by Sarah Andre
“You run fast. Manny, here, thinks you should try out for the Olympics.” The man closest to the door had a voice like scraped gravel. He held the door handle shut. “Mr. D. would like his painting returned.”
Sweat broke out on Sean’s forehead. Not here. Not with my boys here. Why didn’t they grab him back at Moore and Morrow?
He kept his gaze on the man who’d spoken, studied the flattened nose, the scar separating his right eyebrow, the incredible steroid bulk of him. He had size and power, but Sean had agility and speed—no problem there. The guy in the middle was the tallest and shaped like a mountain, his bald head absurdly small in proportion to the rest of him. Taking him on individually would’ve been an even fight.
The third was skinny and wiry, and breathed through his mouth. There was no question he was on rage-inducing uppers. His pupils were pinpricks, and his gaze shifted like a pinball from the boys, to Sean, around the room, back to the boys. He’d be a problem, strictly because of the unpredictable superhuman strength he might possess due to the drugs.
“I’ve already told him all I know,” Sean said. But clearly that hadn’t been enough to convince Donatello, so he added, “I’d be happy to discuss this another time. My cell number is on those business cards.” He nodded at the stack on the desk. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of class.”
“You can speak to him yourself.” Mountain Man jerked his head left. “He’s in the Lincoln right outside.”
Sean flicked a glance through broad windows covered by large red words advertising the dojo’s services. Had the list not clogged the view, a passing cop might have noticed the oddity in here. In the dusk, the headlights of a classic, dark Continental stood out among the parked vehicles lining the quiet block. Panic began to edge out his sensei bravado. “I’m in the middle of class,” he repeated. “We finish at eight.”
“Of course,” Flat Nose said, “which is why we’ll continue while you step outside.” His grin was right out of a Freddy Krueger movie, and a gold-front tooth gleamed in the fluorescent light. He let go of the door and lumbered toward the mat. “How would you like that, boys?”
The dull thump of Sean’s heart in his ears drowned out any responses the boys may have uttered. He stared Flat Nose down and eased into Fujikata Dai Ichi.
“Don’t,” the man said, flashing the chilling smile again. “My friends shoot to kill.”
Sean couldn’t endanger the boys any further. They were too young to see guns pulled. He held up a hand. “Wait.”
Surprisingly, the man complied.
Sean exhaled. Shit. What was he going to do? “Call your boss. I can speak to him from here. I refuse to leave my students.”
“Mac, we gotta hurry,” Mountain Man said. “Too many people can see in here.”
Actually, they couldn’t. That was the problem. Although if the mobsters thought they could, they’d be less likely to do anything stupider than this.
“Manny, round up the boys and put them in there,” Mac said, pointing to a closed door. The twitchy freak bounded across the room. Sean said nothing. It was a tiny closet for cleaning supplies and extra dojo equipment. Even Phillip wouldn’t fit in there. Manny flung open the door, shoulders slumping almost immediately. He looked at Mac for guidance.
“In there.” Mac pointed to the other closed door, the wretched bathroom.
The thought of five boys smashed into that foul-smelling, germ-infested toilet turned Sean’s stomach. “We walk out as one unit,” he blurted. “I go talk to your boss, and the boys go next door to the deli. Wait for their mothers.”
Mac exchanged a look with Mountain Man, who shook his head. Mac turned back and repeated the gesture, glancing at Sean’s bare feet. “Put your sneakers on. You take Mr. D. to the painting, and we babysit. The faster you cooperate, the faster these boys get home for dinner. How ’bout it, boys? Let’s see some moves.” He rotated his hands stiffly in the clichéd gesture of karate chops. Jumpy Manny snickered and imitated him.
“I’m not leaving them with you.” Sean kept his voice deadly soft. “And if you take them out that door without me, you’re committing five felony kidnappings.”
A few gasps behind him squeezed his heart. What a shitty lesson they were learning about the world tonight. Way too young. And this was all his fault. And fucking Randy for not locking the door. Sean glanced at his book bag behind the desk. On top of his folded jeans and shirt was his phone. But he’d texted sos enough times that even if by some miracle he could reach the phone, his lifeline was gone. Jace wouldn’t pay attention.
“Manny,” Mac said, reaching behind him in a not-so-subtle warning of the gun he possessed. “Stick the boys in there and guard the door.”
The meth-head waved the boys toward the bathroom, his muscles twitchy, his wild eyes almost rotating. “Come on, you little shits. Move out!”
Sean stared Mac down, but it was no use. The ghastly smile returned; the gold tooth glinted. “See? We’re keeping them as a unit and not taking them out of here. Please—” he nodded toward Mountain Man, “—he’ll go with you. The boys will be perfectly safe.”
26
This was the best fucking night of his life! Halting at the final traffic light, Jace glanced in his rearview mirror. The headlights of the Moore and Morrow van were right behind him, the journey to FBI headquarters on West Roosevelt blessedly uneventful.
In minutes he’d present The Concert to the hastily summoned heavy hitters: Margo’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Felix Garcia, and his boss, Special Agent in Charge of the entire Chicago field office, Jonathan Webb. Sure, the painting wasn’t a blood artifact, nor did it have any bearing on all the different terrorist factions profiting off conflict antiquities that they were investigating. This was more like Tim Jennings intercepting those two passes last fall to lead the Bears to a 7–0 victory. An unexpected, miracle-out-of-nowhere bonus.
Jace exhaled impatiently as the light finally turned green. He led the van the remaining half-block to their destination, the intense pride swelling in his chest almost painful. He fucking deserved this.
Given the late evening hour, he was able to find two parking spots close to the entrance. He cut the engine, jumped out, and waved Hannah Moore aside so he could assist Devon Ashby with the crated painting. “They’re expecting me,” he said to the security guard, flashing his credentials. The man nodded, and the trio rode up to the third floor. In the conference room, seven seats were occupied, and wide-eyed expectation shone on every face. As Hannah carefully uncrated the masterpiece, Jace stood next to her at the head of the table and filled the team in on the find. He nodded to Margo, who’d pulled intel on the Donatello family.
“Sal Donatello is head of the Genoa Family, mostly gambling, prostitution, and money laundering. Sixty-two. Married to wife, Sylvia, for forty-one years. Son, Johnny, is twenty, and the two much older, married daughters live in San Marino, California and Westport, Connecticut. Neither husband is associated with the family.”
Hannah removed the top of the crate, and Margo ceased talking. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and craned their necks. Almost immediately a collective exhale went through the room.
“Outstanding.” SAC Webb smiled up at Jace. “Excellent work, Jason.”
“Actually,” Hannah said, “his bro—”
“This was underneath a painting given to Harrison Wickham,” Jace said quickly. “Even though he requested that other art be donated to charity, we should probably notify him of the find.”
Webb glanced over at Devon, lounging by the door. “Isn’t he your father?”
Devon nodded, expressionless. “I’m sure he’ll want to see this returned to the Isabella Gardner,” he said. “The positive publicity alone will make up for the loss of ownership.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Harrison Wickham I know,” someone muttered, and Devon searched the table for the speaker.
“You’ll find he’s a different man,” he said slowly to the agents. “But if he doe
s take issue, let me know and I’ll step in.”
Hannah’s tender smile at her boyfriend was so filled with meaning that Jace shifted uncomfortably. He ran from intimacy. Smiles like hers scared him more than an ISIS ambush.
He turned back to the team. “We have an APB out on Donatello and are acquiring a search warrant for his residence. Hopefully we can capture the rest of the looted art.”
The SAC held up a hand. “We’ve already notified the Boston team in charge of the nineteen-ninety heist. They’re flying their agents out tonight.”
Jace clenched his teeth and managed a nod. The Boston team had found squat for almost thirty years. “Margo and I request clearance to assist them while they’re here.” He ignored Margo’s startled head jerk. There was no way he was walking away from this find, and all the glory that came with it.
SAC Webb folded his hands and said quietly, “Denied. You’re too valuable on the Blood Antiquity Task Force, and we’re too close to uncovering the snake head behind the smuggling.”
Margo visibly relaxed, and Jace struggled to remain expressionless as he stared at the painting by his side. So goddamn close…
A rap on the door captured everyone else’s attention.
SSA Garcia’s assistant stuck her head in. “A Mrs. Sandra Mayfair is on the phone. Her son wears a GPS watch capable of sending emergency signals and two-way communication. She received an alert from him at Randy’s Dojo. The class is being kidnapped. Instructor was just led out the door.”
Jace stiffened, blood draining from his head. He gripped the table for balance as agents rose around him to get organized. “It’s Sean,” he mumbled. The late lunch he’d eaten pitched upward, and he swallowed hard.
“What’s that, Jason?” the SAC asked.
“The instructor. It’s my brother.” His lips felt numb. “This is Donatello’s work. He’s not giving up the painting without a fight.” He fumbled for his phone and looked at the screen. No SOS this time. Figures.
The plastic zip tie that bound Sean’s wrists behind him was much tighter than the one circling his ankles. Or maybe it was because he instinctively kept trying to get his hands free. The plastic cut deep. The pain kept him sane and focused. The rancid garlic and body odors permeating the car did not. “Let the boys go,” he said for the millionth time. “They have nothing to do with this.”
The ancient leather on the front seat crackled under Donatello’s weight as he peered out his window. A wasted move. Even from the back seat, the mass of swirling police lights illuminated the night like a tropical blue paradise. Donatello sure had balls, parking a block from his own felony in progress.
“I would dearly like to call it a night,” the mobster replied. “I’m missing the Cubs.” He turned to his driver. “What’s your take on Martinez?”
Sean gritted his teeth. “Mr. Donatello—”
“Mr. Quinn.” His beady eyes focused on Sean in the rearview mirror, the gaze so deadly that Sean shuddered. “I’ve gathered quite a few facts about you since this afternoon. I know where you work. My colleagues visited your firm an hour ago. Evidently my canvas is still in your company’s possession, but the painting underneath is not. Where is it?”
“I would guess FBI headquarters, since, as you know, it was stolen.”
Donatello sighed. “Those small boys must be very hungry.”
Sean squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think about the guys smashed into that tiny bathroom. Their fear and confusion. Their parents’ terror. And if Donatello’s men had rummaged through Moore and Morrow already, God knew how much theft and damage the company would find tomorrow. Surely the place was under FBI surveillance. How had the mob slipped through? Where had Gretch gone, and was she safe?
Sean opened his eyes to the neon-blue lights and the claustrophobia of two very large, stinking men stuffed in the front seat of a luxury car.
“You’re not a stupid man, Mr. Donatello.” Sean waited for the death glare in the mirror again. He met it without flinching. “There’s no way your men are getting out of that dojo. You have me. Call them off, and let the boys go home.”
Donatello crooked a brow. “You’re not a valuable asset to trade for the painting. Five small boys? Now I have bargaining power.”
Sean felt the flicker of victory. Or bottomless fear. “I am an asset. The agent who’s no doubt taking credit for finding your painting is my brother. Call the FBI and ask for him. His name is Jason Quinn.”
27
“You’re family; you’re off this case.” Supervisory Special Agent Garcia swiveled from where he sat in the SWAT van, surrounded by other agents all active in the hostage crisis. Everyone had a role in saving Sean and the kids. Everyone except Jace.
“All I’m asking is to remain on the scene, sir.” Sweat soaked his suit, as if the rage and helplessness had nowhere to go except through every pore. He met his commander’s glower with the intensity of a twice-decorated former SEAL. He wasn’t fucking slinking home and popping a beer while this went down. The glory of the painting find had been snatched from his grasp, which was why Garcia’s boss, SAC Webb, wasn’t on this scene. Handing over the credit to the top brass had been a professional blow, but not like this—not knowing how to save Sean’s life and lay waste to whoever was responsible.
The moment crystalized to just the two of them: the clash of wills between a red-tape policy-and-procedure wonk and a retired SEAL who knew how to get things done. Around them, the glow of the monitors and the squawk of walkie-talkies lent a surreal quality, like the kidnapping was just a Hollywood bit. Pass the popcorn.
The SSA jabbed his finger at a chair in the corner. “Don’t make me regret this. No interference, no heroics. You know the drill.”
Jace swallowed a caustic reply and sat at the edge of the hard vinyl. Immediately his right knee pistoned, another body part protesting the inaction. He clamped a palm on his quad muscle and squeezed. Out the tinted windows, Randy’s Dojo was deceptively empty and lit in welcome. The lone person by the door was the hostage negotiator, a bald guy who could’ve been a Bears linebacker. At the moment, he tapped the bullhorn against his thigh. No one within had responded to his requests to set up communication. Crowds of lookie-loos strained against the secured perimeter of waist-high metal gates. A sea of media spotlights blended with the cruiser blues. No doubt all five sets of parents were gathered somewhere nearby. A chopper circled overhead, blinding everyone with its beam and scattering litter in the downdraft.
Jace’s phone rang. Caller ID: Private. “Quinn,” he barked.
“You have my painting,” a man calmly said. “And I have your brother. May I suggest a trade?”
Heat flash-banged through him. It had been over an hour of trying to communicate with whoever was behind this, determine what they wanted. Mission accomplished. It was their worst-nightmare scenario: Donatello, notorious for his lack of human compassion, had Sean. Jace stared blankly at the negotiator pacing in front of the dojo like a caged tiger. No one had answered; no one had even appeared. Where were Donatello and Sean?
“Proof of life,” he said, thankful his voice didn’t tremble. Garcia whipped around from his command post four feet away.
“Jace?” Sean’s voice sounded strained. “Is Gretch all right?”
The last word was barely audible, the phone snatched away. Garcia was shaking his head and holding out his hand. You know the drill. Like hell Jace was going to hand over his own phone and have Garcia negotiate. He held up a finger, defying his boss. He could do this. “Let all the boys walk out safely right now, and we’ll talk.”
Donatello hung up. Horror punctured Jace’s lungs. His body misread his racing heart and pumped out more sweat. He lowered the phone in the thick silence and met his SSA’s eyes.
“There’s a reason you’re not in hostage negotiations, Jace,” Garcia said quietly. “It’s an art, and it takes unfathomable patience and fortitude under pressure. I get that, as a SEAL, you think that’s an innate talent, but not in this case. E
specially when it’s your brother you’re negotiating for. You are the special program to show Webb we can hire vets working on degrees. Don’t blow it.”
Jace nodded once. Garcia held out his hand a second time, and Jace handed over his phone. “It was Donatello.”
Garcia nodded. A few seconds later, the phone rang. Garcia pressed the speakerphone icon and answered with his full credentials.
“Felix,” Donatello drawled. “It’s been a long time. How’s Mary?”
“The twins keep her busy.” Garcia’s tone was light and friendly, although the strain showed in his tight jaw. “And Sylvia?”
Jace rubbed his mouth. Seriously? An SSA and mob boss were chitchatting over the laundry line? He couldn’t register the words as Donatello answered. He didn’t care about Sylvia and Mary. He had to get to Sean! And Gretch. Wherever she was, she was a sitting duck.
“So. How can we put an end to this and get back to our wives?” Garcia said calmly as he stared at the dojo.
“A painting was taken from me.”
“Is this the same painting that was taken from the Isabella Gardner museum?”
Donatello laughed. “I didn’t steal it, although I know who did. I bought it last year, and it cost me plenty. I’d like it returned.”
Jace closed his eyes and listened to any noise over the line that would give away their location. An ambulance siren several blocks south of the SWAT van screamed down Cicero, but it didn’t come through the phone line. He heard a faint sniff. Then another. He frowned.
Back when he was a teen—probably fourteen or fifteen—he’d had to babysit his four brothers. He’d been studying Morse code for Scouts, and to keep his rough-and-tumble brothers from burning the house down, he’d made a game of seeing which one could learn it the fastest and find the most creative way to use it.
The winner? Sean. Age four. He’d sniffed the entire alphabet. He was already reading and writing by then, a child prodigy, but shit, had the other three been pissed. And Sean’s method was authentic enough that the next day in the kitchen, when he sniffed Jace a message—cookie please—their mom had promptly stuck a thermometer in Sean’s mouth.
