by Cindy Dees
“You’re saying no cop or fed can be trusted?” Zane exclaimed.
“It only takes one bad cop or fed vulnerable to blackmail or coercion and assigned in the wrong place for us to be screwed.”
Not good. Not good at all. An urge to leave the printing plates with Sebastian and flee the city—maybe flee the whole country—came over him. “You take the plates. I don’t want them.”
Sebastian threw his hands up. “The plates were given to you. Whoever plans to collect them on this end is going to come looking for you. Not me.”
“When they call, I’ll tell them I gave the suitcase and everything in it to you.”
“And then you’ll be expendable. You’ll have no use to them anymore, and you’ll know about the plates. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
“You don’t know that these smugglers and counterfeiters are violent….” His voice trailed off as it dawned on him how naïve and colossally stupid that sounded. Of course they were violent. With those plates, they could produce literally unlimited quantities of cash. Millions. Billions. Tens of billions.
He didn’t like it, but Sebastian made sense. The plates’ owner would come to him, and he would have to be the one to hand the damned things over—
“Wait. As soon as I hand over the plates, I’ll be in the same exact position. I’ll know the plates exist and my usefulness will be over. Won’t they kill me then?”
“I expect they’ll try.”
“Nope. That’s it. I want SWAT and the FBI.”
“Technically, the Secret Service investigates all cases of counterfeiting.”
“Even better! If they can keep the president alive, they can keep me alive!”
“Different branches of the Secret Service.” He opened his mouth to interrupt Sebastian, who added hastily, “But I take your point, Zane.”
“So once you figure out who’s receiving the plates, will we turn their names over to law enforcement and back the heck out of this?”
“I’m not kidding. If who we think is importing the plates is the actual organization behind these”—he gestured at the plates—“we actually cannot involve the federal government. We already know they’ve got informants all over the government, including the Secret Service.”
“How about NYPD?” he tried.
“Them too.”
“Jeez. You’re telling me there’s no law enforcement who can help us?”
“That is correct.”
He threw up his hands. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The plan is for me to stick with you, protect you, and apprehend whoever’s supposed to pick those plates up from you.”
“Why on earth would you attempt something so dangerous alone?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“It’s the insane thing to do!”
They stared at each other, clearly at an impasse.
“You said ‘we’ before. Who are you working with?” Zane asked.
“Can’t say.”
“What can you say?”
“That I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of this alive… and keep your face intact.”
Did Zane believe this dark stranger? Did he dare trust the man? Was Sebastian Gigoni himself part of the smuggling gang? How in the hell was Zane supposed to know who to trust? One thing he did know. Until these printing plates were completely out of his life and he was far, far away from this whole mess, his life was, in fact, in grave danger.
He stared at Sebastian, who stared back, obviously waiting, watching, to see which way he jumped. Thing was, no matter which direction he looked, he teetered on the edge of a deadly cliff.
Maybe he should just close up his suitcase, take it out of here, and leave. Would Sebastian even let him go?
More to the point, did he want to go?
Stay or go. Trust this guy or don’t trust him. Listen to his gut, which pegged Sebastian as a straight-up dude, or do the sensible thing and go to the police.
Choices, choices. God, he hated making decisions.
He was the original queen of FOMO—fear of missing out—and changed his mind no less than three times for every major decision he ever had to make.
Finally, he asked in all seriousness, “Who are you, Sebastian, and what do you want from me?”
“I already told you who I am—”
“Stop treating me like an idiot. Who are you?”
Sebastian studied him, then looked at the briefcase, then back at him. “I used to be in the military. A friend of a friend got a tip about these printing plates, and I was asked, as a favor, to check out the tip. And here we are.”
No way was Zane letting him off the hook with any more of his evasive bullshit. “Why you?”
“Because I was a good soldier?”
Zane rolled his eyes. “I’m taking my bag and walking out of here right now if I don’t start getting some straight answers. Capisce?”
“I’d go after you and haul you back here over my shoulder if I had to.”
A tiny thrill zinged through him at the idea of finding himself thrown over that muscular shoulder, one of those big palms planted on his ass, being thrown down onto this man’s bed. Stripped naked, loved and used until he couldn’t walk….
Sheesh. Earth to Zane. Come in, moron. There’s a crisis right in front of you. This guy is now threatening not to let you go.
Zane snorted. “You think I don’t know how to lose a tail? I’ve been chased by paparazzi for a decade. And they’re bloodhounds. Better than you, I’d wager.”
Sebastian snapped, “Don’t make that bet. You’d lose.”
“Arrogant much?”
Sebastian exhaled hard. “Here’s the thing. The people who sent those plates are extremely cautious and suspicious. They have their fingers in far too many law enforcement pies. My friend needs someone who’s totally unrelated to law enforcement to follow the plates and see where they end up. Hence, me. Because of my military training, I’m good at tracking people and things. But I’m not on any government agency rosters or on any major crime organization’s radar.”
“Who do you think the plates are being delivered to?” Zane asked.
“No idea. But whoever stuck them in your bag undoubtedly knows who you are. Given that, they likely won’t show themselves at a handoff unless you personally deliver the plates. My orders are to get you to play ball with us and deliver the plates so we can spot the people at this end of the transaction.”
“So, I’m bait.”
“The plates are the bait.”
“So, the plates are the hook. I’m the sacrificial worm wrapped around the fish hook.”
“Fair enough.”
Zane scowled. “How dangerous is this going to be for me?”
“No idea. But I’m not bad at what I do.”
“Are you still a soldier?”
“No. I retired some time ago.”
“So, you’re wildly rusty,” Zane accused.
“I wouldn’t characterize myself as wildly out of practice—”
“This is my life we’re talking about.”
“In my day, I wasn’t half-bad. Some knowledge, some skills, don’t go away. I’m a hell of a lot better than nothing,” Sebastian replied stiffly.
“Were you some sort of Special Forces dude?”
Sebastian’s lips pressed together in an irritated expression. “Something like that.”
“Were you a Navy SEAL?”
“No.”
“Marine?”
“No.”
“Army Ranger?”
“No.”
Zane threw up his hands. “What, then?”
“British SAS.”
“British?” Zane stared. “But you don’t have an accent!”
“I worked hard at losing my accent when I immigrated to America.”
“Why? British accents are hot.”
“Classy British ones may be. My East End burr was not. And besides, I’m trained to blend in. It came natural
ly to adopt the local accent and vernacular.”
Zane tilted his head to study Sebastian. The rigid spine, the constantly moving gaze, the balls-of-the-feet balance. Yup, he could see the soldier now. Why hadn’t he noticed all of that before? Was Sebastian that good a chameleon, or was Zane just too freaked-out by the whole situation to notice?
“So, you’re going to babysit me and play bodyguard until someone calls me and wants their plates back?”
“More or less.”
“How about we make that more rather than less?”
“Okay. Whatever. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you alive. Up to and including sacrificing my own life for you.”
Whoa. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Dude. Hawt.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes, irritated enough that it was obvious he’d been serious when he made his declaration.
Wow. Aloud, Zane said, “You admit, then, that it’s entirely possible the owner of those plates plans to kill me to take them from me.”
Sebastian frowned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t make that leap of logic.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to be a clueless moron next time.”
“Thanks,” Sebastian replied dryly. “That would be helpful.”
Zane fingered the fine wool of the Armani suit that had come with the briefcase. “What do you suppose this is for?”
“Probably an additional way of identifying you to whoever’s supposed to pick up the plates.”
“Do you suppose there are tracking thingies stitched into the seams?”
“Do you want me to check it for you?” Sebastian asked.
“Maybe after I put it on,” he purred.
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “See if it fits you first. Then I’ll take a closer look at it.”
“What if it doesn’t fit me?” Zane asked. Although, at a glance, it looked darned close to exactly his size.
“Then the bad guys I think it came from are losing their touch.” He added dryly, “Try it on.”
Zane scooped up the pile of clothes and carried them into the first bedroom he saw. The room was decorated in a soft yellow with lots of creams and the occasional floral pop of color. It was all very tasteful and bland. Not his style at all. He closed the door, stripped off his jeans and T-shirt, and efficiently donned the suit. One thing he knew how to do like nobody’s business was get into and out of clothes at light speed.
The trousers and shirt fit perfectly. As in they could have been custom-tailored for him. How in the hell had that happened? Sure, he was an exact size. It helped in his line of work. But how did whoever put the suit in his bag know his exact size?
A chill chattered down his spine. This was not a good sign. At all.
He stared in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall, and a sophisticated man in elegant clothing stared back at him. Damn. He modeled stuff like this all the time, but he rarely had the cash lying around to own it himself. Sure, he’d been given sample suits from the big designers over the years. But they lasted a season or two before they had to be replaced with the newest on-trend designs.
Absently, he looped the light gray silk tie in a full Windsor knot and tightened it into place. This getup was one step down from a tuxedo. Clearly meant for a formal occasion. Was the owner of the plates worried that he would dress wrong for the handoff and blow it?
He shrugged into the suit coat and, out of long habit, half turned from side to side, striking poses. He stuck his hands in the coat’s slit pockets—
What was that?
He pulled out a slim black cell phone and stared at it. Looked like a cheap burner phone. The kind a person bought at a convenience store and preloaded with minutes. He held down the power button, and a white bar crawled across the screen. The phone came to life. Immediately, it dinged to indicate an incoming text message. Frowning, he touched the envelope icon on the screen.
Tell NOBODY about this if you want to live. I will contact you with when and where to bring me the briefcase. A million dollars for you if you follow my instructions exactly. A bullet in the back of the head for you if you don’t.
A million? A bullet?
Sweet baby Jesus. What had he gotten himself into?
Fear ripped through him. After he’d gotten off the cocaine and amphetamines three years ago, he’d worked his ass off to stay clean. He didn’t do drugs anymore, and he sure as hell didn’t deal them. He’d left New York and gone to Europe just to get away from toxic friends, old associations with places where he’d partied and gotten high, and the temptation of his old dealers coaxing him to get back on the roller coaster. He’d been in New York under an hour and someone was already trying to mess with him.
This whole trip home to restart his New York fashion career was a terrible, awful mistake. He should’ve just stayed in Europe. Gotten a job in a nice designer store selling suits to rich bastards and gradually turning into a bitter old has-been.
He ought to turn right around and get on a plane to Milan. Hell, a plane to Timbuktu would do. Except he didn’t have the cash to buy a damned ticket. He’d put everything he had into clothes. And now all he had were the jeans and T-shirt he’d flown here in—and this suit.
He stared at the mirror speculatively. This suit was too formal for typical go-sees, but it certainly was a statement piece. He could probably pull it off. He could tell the fashion assistants who hired runway walkers that in honor of his upcoming thirtieth birthday, he’d decided to rock a grown-up look. He could shorten his hair a smidge. Tighten up the walk a bit. Go more businessman tycoon and less easy-breezy hipster….
The phone’s screen went black, and he tapped it to stare down at the text again. A million dollars? To hand a briefcase to someone? Hell, he could do that. Why not do it, in fact? No cops were involved, after all. Sebastian had been adamant that he was outside the legal system. And given the way they’d raced away from the Customs guys at JFK, Zane was inclined to believe him.
A million dollars would finance reinventing himself in some new career. Hell, it would finance a whole new life. It would certainly pay for a degree in fashion design and marketing. For that matter, he could study underwater basket weaving and still have plenty of cash to spare.
More practically, he could buy a place in the city—admittedly not a palace, but a little condo. A place to call home. And he could own it outright. Have a home forever in New York. Then, even if he didn’t make a fortune, he could still afford to live, if not in Manhattan, close to it. Oh yeah. This could work.
The text’s threat of being shot made sense if he thought about it. The owner of the plates wouldn’t want to be double-crossed. But Zane had no reason to double-cross the guy if he was willing to pay Zane a freaking fortune to do a simple job.
Truth be told, the hard part was over. The plates were past Customs and safely in New York. All he had to do now was wait for a message and do what the guy on the other end of this phone said to.
“You okay in there?” Sebastian called.
“Yes. I’m fine,” he called back hastily. He hid the cell phone in the pocket of his jeans and strode out of the bedroom. “What do you think?”
Sebastian stared at him in disbelief. “Wow,” he breathed.
A smile broke over his face. He was used to the jaded workers in the fashion industry who looked at models like him all day long. They were completely unimpressed with him or anyone else. Sebastian’s stare of awe was more than a little gratifying.
“That suit looks like it was made for you,” Sebastian said in something akin to awe. But then his brows slammed together. He repeated grimly, “That suit looks like it was made for you.”
Damn. Zane knew enough about a designer suit to realize that no suit lay this perfectly on anyone, not even a perfect-sized male model like him, without at least a few alterations. It was why preparation for every fashion show included multiple fittings before the event.
He said lightly, “Lucky guess, huh?”
Chapt
er Four
SEBASTIAN’S BLOOD ran cold. That suit looked like it had been painted onto Zane’s perfect body. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Was Zane Stryker in on the smuggling operation? How else to explain that spectacularly perfect fit? He had to work for freaking Erebus!
The Erebus Consortium was the nightmare every law enforcement official dreaded—a group of smart, capable businessmen who’d decided to pool their resources and monetize crime into a highly organized, highly secretive corporate structure. They’d been slowly, carefully building their empire for decades and had their hooks into every major law enforcement agency, government, and international corporation on earth. They smuggled arms, started wars, paid for it with drugs and human trafficking, all while keeping their own hands spotlessly clean of course, and also branched out into exotic crimes like diamond smuggling, cybercrime, and rigging elections. Erebus was perhaps the most devastating crime syndicate ever built.
What the hell had Peregrine Cardiffe thrown him into here?
Sebastian smiled automatically and said lamely, “Yeah, man. The suit looks great. Lucky, indeed, that it fits. Guess that’s what happens when you’re a fashion model. Everything looks good on you, eh?”
Zane chirped, “It totally helps that I’m a perfect size. Have to be, in the modeling biz. Designers don’t want to spend much time or money tailoring clothing to fit models. You get one, maybe two, fittings at most before a show, and the clothes have to work on you.”
Sebastian tuned out Zane’s blathering about clothing and fittings while his mind raced. If Zane was part of the organization and hadn’t killed Sebastian already, he was probably only a low-level mule and not one of the group’s high-level operatives. He might not have the authority or resources to kill.
Or he might.
Which was to say, as long as Sebastian played dumb to Zane’s affiliation with Erebus, Zane might let him live. God. Who’d have guessed a pretty male model would actually be part of such a sinister crime syndicate?
Of course, the most dangerous part of this whole charade would come when it was time to deliver the printing plates. Zane’s compatriots would undoubtedly want to eliminate the outsider who knew of the plates’ existence. That would be when they killed him. It would be a trap for him all the way.
