Stolen Vengeance: Slye Temp book 6

by Dianna Love

  What could she say about that? Her own insecurities had caused her to avoid any interaction with Henri once she heard he was involved with someone new, someone who made him happy. She’d been hurt more than anything when Henri left, but it wasn’t as though she carried a torch for her ex-husband.

  Henri kept talking. “I will talk to Geoffrey and convince him to use his skills.”

  “Thirty grand isn’t enough to do that?” she quipped.

  “It would have been if you hadn’t pinched his ego. If I bring him to the table, can you mind your manners?”

  She blew out a gust of air and ran fingers through her hair. “I’ll even apologize.”

  An eyebrow quirked high on Henri’s forehead. “I see.”

  And he did. She’d just told him how desperate she was, because Henri knew her pride could blind her at times. But her pride had been through enough battering over the past few years that apologizing to Geoffrey, snippy guy that he was, would be simple.

  “In the meantime,” Henri continued. “The key to this contract is finding potential buyers.”

  Valene had missed brainstorming with Henri.

  She said, “Right. I wish someone on my gold list of clients could afford this scroll, but they’re only millionaires. This deal is going to take a billionaire who has an obsession with Galileo.”

  The few seventeenth-century collectors who had the kind of money that could buy something even she couldn’t put a price on were practically impossible to get in front of because they used agents to handle their purchases and sales.

  And those agents were often just as secretive about their identities.

  “You do know one who happens to be in LA,” Henri said.

  “They all come through LA at some point, but by the time we hear they’ve arrived, they’re already locked away somewhere private or on their private jet headed somewhere else.”

  “I’m speaking of Jon Tinker.”

  She got excited, then slumped. “Getting to the president in five days would be easier.”

  “Ah, Valene, where is the woman who sent an exquisite seventeenth-century Oliver Cromwell shilling to a visiting duke as an invitation to meet?”

  She was inside somewhere, buried beneath layers of worry over things like her father and fulfilling this contract, but she was there. “What are you saying?”

  “I have an idea of how you might get in front of this collector. It’s a gamble, but doable.” Henri lifted both eyebrows this time and that meant there was more to it.

  She already knew she wasn’t going to like this, but that buried version of herself came crawling up from the dark place she’d been hiding when Valene said, “Point me in his direction.”

  Chapter 12

  St. Moritz, Switzerland

  The General eyed the bane of his existence, Wayan, who was the second most powerful man in China and only the uninformed failed to recognize that. Wayan had a boyish face with the typical almond shaped eyes, soft cheeks and a mouth always pursed with disgust during these meetings. But where Asian women the General knew had beautifully shaped eyes, Wayan’s were small, black and unattractive.

  He looked like a man secretly planning the next world war, which might be exactly what he was up to.

  Now that they were seated in a private salon of L'air Doré, an exclusive resort in Switzerland that catered to those who could pay for absolute discretion, the General began, “You said the scroll was safe.”

  Wayan propped his palms together with his fingers pointing up like a steeple. “The artifact was secure until someone unexpected got involved. We may argue and point fingers or we may take action. Which are you here for?”

  To make sure you don’t screw the powerful families who pay me well to protect them. The Rosso family was on edge and the General’s job was to deal with the issue causing them stress. Admitting that to Wayan would be the same as the General exposing his jugular. “I’m here to make sure you understand that I’m not trying to snake the scroll out from under you, but I have to get my hands on it.”

  Wayan was a man of few facial expressions, but he allowed an eyebrow to float up. “You think I will assist you in gaining the single most valuable artifact of the five required to unveil Orion’s Prophecy?”

  “You said the panel from the Amber Room was the key piece.”

  Wayan’s eyes smiled even though his mouth remained all business. “The scroll explains how all the artifacts work together. It was necessary that you believed the Amber Room panel was most important or you would have focused on the scroll too soon.”

  Deceitful bastard.

  It wasn’t as though the General trusted Wayan either, but Wayan could have been straight about all these damn artifacts. Orion’s Prophecy was complete hogwash, but Wayan believed with the intensity of a fanatic. That alone gave the General reason to stay close to him. When it came to the warning about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, the General only had to bother with the latter part.

  He’d connected with Wayan when the Chinese nutjob sent minions trying to purchase a rare stater, a Greek gold coin used in trade during the fourth century. The coin had been in the General’s family for generations.

  It was locked away where Wayan would never be able to get his hands on it as long as the General was alive. He reclined and grimaced. Damn pain meds weren’t doing it for his back. “Back to the scroll, Wayan. I meant it when I said I wasn’t trying to screw you. If you help me find the person with the scroll, I want the thief and you can have the scroll. Fair enough?”

  Wayan pretended to mull it over, but the General had known him for three years. Wayan made his decisions faster than many people drew a breath. He hadn’t become the second in line to the leadership of China without being dangerously brilliant.

  He was also a major ache in the General’s backside.

  And the little fucker actually believed that once five specific artifacts came together, Orion’s Prophecy would come to fruition, revealing the final world conflict and who would win.

  In Wayan’s private fantasy world, a final conflict would be a world war that left only one country standing.

  The General didn’t buy into any of this shit, but six of the most powerful families in the world paid him well to keep his finger on the pulse of crazy internationals who might threaten their world–reality anchored by obscene amounts of money.

  The scary part was that Wayan held a position where he actually could manipulate the launch of an international conflict.

  Especially if the prophecy pointed to the US as the country that would come out on top.

  Wayan lowered his steepled fingers. “I will contact you if I locate the scroll thief first.”

  Not exactly a commitment that left the General all warm and fuzzy. He clarified one point of the agreement. “I need the thief alive.”

  Wayan’s head tilted forward only enough to acknowledge that he understood. “You wish to be sure he has spoken to no one of his deeds within the Vatican banking system on behalf of a prestigious Italian family.”

  I really don’t like how this Chinese bastard always knows too much. The General shrugged with nonchalance. “Exactly.”

  “Then I see no reason we cannot reach an agreement, should fortune befall my people who search for the scroll ... as long as you are willing to make an exchange.”

  You sorry sack of shit. The General knew exactly what was being offered. Wayan would hand over the thief in trade for the General’s artifact, one of the prized five.

  Wayan already possessed carved jade art that he’d purchased on the antiquities market many years ago, according to what the General’s people had discovered. A flat piece the size of a serving tray with gold Uyghur inscriptions, the accepted Mongolian writing. The art had belonged to Genghis Khan and had been sculpted to display one of Khan’s belt buckles in the middle. It wasn’t called a buckle back then, but the General couldn’t be bothered to recall the term.

  A German collector owned the cove
ted panel from the Amber Room. It belonged to Tsar Peter the Great in the eighteenth century, and Wayan was already going after that one.

  That left the Galilean scroll from the Vatican and a Celtic cross belonging to Chatton, the number-two pain in the General’s backside. The General groaned internally. That bitch had shown up unexpectedly, pushing her way into the Czarion, the code name Wayan and the General had chosen for their partnership.

  The General had rogue CIA agents on his secret payroll, and he’d sent them hunting for Chatton, but they’d come up empty. She was a spook through and through. He and Wayan figured her to be MI6, but neither of their contacts in the British spy agency had anything on her.

  “The time for fulfilling Orion’s Prophecy draws near,” Wayan announced. “We are entering the final days. The scroll will explain all.”

  Were those words written somewhere or just a fabrication in Wayan’s twisted mind?

  The General didn’t know, but he was keeping a close eye on everyone to make sure Wayan and Chatton weren’t teaming up to double cross him.

  The General lifted his sixty-year-old scotch. “Here’s to a new world order where we’ve agreed to continue our alliance.”

  Wayan’s hint of a smile was the equivalent of someone else doing a fist pump.

  The General did his own silent fist pump, because he had no doubt that Chatton knew all about the scroll being missing. With just a little luck, Wayan and Chatton might cancel each other out.

  Best case scenario? One of them would go down for sure.

  Chapter 13

  Dingo made a full turn, taking in what he’d consider a nightmare to keep secure if he didn’t know this party could double as a security convention.

  The Slye Temp team had arrived early this morning and were now spread through five hundred guests who had paid over ten grand apiece to be invited to this charity event.

  Dingo passed groups of bone-thin women in clingy dresses and men wearing tailored tuxes that might be more comfortable than this straightjacket outfit he had on.

  A front was moving in and had dropped the temperature to the mid-sixties by lunch, saving him from sweating like a whore in church.

  He maneuvered around people mingling throughout the tiered garden area of Savoir Faire West, the luxury hotel hosting this event. The four-story Mediterranean structure had a sweeping circular drive that had been busy since noon when the first limos and flashy rides arrived to deposit their riders. Someone had remodeled this place. To Dingo, it was now done up like a silver-screen star from the 50s. Based on the team’s intel, the current owners had bought adjoining property to expand the garden patio from postage-stamp size to one that stretched forty yards deep and half as wide.

  Keeping all the plants and flowers alive had to be full time job.

  None of the guests seemed to notice all the work that’d been done to turn this into a fairytale party, or the army of wait staff running around in black tuxedos determined that no champagne glass remained empty and everyone got a bite of the funky little snacks on their silver trays.

  “What’s the ETA on Perdido?” Dingo asked, speaking in a loud whisper–just loud enough for the other five members of Slye Temp’s undercover team to hear through their comm sets.

  Nick replied, “Approximately eight minutes out.”

  “Roger that.”

  Blade appeared nearby carrying a tray filled with bubbling champagne just as Nick’s voice came through Dingo’s earpiece again.

  “Wait staff all set?”

  Blade beamed a bright smile at the couple he’d paused to serve before strolling past Dingo and replying, “Affirmative. Identity confirmed on each staff member. Doors are locked and the house security is to notify me if anyone new shows up or if someone asks to leave.”

  Dingo continued weaving his way through a cluster of designer dresses that ranged from ankle length to nothing more than butt trim, all while listening to the team’s communication.

  Music floated through the balmy ocean air along with the hum of conversation, but Nick’s voice calling for reports came through clear. “Exterior positions set?”

  White Hawk’s smooth voice replied, “Ready at north exit.” As soon as she finished, Ryder’s deep voice acknowledged, “Good to go at the south exit.”

  That put White Hawk outside the front entrance of the hotel and Ryder at the far end of the outdoor setting. With the exception of trips to the lounges for men or women, all of the guests should be in sight around the terraced patio.

  Tinker had his own security force and the hotel had another eight set up as guards around the perimeter, plus two inside the hotel. In addition to White Hawk and Ryder, Slye Temp had four more highly skilled agents overseeing the gardens enclosed by a security wall. Trees and foliage lined the inside of the wall, hiding it from view.

  Dingo shook his head at this overkill.

  Six deadly Slye operatives on site under the guise of nabbing a stalker. That’s what Perdido’s people thought.

  Wonder if her campaign manager had a cosmetic surgeon on hand in case she broke a nail?

  Sabrina would have found that amusing at one time, but she had no sense of humor when it came to Dingo these days.

  At least she’d relented and agreed that leaving Dingo at their temporary headquarters would have been a waste of personnel, especially with Josh on hand. Dingo normally accepted the desk jockey position because Josh would rather be in the field, but Josh saw the wisdom in keeping Dingo and Sabrina apart as much as possible right now.

  Dingo had to mend the rift with her. They’d been friends too long to allow this to continue.

  He’d tested that friendship when he brought Valene in on his last op a month ago.

  But Valene had stepped up when he’d asked.

  All thoughts of personal issues were shoved from Dingo’s mind when Nick said, “Target’s transport just arrived. Perdido and Caddy exiting vehicle with four guards.”

  Lt. Governor candidate Emilio Fontana had joined Perdido as her running mate, surprising his celebrity family. The Slye team had tagged him Caddy because Fontana was the youngest son from a family of pro golfers, but had shied away from earning his living on a golf course, swinging his clubs only at corporate outings. Still, he was well liked among the press even if he tended to play second string to everyone around him.

  Nick updated the team. “Perdido and Caddy on the move. Handing off.”

  Tanner’s voice rumbled. “I have eyes on Perdido and Caddy. Crossing through center of crowd.”

  When Dingo caught sight of the political duo, they were surrounded by four of their own security and passing through a gap in guests as Tanner updated his report. “Perdido and Caddy intercepted by Daddy and Lady Warbucks.”

  Lady Warbucks was the code name for Jon Tinker’s bombshell wife, June, who still turned heads at sixty. She had a smile that charmed the press. The reclusive billionaire she’d married had underwritten this charity event to Save the Hollywood Pacific Theater, a spectacular relic from years gone by that several investors had tried–and failed–to bring back to life more than once.

  Protecting California treasures was just one of Tinker’s pet projects.

  Perdido had jumped on that bandwagon by issuing a bold statement that, if elected, she would guarantee that California reclaimed its history by maintaining some of the monstrous old buildings.

  There had been an outcry about wasting tax dollars, but Perdido had smiled in victory when she gained Tinker as a major supporter. Perdido used her physical attraction to her advantage when playing up to fat wallets, but her abrasive attitude and ability to stir up opponents had cultivated many enemies.

  And now a stalker.

  One that would be easier to spot from a high point, if the billionaire hadn’t screwed that option.

  Stashing Ryder in a sniper position on the roof, where he’d have been right at home with a scope, would have offered the best set of eyes for this afternoon. But Nick couldn’t even put Ryder on a
balcony of the twelve-story hotel towering between the garden event and the street, because Daddy Warbucks’s people had trumped Nick’s request. Two of Warbucks’s security were homesteading on the roof right now.

  Lots of manpower.

  But with no new intel on the assassinations, tonight would likely turn out to be nothing more than a surveillance gig for some obsessed stalker.

  Simple, right?

  Nothing more dangerous than an over zealous fan who wanted his ten minutes of fame. Still, though, not as deadly as an Uzi-wielding terrorist.

  So what was causing the hairs on Dingo’s neck to stand up as if he faced down a jihadi guerrilla?

  Something was wonky. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt it.

  He moved through the sprawling gardens laid out on two tiers, with white-linen covered tables and massive ice sculptures that didn’t even seem to be sweating. With quick visual sweeps, he took in every person speaking, staring, yawning, glaring ... all were suspect and none were suspect.

  Nick ordered, “Update on Perdido.”

  “I’ve got eyes on Perdido near the stage,” Blade confirmed, which meant he was on the upper tier of the garden where a raised stage had been positioned alongside the fountain. A small orchestra was perched nearby, sending out soft melodies fit for Hollywood royalty, or for those who believed they were.

  Nick said, “Maintain that position.”

  “Roger that,” Blade replied.

  Dingo blew out a weary rush of air. Other than a couple of quick combat naps, he’d had no sleep last night. He’d checked in before midnight, making sure Josh and Nick had seen Dingo come in, then he’d slipped out to spend the rest of the evening and early morning watching over Valene’s apartment. He’d shown up with donuts at headquarters before daylight this morning, and ignored Sabrina’s suspicious gaze. They hadn’t spoken since their argument and probably wouldn’t sort their issues out until they returned to Atlanta.

  Dingo stifled a yawn and shifted around just as a man blinked in and out of his line of sight, just long enough to send a chill racing up his spine. Dingo squinted, but the face was gone. Even so, his mind had snapped a shot and slammed it up front and center.