Marked Masters

by Ritter Ames

  "Which brings up precisely the subject I want to discuss." He cocked a black eyebrow at me, and I was reading his lips more than truly hearing each word as he continued. "I hope this foray into crime is your first and last. The value of the theft you attempted would put a felony on your record if those coppers last night had caught you."

  I moved the whole mask to my hairline so he could see me lift my own eyebrow questioningly as I reminded, "Aren't you the one who left with the masterpiece? I recall simply spiriting away a lowly journal that law enforcement can only use to get on to a trail of human traffickers. Since it meets no chain-of-evidence rules, it couldn't be more than a misdemeanor given its market value. Perhaps you should look inward, Mr. Hawkes. I think you can keep busy enough examining your own personality flaws, but thanks so much for your concern."

  He snorted. I wiggled the dark mask back into place.

  "Still, love…" His fingers lifted up a corner of the mask so I could again see that cocky eyebrow. "You possessed more than average nerve whilst we each traipsed through the little midnight caper. You were angry but confident when we met up at the car."

  "You mean when you broke into my car and stashed your loot in my backseat? Wow, now that I think about it, Jack, your transgressions are really piling up. Maybe it would be best if I not associate with you anymore. Bad influence and all of that."

  Due to our too-close confinement, I hoped this exchange was the end of his questions. I could deflect a lot and had my personal arsenal of point maneuvers that worked against most people, but Jack Hawkes was not most people. My extracurricular activities, what I deemed my "reclamation projects," had gone undetected for some time by all facets of law enforcement, and I intended to keep the status quo exactly as I preferred it. While I'd been close to getting caught several times, even spotted on three separate occasions, I'd never actually been apprehended or even positively identified. However, I'd also never before had an adversary like Jack Hawkes. Someone who learned about my exploits by getting there just ahead of me. Someone who from the time I met him operated under the assumption I was more than I seemed.

  Well, I never said the man wasn't bright. Hopefully, flip answers and the fact he got to the painting first was enough to shut down further discussion.

  I jerked the satin mask from his fingers and repositioned it one last time over my eyes. To no avail.

  "Speaking of associates." Jack ripped the mask completely off my head. I glared at him as I tried to use fingers and my vague reflection in the thick airplane window glass to reduce the clown mess my blond waves likely took on from the flinging elastic. My blue eyes were a blur, but even the poor reflection showed they were narrowed in anger below my thin brows.

  "Were we speaking of associates? I honestly don't remember previous conversations along those lines." I shrugged and changed my look to my patented bored face. Experience told me that allowing Jack to witness any negative emotion on my part simply made him feel he'd scored points and goaded him into continuing for the kill. Okay, maybe kill wasn't the best word to consider in our present adventure.

  He tossed the black mask into my lap. "I've been reviewing every idea I've come up with in the past week, and I cannot figure out why Moran didn't kill you or have you killed anytime between London and Le Puy-en-Velay. He could have done so many times, with ease and little risk of exposure. Even accomplished the deed himself, we now know."

  "We now assume. No one's given me confirmation yet about his French alias as my vehicular knight in shining armor."

  "Consider it confirmed."

  Damn! I hate when he knows stuff before me. Especially when I should have already been notified by someone. "So, did you order Interpol not to bother telling me?" I crossed my arms. "Assured them you would tell me yourself, and you simply forgot to mention it?"

  "I received final confirmation an hour ago. This is really my first opportunity."

  Not exactly, but I'd let it slide this time. "You're right, Jack. It is puzzling how I was always able to either slip away from Moran's clutches, or I simply wasn't shot in the final showdown. As I recall, you were the only one who almost strangled me in France. Should I be concerned at your close proximity?"

  "Keep this up, and I may try it again." He frowned. "I'm not joking here, Laurel. I want to know what you have on Moran that made Simon and the others afraid of killing you. And why did Moran let you go when he had the opportunity to kidnap you?"

  Yes, that was a paradox I'd been contemplating for days as well. My quick wits had allowed me to get free of the first crew in Moran's line of hired help, but they'd only intended to chloroform me at the outing. Okay, yes, again an assumption since they took a couple of shots at us later, but they blasted out taxicab windows when they likely could have aimed better and hit me instead. But I was still walking and breathing and thinking… Why?

  Even Simon was confused, lamenting that if he shot me when he had the chance, then he would pay for the act later.

  Jack's next question pulled me out of my funk. "Did Moran know your grandfather? They had to be near-contemporaries. Maybe he owed your grandfather a debt of honor?"

  "It's possible," I said, but I had difficulty believing the theory. It was more likely my crooked father had made Moran's acquaintance, rather than my straight-arrow grandfather. Dear Old Daddy may have even owed the criminal mastermind a huge debt of some kind when he died in the Swiss avalanche. It was six months before the mangled body was found and his dentist provided the evidence to prove those lovely veneers were my father's.

  Daddy Dearest owed every other blackheart, after all. Moran's plan could easily be to spare my life to try to get some kind of final debt repaid. Though, since I had little money, I wasn't sure what I could offer in repayment. It had been nearly a decade since my father's death, sure, but I'd never heard of a statute of limitations on outstanding markers.

  After my grandfather joined my grandmama in the great beyond, my father happily fell headlong into a two-year gambling, spending, debauchery spree to end all real and imagined by Hollywood. Despite the wealth our family accumulated over many generations, by the time my father went over the wrong side of his favorite Alp with his latest bimbo, he had nearly run through the entire estate. He'd left IOUs all over Europe and the Americas. Any money that remained tied to Grandfather's estate was used to keep all my limbs firmly connected to my torso by paying off the drug dealers and mob bosses who crawled out of the woodwork to intimidate me through direct and indirect contact.

  Doing so did not save the family name, however, or my social reputation and position with many of the wealthy I'd always considered "our people," as individuals through the years had been eager to remind me. Though, not everyone abandoned me, I was happy to realize. A strong cadre of my old friends truly possessed class and did what they could to help my art mission. In that way I felt I was all the richer.

  At eighteen, I left for college with nothing but the rest of my grandmother's small trust she left specifically for my use. I sold the classic Porsche my grandfather left for my sixteenth birthday gift, and I learned what life was truly about. I was still learning.

  "So, has Moran had any dealings with the Beacham Foundation?" Jack asked.

  "You mean besides having his plans changed whenever I find something he's stolen and get it returned to the original owners?" I replied. When Jack nodded, I shook my head. "Not that I know of. However, I've only worked full time with the foundation five years. Until I graduated from Cornell, I worked temporarily in different departments in an intern capacity, which was only due to the fierce loyalty Max had to my grandfather's memory."

  "And you, I assume, were supposed to take over the foundation."

  Yes, he'd obviously been reading my file again, so my voice bordered on sarcasm when I said, "Grandfather always hoped I'd take my place in the business, but that, of course, was when he held ninety percent of the stock. Once the foundation became Beacham in name and tradition alone, I'm basically nothing more than an e
mployee, and I only know what pertains to my position. I may learn more in the coming months as the new head of Beacham London, but I doubt Max will change much. You know as well as I that he's keeping a pretty tight noose around my neck."

  "I think you mean leash."

  I shrugged. "Leash, noose, both can choke the life right out of you."

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time we'd made it out of the Miami airport with our bags, it was well past noon. We actually arrived there midmorning but found a full gamut of spooks in suits awaiting us, with a representative from all three law enforcement contingents: CIA, FBI, and Interpol. They huddled together near baggage claim, obviously not wanting to miss Jack and me. Like we were going to run away after calling and telling them about the journal. Still, I understood the paranoia and almost laughed at their attempt to look casual while the trio's body language shouted otherwise. Even as they tried to look disinterested, each one maintained a perimeter sweep of the area. Tweedledee and Tweedledum were a pair of stocky, thirty-something Vin Diesel clones who sounded like they hailed from Tennessee and New York, respectively. They were also FBI and CIA, respectively. The tall, blond guy with them, a Ukrainian, I thought, admitted to being the representative from the Miami office for Interpol.

  Jack took charge, and I let him. This was no place for me to try to get involved, other than answering how I found the journal. However, I did take the opportunity to deposit each man's business card inside the wallet of my new Fendi bag, purchased less than a week before to replace the poor Prada that nearly died in battle during my and Jack's first great adventure. Business cards are my aces. In my line of work, one never knew when it might pay to have another specialized civil servant's direct phone line. And I could never be accused of not considering all future possibilities.

  We ended up in one of the offices of airport security, with Tweedledum pointedly ejecting, with a few choice phrases, the much too interested local facility guard. After Jack finished his debriefing, the CIA agent stared at us, then touched his Bluetooth earpiece and started talking. The other two pulled out cell phones and sent quick texts. I figured they were waiting until they could be sure of a more secure environment before typing any longer discourses.

  The journal remained safely stored in the false bottom of my Fendi until Jack gave a nod followed by an impatient finger snap.

  I stepped close to him and whispered, "Do you like that hand? Or do you want to try to snap those fingers again with your hand separated from your arm at the wrist?" I gave him my best wide-eyed expression, and he had the decency to look sheepish, so I pulled the book from my bag and handed it to him. I thought there was going to be an actual tug of war over the journal, but Interpol-guy used his accent to an advantage and reminded everyone how most of the women were from around his former stomping grounds. He promised to send copies of the journal to everyone by "end of the business day."

  "I'd like a copy sent to me, as well," Jack said. When Interpol-guy assured a file would be forwarded to Jack's email, my unease about my sometime-partner doubled. Jack had clout somewhere—that was obvious—but he was also comfortable lying like the proverbial rug. The problem was I just didn't know how to get a true angle on our Mr. Hawkes. Incidents like this one made the challenge doubly difficult.

  My stomach alternated between a rumba and a salsa by the time we finally left the security office. I'd already given up on the four-star Miami restaurants I'd been dreaming about, or trying to con Jack into paying since it required a wallet thicker than mine. There was simply no way to get a late reservation in Midtown or the Design District, nor in any of the high-rise restaurants that glittered above the Miami River. Reservations be damned! I was ready to find a food truck and troll for dinner like a native.

  As if my brain possessed a personal Google map, I let my mind drift over the food offerings I knew wended their way on the streets behind the city's art museums, my idea of the best place to start. I would have arm wrestled Jack, and likely won, in an effort to score the first Jefe's Fish Taco or a grilled wonder from Ms. Cheezious.

  We headed for the car rental outlets, and I pulled out my phone to alert Nico, my gorgeous right-hand geek. It was approaching the high season, which runs from December through April, so I hoped he could get me a room at The Sagamore or The Betsy. Known locally as the "Art Hotel" for being the first of the Miami Beach hotels to focus on art, I preferred The Sagamore. However, I was never disappointed when my visits ended up with a stay at The Betsy and its renovated Art Deco splendor.

  "Who are you calling?" Jack whispered, locking onto my elbow.

  I stopped. "Why are you whispering?" Then I stared pointedly at his hand. I thought my comment about the snapping fingers made an impression, but now I wasn't so sure.

  He followed my gaze, looked up, and shrugged. He used a normal volume to repeat, "Who are you calling?"

  "Nico. I need to find out where I'm staying."

  "I already texted him. You're staying with me." He kept his hand cupped around my elbow and took the lead in resuming our trek toward the car rental counter. My rolling suitcase banged in irritation at the speed.

  "Do you think going all alpha like this improves your odds?" I asked him.

  The airport public address system came on announcing flights, and I practically had to read his lips. "What odds?"

  "The odds I'll continue to cooperate with you," I said. Then the PA ended, and I added quietly, "You tell me nothing. You try to take over. You expect me to follow docilely in your wake. You snap your fingers at me… When are you going to get that isn't going to work with us, Jack?"

  The suits still trailed behind twenty feet or so, and I saw Jack cut his eyes to look over my head. He raised one finger. Then he ducked his head closer to mine. "Our unexpected Orlando trip netted much less than we'd hoped for, just a number, a map we could get online anywhere, and a few scribblings that pointed to Miami. Despite Nico's best effort, he has yet to figure out the purpose of the number, and I can't find any clues on the map. While he's pursuing different angles, we need to work the Simon trail and see what links your old beau has to Moran. To get the kind of information we need, we're going to have to play the wealth card. A yacht trumps a luxury hotel every time, and we have one at our disposal. Does the opportunity to dine and sleep aboard a yacht meet with milady's approval?"

  "Ass."

  "Is that a yes?"

  Outflanked again. My hand itched to slap him. "Yes. It's a 'yes,' damn it."

  Bringing Simon up in that context was Jack's ace to shut me up, and we both knew it. Simon Babbage was my short-time ex-lover, now archenemy, who apparently also worked with master criminal Devin Moran. Or Philippe Aubertaine. And probably another half-dozen aliases. We only learned of this nefarious data in the last couple of weeks, and I was still trying to process the traitorous Simon with the ex-lover Simon. Not that I wanted him back—at least not as a lover. I wanted him in the kind of handcuffs that never made a man smile.

  On a search Jack and I undertook for a historic jeweled sword, Simon disappeared with a bundle large enough to transport such an object, or any other art treasures we didn't yet know about, and the thief hadn't been a blip on the radar since. Everyone was looking for him. Me, because our last conversation was far from finished and because he killed a woman who looked eerily like me. And because I wanted to hit him very, very hard where it hurt the most—his freedom and his wallet.

  Moran was trickier. He had the ability and means to be practically anywhere and everywhere at the same time. He also possessed the added genius of making me later see, and be aghast at, all the things I'd missed during particularly important times in the mission. I truly hated admitting such weakness.

  The craziest part was what Jack questioned me about on the plane. The facts were clear that Simon would have probably at least attempted to kill me at our last encounter, yet he wasn't allowed to, and none of us knew why. Not that we gave him much room to change plans anyway. If he had dallied much longer,
he risked Jack and me throwing a wrench into his getaway plan.

  As we neared the car rental company, I ducked into the ladies', and by the time I came out, slightly more refreshed, Jack stood at the counter flirting with the cute car rental brunette. Too much to handle on an empty stomach.

  "Jack," I called. When he looked up, I pointed to my phone and then to a corner about twenty feet away. He nodded, understanding I needed to check in with Cassie.

  "What's up, boss?" Cassie grinned at me on the small screen. She knew I hated when she called me boss. I'd known her since college, and she and I were learning the ropes in running the London office of Beacham Ltd. together. Not all the kinks were worked out yet, but she was turning into a phenomenal analyst and researcher in the field of missing art.

  I frowned out of habit and said, "I think Jack's working on a dinner date, but he has to make sure I get fed first."

  "Really?"

  "No. He's working on getting us a rental car, and the counter help is a young Jessica Biel wannabe. You know what that means. Jack has to flirt, and every woman thinks a British accent sounds sexy."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "Huh?" What kind of question was that? "I feel annoyed, of course. We have work to do, and he's wasting time flirting. Last time he finagled an Aston Martin. All we need is a plain sedan—"

  "Never mind. I was just making conversation." Cassie laughed then turned professional. "I got news from Max today you're not going to like. All expenses you incur have to come through me."

  "What?"

  "He got the bill for his AMEX Black."

  I sighed.

  "You knew this day was coming."

  I nodded. I have a problem with budgeting—as in, I have no real clue how it's done. Fortunately, my man-of-all-talents, Nico, is a master at getting into any computer. So when my funds ran short at a critical time when I really needed to globe trot, Nico hacked into our boss's credit card history and tacked all necessary expenses onto Max's account. But if Max realized the charges were for my benefit and mandated this fiscal timeout, what did he do to my favorite secret weapon?