The Obsidian Collection

by Rebel Adams

  “This is about the Bugatti.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Not a chance, asshole.” She shifts on her hip, widening the slit in her dress. His eyes wander. Predictable. She jerks her head at Queen and he moves closer, holding the painting for her to see. “God, this painting is ugly.”

  “I don’t know,” Queen says. “Five million looks pretty beautiful to me.” He plants a kiss on her cheek. Kent’s hands clench into tight fists. Maya shakes her head.

  “You tied me to a bed, abandoned me and stole my car. My job. You think I’d let that go so easily?”

  “It’s not like you didn’t get away.” He holds up his hands. “I gave you a car.”

  “Shut. Up,” she grits out. “Or I will shoot you in the mother fucking crotch.”

  Kent grimaces and shuffles his feet.

  Queen steps between them while giving Maya a soothing look. “Kent, let me tell you how this is going to go down. We’re taking the painting and turning it into the FBI. Maya gets the reward. I get the glory and admiration of my peers for solving a seventy year-old mystery. You have two choices. Get out of here before the guards come back, or get caught. The Agency will not support you if you’re detained by the Italian police.”

  Queen sheathed the painting in a bag and slung it around his shoulder, while Maya held her gun level with Kent’s face. He’s faced with a third choice; to get the painting he has to take them both—no, Maya out. Queen’s collateral damage. This is between the two of them.

  Seeing Kent’s hesitation, she tilts her head in question. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

  He shrugs. “This isn’t a game for me, sweetheart. I already told you how I feel.” Their wrists vibrate in unison. He looks at Queen. “Go. Those monitors are probably already turning back on.”

  “What?” A line creases her forehead and the smirky swagger from before disappears.

  Queen is undeterred. “Come on, Maya.”

  They each feel a second vibration against their wrists—a final warning on time—just as fast paced sounds come from the library. Time’s up. Maya never takes her eyes off Kent, not for a second, but she follows Queen to the hole in the floor, stumbling once over the edge of the carpet. Kent watches as the agent drops into the dark while, Maya waits at the edge, hand fingering the slit in her dress. She pauses to say something.

  “What?” he asks, curious despite himself.

  Whatever she says is lost, other than the movement of her lips, as the library wall crashes down. A metal cylinder rolls from her hands across the floor. Kent covers his eyes as a bright flash overtakes the room. Four guards climb over the debris, each one bigger than the next. Kent clenches his jaw and prepares to fight.

  Three Weeks Later

  The noise never stops. The talking. The praying. The cursing. What else would you expect from twelve men in a four-person cell. The brick cell, painted a garish pink, has bars on the window but no actual glass, allowing insects and vermin to easily come and go. The place is a shit-hole and increasingly it looks like he’s here to stay. He rolls over in his cot and winces—his jaw still aches from the fight at the mansion, the short and ineffective fight. He took two of the five men down—but they had the jump on him.

  He has the money and means to get out of this place, but so far, he hasn’t been allowed a phone call or message to his lawyer. The FBI probably had something to do what that, too. Fucking backstabbers. The pain in his chest reminded him to blame Maya as well, but he didn’t have it in him. Partially because he’s impressed. Other than that, he loves her. He is finally able to admit it. He can’t stop thinking about her final word to him. She mouthed it for him—a less than cryptic message. “You’re welcome.”

  Typical. He laughs darkly to himself. The first time he falls in love, it’s for a woman more badass and possibly crazier than himself.

  “Yo, Adonis, something funny?” his bunkmate asks. He’s also American, which should be comforting, but really, he’d rather have a language barrier and have some peace and quiet. No such luck.

  “Just my fucked-up life.”

  “Yeah, that is pretty hilarious for a pretty boy like you.”

  Kent closes his eyes, in a futile attempt to sleep the time away. The squeal of springs sound from the cots, fights break out amongst his cellmates, a Muslim man prays more than he sleeps. He ignores it all until a sharp object raps against his calf.

  He raises his lids—more alert than he seems. A guard stands outside the cell bars and gestures at him.

  “Venga con me.” Come with me.

  Kent stands, blocking out the murmurs and jeers from his cellmates and follows the guard to his fate.

  If life were like the movies, Kent would snap his fingers and he’d be back home immediately. In real life, it takes several days to get processed out of the Italian prison and get his passport back. Maya and Queen have left the hotel, obviously, but he is surprised to find his belongings secure with the hotel concierge. He walks across the street to a different hotel, checks in and takes an hour long bath, followed by a shower to remove the filth and stench engrained in his body at the prison. He sleeps for three days, books a plane ticket and plots his next move.

  A photograph at the airport newspaper stand catches his attention.

  Painting Returned to The U.S.

  Kent narrows his eyes, making out the details of the photo. Agent Carson and Queen proudly displaying the Obsidian at the Smithsonian. Queen’s blond hair glowed like a halo in the photograph. Well, looks like he got his wish.

  The plane touched down in New York and Kent was met by one of his men in a non-descript black Suburban. Kent’s given a new bag full of fresh clothing, a false identity, guns and plenty of cash. He tosses his belongings in the backseat and leaves the airport alone—he needs time to think and there is nothing like a drive across country to help facilitate a thoughtful environment.

  Maya had done a number on him. Drawing out the carefully guarded heart of a man who lived behind a series of masks. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all a con, too. Had she planned this from the beginning?

  No, Kent thought, as he drove across Midwestern pastures and farmland. They’d been on even ground in his bed—well, even enough. For those hours they’d been alone and together, when he’d been inside her, they had been equals. Fighting their way into the library, too. For the first one, he’d been the one to fuck that up, allowing money and greed to come before his feelings. He’d tried to fix that in Italy. He told her how he felt, (albeit in a bathroom). Wasn’t that enough?

  Maybe they were too similar. How do you take the con out of a con? Can either of them ever actually be genuine?

  Not if her rage is deep enough, he figures. She’s plotted, connived and turned the biggest art heist in modern history into an even bigger con—duping him.

  Kent hates to admit it but it hurt. Badly.

  He makes the thirty-three hour drive in thirty—only stopping once in Wisconsin for a short nap in a truck stop parking lot. By the time he reaches the property in Montana, he’s so exhausted, he sails past the dirt road to the cabin, even with the GPS light blinking on the dash.

  “Home sweet home,” he says, once the car is parked in the barn. He plans to alternately sleep, drink and lick his wounds for a week.

  If it wasn’t for the dusting of glitter, he probably wouldn’t have noticed anything was wrong. But glitter? On the floor of his garage? It sparkles against the overhead lights and sticks to his finger when he touches it. He finds the first hundred dollar bill on the bottom step. Another halfway up and then a third snapped into the hinged door of his security alarm. A trail of money? Another woman would want flower petals, scattered romantically across the floor. Not Maya.

  Even though he’s aware that she is the source of the money trail, he’s been fooled once before, so he enters the loft with a raised gun. That is until he sees her. Lowering his gun, he takes in the woman before him.
r />   “Took you long enough,” she says. Or he thinks she does. Blood pumps to his ears, down between his legs and his brain turns to mush. Between the exhaustion and the scene in front of him, he figures he may be hallucinating. What he think he sees is a half-naked Maya, propped on her elbows in black lacy lingerie, edged in silver glitter, lying on top of a blanket of money. A lot of money.

  With the gun still in his hands, he rubs his eyes and reopens them. Yep. Still half-naked. Still lying on money.

  “Did I die in that prison?” he asks, holstering his gun. He’s too tired for a gunfight.

  “I made sure you didn’t.”

  That statement is enough for him to accept Maya isn’t going to kill him, at least not tonight. He shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his shoes and heads to the bar. One ice cube clinks in the bottom of the glass and Kent covers it with whiskey. Everything will make more sense when he has a drink.

  The rustle of paper catches his attention and he turns around. Maya’s walking toward him. His eyes land on her breasts, spotting the inked birds on the inside curve. He drains his drink and says. “What’s with the bed of money, sweetheart? Come to rub it in?”

  “Not exactly,” she says, taking a step closer. His hip grazes the solid wood of the bar. Maya’s dark eyes narrow. “Did you mean anything you said to me in Italy?”

  “Before you left me to the goons and trapped me in a filthy prison?”

  “Yes, before that.”

  “Every word.”

  “What about now? How do you feel now?”

  Kent reaches out and trails his fingers down her arm and glance at the warm, brown skin of her breasts. “Now? I feel very aroused.”

  Her eyes cast downward and she smirks. “Yes, I can tell.”

  “Tell me the truth. Did you plan this all along? Did Agent Carson know? Why didn’t the FBI just arrest me?”

  “Oh, this was my idea. From the beginning. Not the Obsidian. They asked me to work on that alone with Queen. I asked them to bring you in for assistance.”

  “So my involvement was all about revenge.”

  She licks her bottom lip. “Yes.”

  “What about Queen? Was fucking him out of revenge, too?”

  “That was about gaining his trust and loyalty. And releasing a little tension. You know how turned on I get doing a job,” she purrs.

  “I’m aware,” he says, feeling less conflict than he should. As much as he’s pissed for getting duped, he’s also a little proud of her for pulling it off.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she says, her fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt, “we’re even. And that money? It’s your half.”

  Kent stares down at Maya wondering if he should trust her. He knows she isn’t trustworthy. Not in the slightest, but neither is he. It’s the nature of who they are and what they do. They’ll never trust one another, but they understand one another. Did Kent deserve three weeks in an Italian prison for tying Maya to the bed? Definitely. But giving him half the take? That’s unexpected icing on a pretty shitty cake.

  Maya’s a con-woman with class.

  Her fingers tighten on his shirt and she pulls him down, mouths aligning in the middle. His exhaustion tapers off, turning into lust and desire. Spinning her around, he lifts her to the bar, moving into the space between her thighs.

  “You sure this won’t upset your boyfriend?” His fingers are already clawing at the straps over her shoulders.

  “Queen? I don’t think so,” she laughs. “We haven’t been together since Italy. I’ve been waiting for you to get your ass back here.”

  “How did you know this is where I’d come?”

  “I have my ways.”

  Kent decides he’ll coax that information out of her later—they have time. Right now, he’d rather focus on her mouth and body, tasting her skin, exploring her mouth. Within moments, they’ve both stripped down, until there’s nothing between them but sweat and skin. Kent lifts Maya once again, carrying her across the room. She laughs with delight when he tosses her on the bed, money flying everywhere.

  “Sex and money,” he says, settling over her hips.

  “My favorites.”

  Those are the last words either of them speak, too busy with one another, too busy establishing their footing once again on even ground. They go to that one place where the outside doesn’t matter and the con isn’t a factor. Inside one another.

  She doesn’t show him until two months later. She’s not even sure why. She trusts him, well enough, and they’ve broken down a lot of barriers since they hooked up after Italy.

  The timing could be better. It’s not like she doesn’t have enough on her mind at the moment, breaking into the vault at the First National Bank in Dallas. The job will net them over a million each if they’re successful, which makes her confession even more stupid. She waits at least until Kent’s on the ground while she scrambles the security system from an alley out back.

  “I need to tell you something,” she says, speaking into her watch. She designed new ones. Just for the two of them. Better ones.

  “Oh, shit, are you pregnant?” he asks. She’s monitoring his tiny dot on the computer screen as he approaches the night watchman and takes him down easily.

  “You’re clear,” she says, exiting the van. “And no, I’m not pregnant. That would be a fucking mess.”

  “Thank God,” she hears him mumble. “What then?”

  Maya doesn’t respond while she drops down the ventilation shoot. She comes out the other end wobbly, but Kent’s stabilizes her with strong arms.

  “You okay?” he asks, quietly, checking her over with his hands.

  “Yeah, keep moving.”

  They duck past the main vault, to the one in the back. Maya’s already disabled the digital lock; she has to use the swipe card provided by their client to get inside. Yes, their client actually owns the object they have been hired to steal. Unfortunately, he’s a greedy bastard and is looking to cash in on the insurance policy.

  “Are you going to tell me or keep your thoughts to yourself a little longer?” Kent asks.

  Maya swipes the card and the door slides open. They enter a room surrounded by metal security boxes. They have five minutes before the backup alarm sounds. She reaches into her vest pocket and hands over a jewelry bag made of black satin. Kent takes the bag while Maya opens the security box with the number 0817 engraved on the front. The instructions are simple; take a carved wooden box out of the safe and deliver it back to the owner. No peeking.

  She grabs the box and stuffs it into the empty pouch in her vest. She turns to leave, but stops short of the door, realizing Kent isn’t following her. “Let’s go. Clock’s ticking.”

  He’s holding an oval object between his fingers, twisting it in the light. “Are you fucking with me, Clarke?”

  She knew showing this to him would be a risk. That’s why she chose now to do it. He can’t freak out. Except it seems he’s freaking out.

  “No. I’m not messing with you. It’s real. It’s mine, or it is unless we get busted in here, Kent. Get your ass moving.”

  He shakes off the shock and pockets the object carefully. They travel down the back hallway and push the back exit. The alarm sounds (as planned) and they slip away in the dark.

  “Want to tell me how you got this?” He asks miles later. They’ve put a safe distance between themselves and the bank. He pats his pocket with one hand and drives the sleek black getaway car with the other.

  Maya finishes messaging their client on a disposable phone and tosses it out the window. It smashed into a million pieces on the edge of the road next to a cow pasture. She says, “It was in the painting. Like the legend said. I wasn’t sure if you knew about it or not.”

  “I do my research too, sweetheart. I knew about the legend.” He takes a sharp turn to the left going into an underground garage. Once there, they ditch the car and switch to another vehicle. “What I want to know is how you got that away from Queen and without damaging the
painting?”

  Maya looks out the window into the dark night. They’re headed to one of Kent’s safe houses, this one in an unassuming neighborhood just outside of Dallas. “Queen was distracted,” she finally says. “And I’m very good at my job.”

  Kent gives her a side-long, knowing look. His eyes pin her down and he holds back any expression, but she knows, from his stiff jaw and clenched hands on the steering wheel, he’s not happy to hear about her and Queen sleeping together. Again. This is why she’s hasn’t told him. She had sex with Queen once more, post heist, to once again, lull him into loyalty. They drank champagne, took a bath and she screwed him into exhaustion. That’s when she took the opportunity to search for the jewel. She found it.

  The black diamond.

  The real Obsidian Jewel.

  Kent reaches into his pocket and removes the satin bag. He gives it back to Maya and she fishes it out, holding it up in the dashboard lights.

  “How much is it worth?” he asks.

  “It’s priceless. There’s no way to establish value—it doesn’t exist. It’s a myth.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “We,” she says. “We’ll have to decide.”

  “Maybe, we should start our own collection,” he suggests. Any trace of hurt from before is gone. They are a “they.”

  “Filling it with ghost stories and impossibilities.”

  They smile at one another, enthralled by the idea of stealing the world’s most elusive treasures and keeping them for themselves.

  “We’ll have to have a castle,” Maya points out. “Preferably overlooking the ocean—somewhere warm, too.”

  The car comes to a stop and he leans over and kisses her on the lips. She feels it in her stomach down to her toes. Somehow, over the last two months, everything fell into place. “You’re so freaking smart.”

  She smiles, pocketing the jewel, feeling it next to her pounding heart. “Don’t forget it. Ever.”

  June 2010