by Sarah Andre
Her supple lips and spearmint taste had been his undoing. Even in the midst of this disaster, all he craved was to do it again, somewhere safe. And for much, much longer. As it was, something had transformed between them, because holding her hand felt right, even though they were approaching a place that might very well support ISIS. No doubt the shop owner had a concealed carry permit. Sean’s martial arts training would’ve provided solace had Gretch not been around for this debacle.
The shop’s interior was dark. A white sign hung on the glass door with “closed” in blood red. The bright red of a fresh wound, not the dark, coagulated kind. Sean shook the thought from his head.
El Bashtan dug a small ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the three locks lining the steel. He reached in, flicked on the lights, and held the door for them. Sean swallowed thickly as he followed Gretch inside. The place smelled of mold, and dust swirled in the dim overhead light, leaving most of the store in an ominous shadow. The portion of the store that was visible looked like it had been decorated by a hoarder; little aisle space remained due to cluttered merchandise stacked everywhere.
“Please look around,” El Bashtan said. “My colleague will be here shortly.”
Why would he still want to present his wares? Surely he was suspicious. Sean needed a backup plan fast. First up: a layout of the store. Hopefully an exit at the other end would lead to an alley, or even better—a busy street. He pushed Gretch in front of him. They shuffled down the first aisle, avoiding the messy arrangement of antique tables, writing desks, sofas, and cupboards. Large manila tags with prices listed in bold black marker dangled off the furniture. Smaller white tags dotted accessories, lamps, grimy books with torn bindings, and dinnerware that littered the surfaces. At a glance, the antique shop looked more like a Goodwill store. The clutter strung Sean out more than the danger they faced. The floating dust twitched his sinuses. This was literally his vision of Hell. How could this owner have third-millennium BC relics?
The aisle abruptly ended, like a maze, and they cautiously made their way down an adjacent path to the back of the store. There was no exit. Mirrors in various stages of warped disrepair hung on the entire back wall. Gretch made eye contact in the closest and said through stiff lips, “Where exactly are we, and why?”
What to tell her? This was an FBI undercover investigation gone horribly wrong? One he’d begged to be on? Or that it began as a typical exploit in Jace’s constant pursuit to be the best? He’d been an SAA for three months but still needed to stand out like he needed his next breath. Hey, why not catch an ISIS accomplice without going through proper, red-tape agency procedures, like waiting for the team anthropologist to wrap up another case?
Conscious of the mirrors and El Bashtan by the entrance on his phone, Sean picked up a glass ashtray and studied it closely, so his head was lowered. “I met him yesterday and asked about an artifact.”
“Why is he calling you Bixby?”
Sean shrugged. “Because I rarely give anyone my real name.”
Gretch scoffed, but in a testament to what a freak she must think he was, she didn’t press the lie. Her lips tightened, and she drilled him with her annoyed-princess stare. “Are we in danger?”
He placed the ashtray back in its exact position and turned to her. “Yes.” He never thought he’d miss her haughty expression, but the flash of fear replacing it speared through him.
“Why?” she whispered.
“This man we’re supposed to meet, he may have ties to ISIS.”
Gretch’s breath hitched. “Call nine-one-one.”
“And say what? We’re in a junk store and haven’t met the owner, but he may be dangerous? Running a shop like this?” He gestured at the wares.
She glanced around the clutter, then at El Bashtan, who was nodding and still talking. Her fingers tangled together. “What are we going to do?”
Her voice sounded childlike, and he ached to hold her close again. Instead he turned slowly, like he was taking in this hoarder’s paradise.
There was a wooden door in the far back corner. No doubt the owner’s office. Surely there was a back exit through there, or a window in a bathroom they could climb out of. He glanced at his dark phone screen. Jace clearly hadn’t gotten the text; there was no cavalry coming. He had to protect Gretch. “Let’s just leave. He knows I had another appointment, and his colleague isn’t here. We’ll tell him I’ll come back another time.”
Gretch’s expression cleared and, after a few seconds, she nodded. “Okay. And if he gives us any guff, you do your karate chop thing.”
“Deal.” He hid his surprise. How did she know about his martial arts?
They slowly made their way back through the aisle-maze as El Bashtan stuck his phone in his pocket and smiled. “The best of news. My colleague is on his way.”
“I’m afraid we can’t wait,” Sean said, plastering on a regretful smile. “I’ll call you and set up another time.”
“No, no. He is just down the street.”
Sean’s gut clenched. They had to get out of here. “Thank you for your time, Mr. El Bashtan.” He brushed by the man, adding, “This is an interesting store.”
“Mr. Bixby. The items you search for are not on display. He will be right here.”
Sean reached for the doorknob, but movement in his peripheral vision froze him. El Bashtan had shifted into the aisle, blocking Gretch. She stilled behind the hefty man, her dark-chocolate eyes wide and pleading.
Do your karate chop thing. Inwardly Sean sighed and gathered himself at his center, where his warrior waited, coiled like a deadly serpent. “Mr. El Bashtan, she needs to get by.”
As he stepped toward El Bashtan, the door behind Sean opened. He pivoted back. A gray-haired man holding a four-pronged cane hobbled in, his onyx eyes merry with welcome. He looked past Sean, and a smile broadened his face. “Good morning. Isn’t this a surprise?”
“Mr. Adyton,” Gretch exclaimed.
Sean frowned between the shop owner and Gretch, who squeezed past to clasp Adyton’s hand and peck his cheek. “I didn’t get to say goodbye yesterday,” she said in her flirt-mode voice.
“Gretch?” Sean murmured.
“Mr. Adyton is one of our clients,” she said, beaming. “You’ll probably be his restorer.”
Sean nodded, but a sick taste entered his mouth. Jace’s undercover investigation had just detonated. Now both these men knew he wasn’t Professor Bixby from Wisconsin who collected relics. And they knew where he and Gretch worked, potentially putting all of Moore and Morrow at risk. This fiasco could not have a more doomed conclusion if it had been named Operation Titanic. Their only saving grace was that Adyton didn’t know his silly Bixby act was an FBI-led task force op.
Tires screeched, and Sean spun back. A black Suburban rocked to a stop at the curb.
12
Gretch recognized the FBI Suburban the exact moment Sean dashed out of the shop. Light bulbs went off, and chills raced down her spine. Whatever Jace and Sean had been up to yesterday was tied to this store. And this impromptu excursion, that had clearly freaked Sean out right from the El station, wasn’t something trivial he’d been investigating in his spare time. They really had been in danger. Did this have to do with the mysterious inventory list and massive price change?
The heavily tinted windows and Sean’s back blocked whomever it was he spoke to through the cracked front passenger window, but his stance was as rigid as it been on Saturday night across Teenie’s dance floor.
Both older men watched the scene, then glanced at each other. Their look fueled her misgivings.
El Bashtan turned his beady stare toward her. “Mr. Bixby is quite an unusual fellow.”
He was, and no doubt the men were as startled at Sean’s abrupt exit as she was, but the bearded man’s remark flared the defender in her. It was one thing for her to think or even say that to Sean’s face, but uttered by a stranger, it was as offensive as if the man had just insulted her. “Actually, he’s ins
anely brilliant.”
Adyton clasped the cane in both hands and leaned his weight on it heavily. “May I ask what brought you both in today?”
Her answer would make or break whatever Sean had set into place yesterday. Whatever had made him just rush out of the store. Gretch scanned the dusty merchandise. Adyton sold cheap shit, but he also possessed a gold-leaf Quran that required bodyguards. Maybe he was in the business of renovating and reselling high-end art somewhere else. She went on gut instinct. “Part of our client service is to gather potential buyers interested in the art we restore,” she said. “Did Walter not mention that yesterday?”
The old man shook his head, his eyes steady and searching on hers. It suddenly seemed airless in here. Any word could trip her up. She nodded to Sean, given she had no clue what Bixby’s first name was. “We were on our way to an appointment when we met Mr. El Bashtan. That’s the other party’s car; they must be anxious to meet with us.”
Wait, now the men would want to meet with Jace!
“Not on your beautiful piece,” she added hastily. “We offer the service to clients with fully restored artifacts. Perhaps that’s why Walter didn’t mention it yet.” Was she blathering? Perspiration beaded her upper lip.
The bearded man held up a hand, the universal sign to stop. “You said he was your husband—”
Sean’s rude rejection on the platform made so much sense now. She struck a pose, showing off her best assets. “Oh please, Mr. El Bashtan. Look at me. How can you think I was serious?” She fought to keep her flirtatious smile from faltering. “It’s an ongoing joke at the office.” An office she was going to have to quickly warn if they received a call checking on whether a Bixby worked there.
“So the other woman is his wife.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and this time the smile faltered. Did he have a girlfriend? Maybe someone in the FBI? “Probably. I don’t know him well enough,” she admitted.
El Bashtan blinked, the slow deliberateness resembling a crocodile. “And he indicated his search was on behalf of a museum in Wisconsin.”
Christ in a cradle. “We don’t want to jeopardize our clients’ privacy, so we tend to work with aliases when researching the buying and selling portion of our trade.” Did that make sense?
The men exchanged a second glance chock-full of doubt. Her lungs refused to work properly. Had she just helped Jace and Sean or made things worse?
Outside, Sean stepped back, nodding. The window rolled up, and he strode to the store, poker-faced. Part of her went weak with relief, while another emptied more sweat out her pores. Now came the really tricky part. Making sure whatever came out of his mouth jibed with all the lies she’d just spouted. “Here he comes now.” She needed the men’s focus turned toward Sean, so she could warn him with everything but words.
Sean opened the door, and Gretch transferred all her panic into her expression. “Was that the buyer we were supposed to meet this morning?” she brayed, nodding urgently.
Sean blinked a few times. For once, his expressionlessness was a godsend. “Yes.” His posture remained rigid, his eyes riveted to hers.
“That’s what I thought. Well, Mr. Adyton, it was nice to see you again, and I’ll have Walter explain the details of our additional service. Mr. El Bashtan…” She swept by them, ready to shove Sean backward out the door, but he pivoted aside and pushed it open for her.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and then they were outside in the cool, sweet morning air. Safe.
Sean settled a palm on the small of her back and steered her toward the Suburban. As he reached for the door handle, he cleared his throat roughly. “Whatever went down in there, you have my eternal gratitude.”
“How about next time we just stay on the El?” Her knees shook, making it hard not to fall into the SUV on her wobbly heels. Climbing in, she greeted Jace, in the passenger seat, who introduced the female agent driver. Gretch only caught her first name, Margo. The last name was drowned out by Sean shutting her door and Gretch’s skittering heart still pulsing in her ears.
He hurried around and got in the other side. When the Suburban lurched forward, Gretch rested her head against the leather and exhaled a long sigh. Now that she was out of danger, she rode the adrenalin rush. When had she ever felt the exhilaration of the hunt without the dread of the expected aftermath? Maybe she’d missed her calling as an undercover cop or CIA spy.
“What happened in there?” Jace demanded. He’d turned almost fully in the passenger seat so he had a clear view of both of them. The affable guy from yesterday had morphed into an intense agent in full interrogation mode.
Gretch glanced at Sean, beseeching his understanding. Either she’d helped him or wrecked everything. “I told them Moore and Morrow also recruits interested buyers for art we restore, and that we’d been on our way to such an appointment. That we do it anonymously, which is why Bixby, here, said he was from Wisconsin.”
Sean’s eyebrows rose comically high. A faint grin appeared. She turned her attention to Jace. “I said you were the buyers. That you’d detoured to meet us.”
“That’s actually brilliant under the circumstances,” Margo said quietly. She studied Gretch in the rearview with interest. “You’ve got a knack for this.”
A warmth spread through Gretch. By no means did she lack intelligence, but it never occurred to her to pursue a lofty goal like working for the Bureau. Generally, she ruined career starts because of the mess she made socializing with the men there. Hostess, pharma rep, personal trainer… Eventually she’d be avoiding so many disastrous encounters it was easier to pick up and start anew in a completely different field. And what would life be like if she was actually challenged? She’d totally nail the FBI physical qualifications—
“Sean said you knew the owner of the shop,” Jace interrupted in that energetic agent tone, ignoring his partner’s compliment. Gretch told them about Adyton, the Quran in the suitcase, the bodyguards, and her presumption that there was another shop with high-end art. She was about to add the inventory list priced at sixty million, but that might get Walter in trouble. She’d ask him about it later.
Jace began typing on his phone.
Margo braked for a light and turned to Jace. “Let’s interview Walter. Get a background check going on Ad—”
“Already started.” Jace kept texting.
“Check for warehouses or other shops under his name.”
“Texted Dirk to investigate that angle.”
“His bank—”
“Next on the list.” The clipped tone shut down whatever Margo intended to say next. She cut her eyes front and glared at the red light.
“You can track his bank transfers, right?” Sean asked, oblivious to the tense dynamic between the two agents. “See if he’s sending funds to known ISIS accounts?”
A muscle spasmed along Jace’s jaw. Gretch braced herself.
“Just submit your resignation again, Sean,” he said without looking up. “Effective immediately.”
Sean snorted. “How about you look up the details of my contract?” He jabbed a finger at his brother. “My agreement with the FBI was to consult. I don’t know covert operations. Or what to do when I suddenly have two wives.”
“I’m sorry we put you in that position, Sean,” Margo said. Another puzzle piece fell into place. Margo had been a part of yesterday’s adventure too. Gretch huffed out a breath as a band inside her chest eased. Sean kept glowering at his older brother. The sullen pull of his lips had all the marks of an inferiority complex, which was rich coming from an opera–Shakespeare buff. But his inner agony sparked her sympathy.
“In my opinion,” she said, “they had no idea the FBI was outside their shop. We haven’t tainted your investigation.”
Jace snorted. “Oh, they knew. Art collectors don’t come screaming up to an obscure store first thing in the morning—”
“We don’t know what they know,” Margo interrupted in a tight voice. “The investigation could be compromised, or Gretc
h just strengthened Sean’s role in continuing with this case. We need to pull back and evaluate the state of our op before proceeding.”
The muscle in Jace’s jaw popped again. He scrolled through his phone with a mutinous expression, and if anything, Margo’s words seemed to make Sean feel worse. He slumped back. “Look, we’ve inadvertently involved Gretch. They know where she works. If they realize any of what she said was a lie, you need to provide her some kind of protection.”
“Me?” she exclaimed. How had this suddenly become her problem? Sean arriving at her doorstep got her into this mess in the first place… “Worry about the fact that, if anything, they know you’re a fraud. I’ll be fine.”
“If you were fine,” he retorted, “we’d have arrived at Moore and Morrow separately. Maybe you should vet your pickups more carefully, princess.”
Jace glanced up from his phone. “Pickups?”
Gretch ignored him, sneering at his younger brother. “I asked you what was wrong on the train. Maybe if you opened your mouth once in a while, instead of communicating in one-word grunts, I could’ve figured out how to ditch El Bashtan instead of begging to join in the fun.”
Sean shook his head like he was tired of explaining something to a child. “The point is, Jace, we have priceless art in that lab. I’d hate to see the place firebombed.”
Gretch rolled her eyes. “Would you lighten up? Adyton—”
“Both of you, shut it,” Jace said quietly. He was reading his phone screen, that same muscle clenching along his jaw. After a minute, he looked up at Margo. “Adyton is on our smuggling watch list. His shop listed a gold-leaf Quran on eBay yesterday. Five hundred years old. Asking price four mil. Condition is ‘fragile, being refurbished at Chicago’s finest restoration firm.’ Six-week bid date. We can track the product, the sale, and wherever he transfers the proceeds.”
