. The bunker appears empty.

  A quick walk around the main room proves this to be the case. I step into the alcove, checking the closet and beneath the bed. Nothing. Still, I swear the trace of lilacs lingers in the air. She’s bewitched me.

  No doubt my anger is fueling a mild paranoia. All appears to be well. I approach the vault, which is closed and sealed as expected. I initiate the sequence to open it and wait the proper interval. I insert the key and the door swings open.

  I glance at the Romanov tiara, knowing I will never move it upstairs. It’s worth considerably more than the Scandinavian one.

  And suck in a breath.

  It’s missing.

  The black velvet case is empty.

  Dammit.

  I knew Jade had knowledge of tiaras. It was in how she appraised it, like a connoisseur, not a hooker playing princess.

  That was that uneasy connection I felt with her. She is a thief. A high-level one like me.

  How did I not know her?

  I was at the top of my game. Nobody messed with me. I could count on one hand the thieves who worked at my level of the heist. And none of them were women.

  She was working with someone.

  I have many enemies. People who arrived at the site of one of my heists too late, after I had already removed the spoils.

  Chekov, perhaps? Thompson? I bet it was that weasel Molina. He had a bone to pick with me. I couldn't help that he was slow on the hunt. Perhaps I had underestimated him. Or he had trained up. As far as I knew, no one even knew of the existence of this bunker.

  But now someone did.

  Nothing else is missing. I check the shelves with small lock boxes filled with loose jewels. A girdle lined with diamonds on a rack. A collection of gem-studded goblets, awaiting a payment so they could be delivered. My King Henry chalice.

  Everything else is fine. Only the tiara is gone.

  Such a particular steal when she could have taken so much. Maybe she worked alone after all. Some thieves are peculiar that way.

  Regardless, Jade got into the vault. She will pay for her betrayal. I will recover my two tiaras, and then I will take my punishment out on her. And enjoy it. But first, I have to deal with the swords. I will not let a half-a-million-dollar loss get in the way of a one-hundred-and-forty-million-dollar gain.

  I approach the safe inside the vault to remove the seven swords. But I receive another terrible surprise when I open its door.

  Their velvet case is gone.

  6

  Jade

  I should not have taken the swords.

  Everything got so jumbled when I landed in Jacob’s bed. I forgot my main mission. Everything got derailed.

  It started with that Scandinavian nuptial tiara. J
acob didn’t deserve it. The thought of him crowning naked prostitutes with something so beautiful and precious threatened to destroy me.

  And then there was the bigger prize. The Romanov tiara.

  That crown had gone missing a year ago. When I looked into it, I discovered Jacob Holt had been at the German estate that once held it. It wasn’t reported missing for months, but I knew it was him. No one else at his skill level had been there during that time.

  So I decided to make Jacob my mark. Even if it hurt me to do so. Even if it was a risk.

  It had to be him.

  More than just the tiara was at stake. My mission for two years had been to infiltrate the Den, an underground bar where upscale lifters like us networked and openly recruited for big jobs. I needed to choose a target and bring him down, the higher up, the better. If I could undermine the superiority of the male thieves in the Den, I would create an opportunity for the women to fill the upper ranks.

  If Jacob fell, the whole Den would topple like a pile of bones.

  The women would rise.

  But after spending a night with him, his sexist, domineering, pandering lifestyle made me crazy. How could someone who fit me so well be such a jerk?

  I admit it. I was hurt. And angry. And maybe feeling a little despair over the man I had once idolized and now knew too well.

  So when I went in for the tiara, I took the swords.

  But now I sit in a modest hotel room in the Lower East Side, staring at my laptop screen in disbelief. One hundred and forty million dollars.

  That’s what the network of buyers are offering him for them.

  I’m sunk.

  I had overshot the mark. Instead of embarrassing Jacob by having a woman steal his tiaras, I have spurred him to revenge. He will recruit people to come after me.

  If they figure out who I am, I may have started a war.

  I pace the room. Where had my plan fallen apart? The sex? The deception? My foolish, foolish heart?

  It began with Sabrina, a call girl who often serviced men of the Den. Three months ago she called to say she’d spent the night with none other than Jacob Holt himself.

  So Sabrina and I hatched a plan. The next time he requested her, she’d look for the tiara and I’d create a scheme to steal it back.

  Three months I’d worked this job, adding my own surveillance, collecting fingerprints, copying retinal scans after he completed them.

  Sabrina bugged six of his suits with tiny pea-sized cams meant to fall out and roll on the floor. The sixth one finally placed well enough, and I watched with amusement how he’d rigged his vault for a dance. I had the whole recording. It didn’t take a genius to create a life-like hologram from the video to set off the whole thing.

  The last piece I needed was the iron key.

  So I waited until he called Sylvester again to hire a call girl to take the biggest risk of all. I had to go in myself for this part. His apartment was too secure and too rigged for anyone to do this job for me.

  Sabrina had a couple of her friends alerted for a request with “H,” and as soon as one of them got the call, I wired her double the fee to take the job off her hands. Of course Jacob would be in a brunette phase, so I had to do a quick color wash on my bleach-blond hair. It took two rounds of lilac conditioner to cover the smell of chemicals.

  I stole the Scandinavian tiara in his living room, made an impression of the key in his bureau, broke into his bunker, and voila. The Romanov tiara was mine.

  But now I have these swords.

  Really, truly, I had no idea what these sad, broken bits of metal were when I opened the safe. I took them out of anger that he and I were so compatible, and yet he was such an ass. It was like a dream of mine had been dashed.

  But these swords are a retirement-level job. And I stole them right from under him.

  One hundred and forty million dollars. I turn back to the bed. The velvet case lies spread out on the covers. The hilts of the swords of King Arthur’s Round Table. I had no idea such things even existed.

  The value of these swords ensures that he will come after me. I’ve done far more than undermine the Den’s confidence in their lead thieves.

  I’ve made a mortal enemy.

  I pace the room. What should I do? Take them back?

  No, not to that asshole.

  A woman bested him. He will not accept them even if I do. He’ll come after me, relentlessly. He might eventually uncover my larger mission, and then I’ll have to report my failure to my father.

  I need to leave right now. I’m not sure of Jacob’s skill level with searches and online tracking. For all I know, he already has a team looking for anyone searching for information about these jeweled hilts, and I’m giving him coordinates to this hotel even as I sit here.

  I shut down the laptop and shove it in my bag. I roll up the swords and carefully wrap the two tiaras in silk scarves. God, I have nothing but a straw beach bag for all this. One hundred and forty million dollars in a beach bag!

  I can’t possibly try to offload the hilts myself. I will have to find someone who can help me with that, and I will have to avoid the clutches of one Jacob Holt in the meantime. Thank God I colored my hair. That gives me a little longer before he figures it out. He’ll be looking for a thief with dark hair. I need to go back to blond, stat.

  I can’t warn Sabrina about what I’ve done. The less she knows, the better. Jacob Holt isn’t a killer. But he will be set on revenge against me.

  God. What have I done?

  The elevator stops on the sixth floor, and my heart almost seizes before a family with two small children get on board. I need to calm down. He isn't going to find me immediately.

  I need to think. I’ve bested Jacob Holt, but now I have to figure out what to do next.

  7

  Jacob

  Putting off the buyers of the swords has been a pain in the ass. Two of them accused me of lying about having stolen them in the first place. One of them said the rumors must be true that I was a fraud. The fourth one had merely smirked on our video call, wondering who had bested me on this heist.

  It has not been a good day.

  To make Sylvester talk, I bought off three of his top girls, all ones I had hired before and who had been cloyingly difficult to get rid of. They all resigned within an hour and threatened to reveal the identity of their political clients.

  Sylvester contacted me swiftly, providing the bank account information where he deposited the money he paid Jade.

  At least that part of my plan worked.

  I was surprised to learn the account was a dead end. The woman he paid was Anna Browning, and upon finding her profile, I realized she was not the girl who came to my door. I contacted one of my comrades who specializes in hacking bank accounts and quickly learned that shortly after my call, she had been wired a sum that was almost exactly double the one I usually pay.

  Jade had paid her off and taken her place.

  The incoming wire went nowhere. A newly created bank account in the same name, Anna Browning, made it look like an internal transfer.

  Money laundering 101.

  Jade was trained.

  No wonder I felt a connection. She used all the same moves. Probably her body posture, the ways her eyes took in a room, and her care to avoid revealing too much of her intention struck a chord in me.

  Thank God I didn’t actually like her for real. All that hogwash I felt about keeping her around — just seduction training. And I know where it came from.

  Antony.

  He will know who she is. He is the linchpin, the sun we all revolve around. No one gets into the Den without his personal hand. And Jade is from the Den. I can smell it.

  There are very few thieves worth their salt in this part of the country who haven't apprenticed under Antony, including myself.

  Female jewel thieves are common, but they usually work on the personal level. They are trained to be liars and cons. They are pretty dolls, using sex as a distraction. Thei
r skills are never honed like the men.

  She is no different.

  I loathe female thieves.

  Her above all others.

  She used her thieving wiles on me, and I didn’t even catch it.

  I pace the bedroom, once again catching a whiff of lilacs. I want to suck all the air out of my apartment so that no trace of her remains. And yet even as I try to escape her scent, I picture her everywhere. Sipping whiskey by the bar. Examining the glass case. Stripping in my bedroom. Naked on my balcony.

  Damn, but we had been compatible. Such a startlingly good ruse.

  I will come for her. And she will feel my wrath for fooling me.

  I will own her. Oh, she will pay.

  I sit on a chair in one of the guest rooms, mainly because there is no memory of her in those walls, no trace of lilacs. I dial Antony’s number from memory. Members of the Den know better than to keep him stored on any of our electronics. He has slit throats for less.

  The line rings exactly twice when he picks up with a gruff, “What the hell?”

  "Antony, it's Jacob."

  "The word of your situation is already getting out this morning," he says. "So did you steal the swords or not?"

  Shit. I didn't expect to go this direction with the conversation already. But those buyers no doubt have already put feelers out to see if some other thief made off with the swords. News this big would've gotten back to Antony in a hurry.

  "I did. And the cold-hearted thieving bitch I slept with last night stole them right out from under me."

  I don't expect his full-throated laugh. I've never heard Antony laugh. He’s not a jolly sort of fellow. He's the sort of man who would just as soon drive a knife through your heart as shake your hand.

  I wait him out until his laughing subsides.

  “I’m aware of your disdain for female thieves,” he says. “So what do you want from me?”

  "I'm calling because she must have crossed your path at some point. She was trained for the Den.”

  "All right," he says. "Tell me about her."