The big cat growled at her.
“Don’t worry. We have more exciting things to come,” Ward said, clapping his hands. Two attendants wheeled out a very large, instantly recognizable tome in a glass case.
“A classic,” he said. “The classic. A manuscript that only grows in value, my friends. If you’re looking to add to your collection, a Gutenberg Bible will do it. You’ll recognize this copy from our good peers at the University of Texas in Austin.”
Sam knew it. I knew it. Two years ago, the University of Texas had its Gutenberg Bible stolen in a robbery that had flooded the news. It was worth millions of dollars.
Even more, it was one of the most vital pieces of cultural history in the entire world.
And it was sitting right in front of us.
The bidding battle for that Bible stretched on and on. Sam and I watched as casually as we could—even Thomas and Cora threw in a few million when they had a chance. But it was another man who finally won, triumphant with a bid of $20 million. People clapped as he strode down the aisle.
Henry is having an absolute meltdown, Delilah said in my ear. I could believe it.
Ward rubbed his hands together as the next item was wheeled out, concealed in the same type of glass case that I knew meant whatever was in there was fucking old. “Who here in the audience is a fan of Edgar Allen Poe?”
The audience murmured their assent.
“A heart beneath the floorboards,” he said. “A man buried behind a stone wall. A grave filled with live souls, not the dead. He is one of the most celebrated writers, and what I have here for you tonight is his book of poetry, of which there are only fifty left in the world. Tamerlane and Other Poems was written by Poe but published as anonymous. It was recently released by the McMaster’s Library at Oxford in England.”
Holy shit, came Delilah’s voice. Sam winced, touched his ear. I guessed Henry was shouting.
“All of you here are familiar with our very close connection to the librarians at the McMaster’s Library,” Ward said, face sly.
He was referring to Bernard Allerton. When Henry had confronted the man about it, Bernard had shown Henry a letter with Henry’s forged signature, declaring the book officially released. When, in actuality, Bernard had stolen it.
Watch who gets that fucking book, Delilah said—though she knew I didn’t need to be told twice. The battle for the Tamerlane was fierce—$16 million was the grand total. I didn’t recognize the woman who won. But she stepped into the back room, and I kept my eye on her. She needed to stay. Stay and be arrested by the FBI when they got here.
Two tables were wheeled out—propped up on one was a selection of old letters. The second table was placed close to the edge of the stage. It held two antique letter-openers.
“Call it a theme,” Ward said. “To the left, two letter-openers owned by a high-ranking officer in George Washington’s army and used during the American Revolution.”
Ward’s eyes twinkled as they landed directly on Sam and me.
“And to my right, the love letters between the controversial author George Sand and the poet Alfred de Musset.” Ward spread his hands open and winked. “Now who would like to start the bidding off?”
40
Freya
“Are you ready to bid?” I asked, struggling to keep my tone steady.
“I am,” Sam said roughly.
I was happy to see that my partner appeared excited but still calm. Levelheaded. His rigorous training was shining through. Drop Sam Byrne into a room of bloodthirsty book thieves, and he’d complete the task in front of him with a quiet honor.
“We all know fascination with George Sand’s passionate and tempestuous love letters is at an all-time high right now, especially given the anticipated biopic set to begin filming next week,” Ward said. “These letters were to be a dynamic set piece for the film. For obvious reasons, whoever takes ownership of them this evening will be screened to ensure their absolute ability to keep their presence and location a secret until the media has died down. And we’ll start the bidding off at one million.”
Sam snapped his bid paddle up a full three seconds before Roy could. Several women were eyeing Sam like a piece of prime rib.
“Thank you for the first bid, number thirteen,” Ward said, careful not to reveal identities. “Do I see one point five million?”
Roy parried, raised his paddle. Smirked at us. Sam cleared his throat and set his jaw. And immediately responded to the request for $2 million. Their bid battle felt interminable, when in reality, I don’t think more than three minutes went by. Other attendees competed as well, increasing the bid increments quickly. We’d been so focused on Roy, we’d forgetten the other players in the room.
Everyone wanted these fucking letters. Paddles flew up, then down, in a blur of white numbers. To say the room was hushed was an understatement. Even the music had stopped. To Sam’s credit, he didn’t break a sweat, merely met each competing bid with a small, confident smile.
Roy was sweating at $3 million. Scowling at $6 million. By the time Sam had pushed things to $11 million, Roy was red as a tomato, and the remaining competitors had dropped out.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, I chanted. But it didn’t help. My heart was going to beat out of my chest and land on the floor.
Ward pushed the bids to $15 million with the look of a symphony conductor holding the climactic note. It was our absolute max—the cap of our spending limit. Sam’s paddle in the air didn’t even tremble—my partner was pure poise.
“I see a $15 million bid,” Ward declared, scanning the crowd. “Going once.”
A beat.
“Going twice.” Next to me, Roy was growling like the tiger. His fingers twitched on the paddle, and for a devastating second, I thought he was going to lift it.
“Sold to bidder number thirteen.”
The audience actually clapped—and Sam had the good sense to stand and take a short bow. He was impressive in that tux, strong and sure of his abilities. I found myself clapping without thinking about it, cheering his performance.
“Thank you, sir,” Ward said. “Would you like to step—”
“Why is an FBI agent here?”
There was a single second of silence—until the audience reacted with shocked whispers and the scrape of chairs moving.
“I’m sorry, what?” Ward demanded. “Who said that?”
It was an older man in the far back I didn’t recognize at all. But even with the mask on, I could see the moment Sam recognized whoever that person was.
Fear erupted across my nerve endings. This can’t be happening.
“That bidder is an FBI agent. I’m guessing he shouldn’t be here,” the man repeated.
The next five seconds would forever remain a blur in my memory. I blinked, and Sam was turning toward me in slow motion. Blinked again, and I was yanked up and pinned by a strong arm, wrapped around my windpipe. As soon as my hands moved to defend myself, the letter-opener was pressed to my throat. You’d think a blade from the 18th century would be dull—but I only knew the sharp point against my skin. Screams and cries from a very surprised audience thundered around me.
Roy’s voice was slimy in my ear. “You stay the fuck still.”
I barely had time to panic—because my partner had sprung into confident action. With one brutal kick, Sam knocked Dr. Ward to the ground with a thud. Reached for the man’s pearl-handled gun. And had it pointed right at Roy’s face not a millisecond later.
It was like a dangerous ballet of calculated movements. Sam maintained a perfect stance, arms straight, gaze laser-focused on the man with the knife at my throat.
Meanwhile, Ward was trying to scrabble off the ground like a crab. Sam kept his eyes and gun trained on Roy—and pressed his foot against Ward’s windpipe. Ward went still, palms coming to surrender.
“Nobody move,” Sam said calmly. “Roy, put that knife down right now, and nothing bad will happen.”
“You’re a fucking FBI agent?
” Roy seethed. The movement pressed the knife harder against my throat, and I winced.
Sven appeared with his own gun raised—right at me.
I gazed into Sam’s eyes, where I could read the years of intensive training mapping his decision-making. Even now, with a knife at my throat and a gun trained on my head, my heart rate began to slow, pulse steady. Sam and I had partnered on this simulation at the Academy countless times. I knew what I needed to do. Knew I could do it. Because the only person in our class with better aim than me was Sam. And the person I trusted to save my life was Sam.
“Drop the gun, hotshot,” Sven snarled from the side. Ward whimpered from the ground.
“Not a chance,” Sam said.
Sven took a step closer to me, weapon up.
“Sven,” Sam said evenly, “take your gun off my partner right this goddamn second or your boss isn’t going to like what I do to his fucking throat.”
“Do it,” Ward cried from the ground. “Just—just do it.”
With a glare, Sven took a step back, gun at his side. I sensed people sneaking out the side door, bodies on the move. The tiger roared from the back.
“Is she an FBI agent too?” Roy asked.
“No, she is not,” Sam said. “Drop that knife.”
“Of course this is happening,” Roy spit out. “Everyone here thinks they’re so smart, but you’re all stealing from each other and lying to each other, and this happens. An FBI agent tricks all of us into trusting him.”
Roy pressed the knife hard, breaking the skin. “I need those letters and I need money. So why don’t you drop that gun and give me the letters, and I’ll let this bitch go.”
Fury was building in Sam’s face. Beneath the calm, I could sense my partner about to snap.
“No,” Sam repeated. “I can’t let you do that.”
Roy yanked me tighter against his body. I forced back the encroaching fear. Fear muddied your thinking—and my partner wasn’t afraid. He was focused and prepared for anything.
“Are you here because of Bernard?” Roy babbled. “Did he turn us all in?”
“Put down the knife,” Sam said.
“Put down your gun,” Roy yelled.
The action shifted him forward, over my shoulder. Which gave my elbows the three inches they needed to slam back into his stomach with every ounce of strength I had.
Roy cried out in pain, and I dropped to the ground just as Sam’s gun went off. Roy flew backward, clutching his right shoulder. The letter-opener fell to the ground, and Sam was on Roy immediately. In the ensuing few seconds, my ears flooded with a dull ring as everything slipped back into slow motion.
Sam, flying past me to subdue Roy.
Ward, standing up and rubbing his throat. Reaching into his boot and retrieving a small pistol. Raising the gun at Sam.
Sven, running toward us. And doing the same thing.
And Sam, completely unaware of any of it.
41
Sam
I was only able to breathe when Freya was safely out of harm, dropped to the ground and away from Roy.
Then I shot that asshole in the shoulder.
It was a flesh wound, intended to stop him in his tracks, but I wasn’t taking chances. I had nothing to restrain him except for my body weight. Which was why, as I flipped him and pinned his arms down, I was unaware of the tableau unfolding behind me.
Until I looked up.
Ward’s arm was rising, hand holding another gun. The barrel was pointed right above my heart. I had not a single second to act. But my partner had things under control.
Freya Evandale tore off her mask and strode up to Ward like a vengeful angel. Her hand lashed like a lightning strike, shoving his hand to the right and punching him square in the fucking nose. She twisted his wrist, released his gun, and knocked him back down to the ground.
“You’ve got Sven, right, Byrne?” she called over her shoulder, gun on Ward, stiletto to his chest.
“He’s not going anywhere,” I said.
Of course, I had him. I’d known the moment I saw the flash of Ward’s weapon what I needed to do. What we needed to do. My knee was jammed hard between Roy’s shoulder blades, and my gun was trained squarely on a very pissed off Sven.
I heard gasps, bodies moving, chairs hitting the floor. Then the very recognizable sound of agents and police officers streaming in and shouting for Freya and me to drop our weapons. We both stepped back, guns and hands up—eyes locking through the sheer chaos. The most powerful feeling of trust I’d ever experienced in my life surged between us. And it wasn’t adrenaline, but something richer and more compelling than that.
It was the supreme understanding that Freya and I were meant to be partners. We couldn’t deny it, couldn’t shake it. It was ingrained in us like our DNA. That trust and partnership had been there from the very day we’d met. But our naturally competitive natures had resisted it, shoved it back as hard as we could.
But send the two of us into a dark, claustrophobic basement filled with gun-toting book thieves and we’d end up on top. We always would.
How in the hell was I supposed to go back to the FBI without her?
“Special Agent Byrne?” It was a younger agent, rushing to me in the pandemonium. I nodded, rattled off my badge number. The man blew out a big breath, called back to his superior officer. “And that’s Freya Evandale, from the Codex team,” I said.
Ward groaned from the floor, and Freya toed around his body, grinning mischievously at the man who’d tried to kill me.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Dr. Ward,” she said cheerfully. “You’re going to love prison.”
Officers dragged me off of Roy so he could receive medical attention from the paramedics crowding around us. It was madness confined to a former speakeasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Cora and Thomas with twin haughty expressions. Every time the tiger roared, someone yelped. Ward was already shouting for his lawyer.
Freya and I kept staring at each other. It was impossible not to—she was pure, unbridled magnificence. She moved toward me through the crowd—we’d only have a second before being carted off for questioning. And my father would probably call at any moment.
None of that mattered.
“Did you just save my life, Evandale?” I asked.
“Only because you saved mine,” she said. When she lifted her chin at me, I could see the thin trickle of blood from the letter opener.
“We need a medic over here,” I called.
“Please, it’s a scratch,” she said, waving her hand through the air. The urge to comfort her was overwhelming.
“Those were some nice moves with Ward,” I said.
“And you were a crack shot with Roy.”
“My target practice skills are legendary.” My lips twitched. “If you’ll recall.”
“Oh, I recall all right.”
Abraham materialized next to us. He was immaculate, hair slicked back and suit perfectly pressed.
“Have you been here this whole time?” Freya asked, surprised.
He gave a curt nod. Reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “I am pleased to see you are not harmed.” His expression was neutral. But his tone barely concealed his raw emotion.
She hugged him. “I love you too, boss,” she said. “An antique letter opener can’t take this girl out. Plus, Byrne was here.”
“I had several guns on me at one point,” I added. “Freya saved me.”
“Well, you did promise to protect each other,” Abe said, clearing his throat as Freya let him go. “I believe I’ve aged about ten years since the two of you got here. Delilah and Henry are outside in the car. They have both been suitably unhinged for the past ten minutes.” He pinned me with a sincere look. “We’re lucky the Bureau was here to help. I’m not sure the three of us could have handled this level of danger.”
I eyed the chaos around us. “And I’m not sure we could have gotten those letters back without them.”
<
br /> “We couldn’t hear what preceded Freya being grabbed,” he said. “Were you recognized?”
I grimaced, scanning the audience for the masked man who’d revealed my true identity. I caught him with his wrists behind his back, being led down the hallway by a pair of agents.
“I’m pretty sure it was William Buchanan,” I explained, “though I didn’t see him when I came in. I was the lead on his case at Art Theft, and there was a three-month period where he saw my face every day. A mask can’t hide the face of a person you hate. And that man hates me for putting him away.” My chest ached with regret—with the missed opportunity to spot the danger lurking in the corners. “I thought he was still in prison.”
“Good news is he’s probably going back,” Abe said mildly. “You couldn’t have anticipated it, Sam.”
I nodded, throat still tight. Freya grabbed Abe and pulled him onto the short stage. “Now here’s the best part about not dying. We got the damn letters back.”
Abe stared down at the glass case. Shook his head in slow disbelief.
“I’ll bring you tacos for a year,” he promised. His phone was to his ear not a second later.
“Scarlett?” he said, starting to walk away. “I’m staring at the George Sand letters. My agents recovered them from an underground auction. I think it’s highly likely those other letters you’re holding are forgeries.”
“We’ll probably lose the contract,” Freya said next to me. “We got the letters back, but the press will be all over it. No top-secret return to Hollywood.”
“I’m not sure we had a choice,” I said, placing my palm on the glass case. They were tiny, insubstantial pieces of paper with words scrawled in uneven lines. So small for a rescue that was so big.
She leaned down, her breath fogging the glass. Her eyes shone with wonder, as they often did. “Do you know what happened to these two in the end?”
Under the Rose Page 25
