Midnight Heist (Outlaws Book 1)

by Katherine McIntyre

  Their cab driver wasn’t the talking type, the partition closed and his gaze forward. Exactly what they preferred.

  “Comms are working?” Scarlet asked, tapping at her ear.

  He heard her loud and clear, not just because she sat beside him but through the earbud nestled in place. While he and John chatted up Dan Torres, Scarlet would be working her magic on the computers in the offices. She’d brought her arsenal of extraction tools for direct hardwire access to the information in these computers. A pro had handled the encryption of Torres Industries electronic info, which meant if they wanted to nab this intel, they needed an in-person removal.

  “Based on the files we’ve looked through, I’m thinking we might need to pay a visit to the CFO,” John murmured, cracking open his briefcase to cause some noise around his statement.

  “First stop will be the CEO’s office,” Scarlet reminded them. “If I have time, I’ll try the CFO’s, but if he’s in his office, I won’t have much of an excuse or reason to lure him out. That’s on the two of you.”

  Grif ran a hand through his hair. “I’m pretty sure the CEO’s not guilty of much, with his one-man attempt to clear the company of corruption.”

  John cocked an eyebrow. “Because you’re definitely an impartial party.”

  Grif’s lips thinned. “Yeah, I am. Because you can bet if he’s involved, I won’t hesitate to bury him.” His heart thudded hard enough to punch through his rib cage. He didn’t have to force the conviction in his tone, because he’d lived and breathed his mission from the day his parents died. No matter how much he’d come to like Dan Torres in their brief interactions, everyone betrayed, and everyone lied. He had survived on reading people as best he could, but he wasn’t infallible.

  Luka served as a reminder of that. Turncoat shit hadn’t responded to his text.

  “Touché, boss,” John said, lifting his hands. He donned his gee-golly disarming smile, nothing like the wisecracking swindler he knew. Grif had his Outlaws. No one else could be trusted, because no one else had earned it. And today needed to go off perfectly, the sound check before their after-hours rock show. The days were ticking down to the payment due date, and Nevarra wouldn’t be forgiving on an extension.

  The cab screeched to a halt by the streets he had vaulted through the other night while Doncaster and his scum tried and failed to play Pin the Bullet on the Outlaw’s Skull.

  “Both of you are on the comm,” Scarlet reinforced, her hazel eyes flashing with insistence. “If anything changes, report in.” He didn’t question why she reminded them again and again. Their resident hacker didn’t often step into the field, so this was as uncomfortable for her as a trip to the Chicago Theater was for him.

  Grif reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be keeping a close watch on the situation. If anything happens or anyone gets too inquisitive with you, don’t hesitate to disappear. We’ll catch up.”

  She shot him a grateful look, those moss-brown eyes softening. “Thanks, boss.”

  He cracked a grin. “This is an easy retrieval. The sort of job we could sleepwalk through, so leave the worrying to me.” He squeezed her shoulder one more time before letting go.

  John rapped on the partition and paid the driver while they slipped out to the sidewalk. This place looked different in broad daylight with the crowds of suits strolling across the pavement, the honks of the cars passing by, and the low murmur of chatter permeating through every crack and seam of this city. Grif slipped a hand in his right pocket and strode forward to the entrance. The triangular frame of the Aon Center’s entryway beckoned, all dark steel and glittering glass.

  Scarlet’s heels clicked behind him, and John’s Clarks barely made a whisper on the concrete even though he could feel the man’s solid presence.

  Once he stepped through the doors, his skin began to crawl. He might live in a city of skyscrapers and shit, but the polished marble tiles, the recessed lighting above, and the sheer number of reflective surfaces reminded him far too much of his parents’ company. Once upon a time, that might’ve brought him comfort, but once upon a time, he’d been a stupid kid.

  Grif strode forward, chin up and gaze focused on the elevator at the far end. Hushed tones filtered through this bright, spacious place, accented by the occasional manicured shrub or plant that looked out of place in this cold, sterile building. On one end of the room, escalators headed downstairs to the lower floors, while accent tables and a manned help desk took up a different corner. Torres Industries claimed a cushy spot on the upper floors, so he approached the chrome elevators on the opposite side.

  Every step they made reverberated through this open, sunlit building, and every word echoed.

  “Here’s your guest pass,” John said, handing him the key card that’d been priority shipped to the hotel they were “staying at” while in town. Scarlet had copied one for herself, and their plan today consisted of getting the intel to make themselves upgrades for their break-in next week.

  The neon numbers flashed above the elevator as the ding-ding-ding echoed around them. Grif tapped the side of his leg again and again while they waited, the silence descending between them. The elevator settled on their floor, and those doors slid open with a soft click. Showtime.

  Grif strode in and leaned against the mirrored panels at the back of the elevator. They’d gotten lucky enough for a solo ride up, but with the way cameras monitored everything here, he didn’t trust open conversation. Scarlet pressed in the floor number for Torres Industries, the doors closed, and the elevator lurched up. Sweat pricked his palms, and he stared at the ceiling, hoping the sight would soothe the edge. It didn’t.

  Elevators sparked a primal fear response—they had from the time he rode up them thousands of times to his parents’ business as a kid. Back then, they’d helped him breathe through the distress until he could put on as good of a game face as anyone, a trick that he’d used to con poker tables when he descended to the criminal underworld.

  “Did you hear about Sparky the penguin?” John asked, staring at his nails.

  “Yeah, the little guy bit it the other day,” Grif responded, glancing from one recording device to the next. “Damn tragedy.”

  Scarlet crossed her arms as she fixed the two of them with a stare. “Really? The two of you barely blink at the half dozen shootings that happen on the daily here, but Sparky the penguin gets a mournful mention?”

  “This is Chicago, babe. Shooting’s just a casual way of saying hi,” Grif drawled.

  Scarlet rolled her eyes and lifted her middle finger at him. “This is why I never leave my house.”

  “They’re throwing Sparky a parade,” John responded, a faint grin on his lips.

  “That’s because he was a national treasure,” Grif added, not bothering to hide his smile. He loved his Outlaws with every last broken piece inside him.

  “Fuck both of you,” Scarlet responded, transferring her glare to the elevator doors, which miraculously hadn’t opened yet. The numbers ticked up, higher, higher, higher, as did Grif’s adrenaline levels.

  The elevator car settled into place at the floor for Torres Industries, and the doors clicked open. Grif’s tongue dried, but he swallowed his resolve anyway and stepped off. Greg Locksley of Neo-National had arrived.

  The marble walls gleamed under the amber lighting, almost blinding when paired with the polished floors. Black lettering and an arrow indicated the direction of Torres Industries to the right, and Grif set a fast pace, his footsteps echoing across the polished tile. Scarlet slowed hers—she wouldn’t be entering with them, instead arriving as one of the newer employees in the system. Ideally, she should’ve arrived separately, but Scarlet didn’t often do in-person ops—better to settle her nerves beforehand.

  “See you in an hour,” Grif whispered into the comm. He reached the double glass doors and gripped the cool metal handle. He yanked it open, the scents of toner and ink and dry-cleaned suits blasting him in the face when he stepped inside. Those
bright lights glared down like a cop’s Streamlight, but he ignored them and strode straight to the front desk, where a woman sat on the phone.

  She glanced to them and offered a nod. He flashed his badge and mouthed “Meeting.” The woman offered a polite smile and lifted a clipboard, pen attached to sign in. Grif snagged it and began scribbling out their essentials. John stood next to him, equipped with his briefcase and a friendly smile. A click-click-click sounded as Scarlet strode in behind him, acting like she worked here.

  The woman hung up the phone the same time he handed the clipboard back. She skimmed their form and looked up to him. “Mr. Torres is finishing up a meeting right now, but there’s a waiting area right by his office. I’ll show you there.”

  John tipped his fingers at her in salute, and she led them past the front desk to head deeper into the building. Grif strode through the hall, different rooms opening into seas of flimsy-as-cardboard cubicles. Other, smaller offices featured wide windows and solo desks, making the hierarchy clear. He absorbed the details as he went, one of the rooms clearly IT by the volume of computers and people wearing headsets. The marketing department contained fewer cubicles, and more people strode around the room, half of them on cell phones.

  The end of the long corridor opened into the waiting room.

  “Take a seat here,” the woman from the desk gestured before she left, heading back through the hall. The place featured a wide-windowed overlook of the city as well as the typical lineup of chairs and copies of Forbes, Harvard Business Review, and Consumer Reports stacked on the glass tables. Grif’s fingers tap-tap-tapped at his leg. He loped over to one of the seats and sprawled out. He’d worn a different Valentino suit today, this one a similar gray wool-blend to John’s. His gaze flicked to the closed office door.

  Dan Torres waited behind there, and he couldn’t deny the way his adrenaline pulsed at the thought. Whether it was the hot fucking night in his condo or the stream of texts since then, somehow the man had infiltrated his thoughts. Time to regain control of the situation.

  “So, we’re signing the fancy documents today,” John commented, tapping at the briefcase.

  “That’s the hope,” he responded, then lowering his voice to a murmur. “How are you doing, Scar?”

  The comm buzzed in his ear. “So far, no one’s given me a second glance. Exactly the way I like it.”

  “We’ll be heading into the meeting in a minute, so it’ll be some radio silence on our end. Don’t hesitate to comm in if you need us.”

  “We can’t bank our business on hope, Greg,” John said in his normal register, as if Grif wasn’t having a whispered convo on the side. Smart move—he’d already caught the probing eye of at least a dozen security cams along their way up, ones that would need to be disabled when they broke in. Either that or rerouted to old footage. That’s where Scarlet would come in.

  “Which is why we won’t take no for an answer,” Grif said, his gaze on the door. The scuff of footsteps sounded from inside, which meant the meeting was wrapping up. He perked up, leaning forward. John’s gaze zeroed in on him, and his lips curled in amusement.

  The door creaked open, and Dan Torres stepped out first.

  His skin gleamed copper with a healthy glow, and his thick black hair was combed to the side, meticulous as always. His tailored charcoal suit showcased a lithe body Grif couldn’t get enough of. Even now, his libido kickstarted to life at the mere sight of the guy.

  Dan looked up at him, and when their eyes met, his dark brown ones softened, crinkling around the edges with an honesty that made Grif feel as sleazy as the corporate assholes he targeted. He cracked a wolfish grin, gripping the edges of the chair he sprawled out in. His gaze traveled from head to toe and back again before he met Dan’s eyes. A flush broke out on the CEO’s cheeks, one that made him even more delicious.

  Dan stepped to the side and gestured for the person behind him to pass.

  A woman strode past him, her black stilettos clicking on the tile. Her curls were pinned back, her thin red lips like knife slashes, and the black-and-white polka dot dress she wore nothing short of professional. Her gaze landed on him, and a knowing smile lit her eyes.

  Betty Kirklees was already on the scene, the Bonnie to Roger Doncaster’s Clyde.

  Oh, fuck.

  Twelve

  From the moment he’d woken up, today had been better than most. A little because the sun peeked out past the clouds, casting some of the golden glow in through the windows, but a lot because Greg Locksley was coming into the office for the Neo-National meeting.

  He ushered Betty Lancaster out. He’d agreed to a meeting with the prospective client, but she felt as phony as an Instagram celeb. Not that he’d gotten a pass from the board to sign on any new companies. Out of all the newer acquisitions, he only wanted to fight for a few, and Neo-National topped his list. Mostly because they’d been the most forthright with him, but maybe a little because their rep looked like a Viking god and was scorching in bed.

  Dan stepped through the door to spot John and Greg lounging in the chairs while they waited for him. Greg’s ice-blue stare landed on him, and the heat in his eyes that followed coursed down to his toes.

  The man knocked the breath from him on sight alone, like the first time they’d met. Today, Greg had combed his blond hair back, putting his angular jaw on full display. His muscled body strained the seams of the suit he wore, a gray color that made his sky eyes pop. He hadn’t been sure if the man was a lucid dream, but here he stood again, emanating power like he’d been plucked from an MMA match. The man would be a natural leader, with the confidence of his movements and the arrogance in his stare.

  When Greg scanned him up and down, Dan needed to suppress the memory of how easily he’d pinned him down over his own coffee table. He’d felt the flex of those muscles, the power behind the man, and one taste hadn’t been enough.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lancaster,” Dan called as she strode away. Good riddance. He’d entertained the preliminary meeting, but there wouldn’t be a follow-up. Betty slowed her steps as she walked by John and Greg, her gaze lingering on them. Not like he could blame her—the two guys were gorgeous. They stared right on back with a challenge in their gaze hinting familiarity. Not surprising. The corporate world was cutthroat, and reps tended to know one another.

  “Neo-National, you’re up,” he said, his heart fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Christ in heaven, he needed to be the CEO of Torres Industries here, not some teenager nursing a crush. “Good to see you again, John.” He nodded to the broad-shouldered guy who strode toward him. “Greg.” The man’s name died on his lips as Greg Locksley walked his way.

  John offered a handshake, even though Dan couldn’t miss the twinkle in his eyes. Chances were, he knew about his and Greg’s rendezvous. Dan wanted to groan. All his attempts at being professional had careened out the window like a crumpled wrapper once he gave Greg Locksley his personal number. Great job he was doing at running Torres Industries right now. Not only had he started waging war against his own board, but he’d also given them ample fodder to undermine him.

  “Funny meeting you here,” Greg said, his callused palm meeting his in a touch far too intimate to be considered a handshake. When their skin grazed, the shock rolled through him like thermal radiation. That sort of chemistry couldn’t be faked, or even developed over time. The mere scent of his aftershave made his knees weak; amber and notes of aged oak. From the moment he’d met Greg Locksley, the attraction between them had been as vast and powerful as Lake Michigan, and even what should’ve been a one-night stand hadn’t gotten the man out of his system.

  “Almost like we named a time and place,” Dan responded, somehow maintaining his cool, even with his hormones dancing the bachata.

  “Tell me you’ve got good news for us,” John said, swinging his briefcase back and forth. “I know it’s been a few days since the lunch meeting, but we hoped to be able to move forward sooner rather than later.”

/>   During the conversation after the meeting, Phil and Len’s citrus-sour faces had gotten redder and redder while they argued with Vanessa, who responded to each furious claim with a winter chill. He’d let everyone squabble their frustrations out, and then he’d postponed the vote. Until he had solid evidence, Dan wouldn’t be able to get a board majority on his side.

  Leo had met with him throughout the week, setting him up in all his techie glory with every countermeasure to track the goings-on in this company.

  “I’ve got news, but I’ll need a little more time for the full partnership. My board isn’t thrilled with new blood,” Dan started, and then glanced to the open waiting area. They could take this meeting in his office, but he’d been feeling twitchier there lately, like he was being watched. Either the nerves were getting the best of him, or his own employees had bugged him. Given the seedy shit his father had inferred he should stay out of, he wouldn’t be shocked by the latter.

  Dan tilted his head toward the hallway. “We’ve got a private meeting room we can use. Follow me.”

  He slipped into his office and snagged the stack of papers he’d left on the edge of his desk. A letter of intent was in there, one he planned on having Neo-National look over while he worked on convincing the board. Greg skimmed his fingers through his hair while he waited by the doorway, tucking a few strands behind his ear.

  Goddamn, Dan needed to stop drooling over the man for a half second and slip into business mode. Hard to do when the guy’s mere proximity shook him up like a bottle of prosecco. Dan strode out of the office, Greg keeping pace with him while John waited in the hallway.

  “You look fucking delicious,” Greg murmured, his gravelly tone so low only he could hear.

  Well, professionalism could jettison out the window. Dan’s cheeks flushed, and the tone traveled straight to his cock. Fun thing, doing a business meeting with a hard-on. Though, already, Greg Locksley had made the morning a hell of a lot more pleasurable than his year-long slog through the Badlands here.