Page 8 of Brazen Deceits

Bad tactics, Walker.

Her sharp gaze takes in Clara, whose dark eyes are wide, darting from our visitor’s feet to her face, both taking the measure of the other, before the fence turns to me. “So, can we cut the subterfuge? I’m Jasmine. You’re Walker. We’ve worked together on a few gigs, and I figured it was time we finally met, face-to-face.”

I take my time answering. Jasmine doesn’t fit her. I’d have figured she was a Fiona or a Kathleen with that hair. Although, who am I to talk? I’m Korean and my parents named me Walker.

She looks about our age, which I figure means she’s a few years older. I’ve yet to meet a true redhead who doesn’t look younger. It might have something to do with the freckles, but I haven’t done a study or anything. It’s just, I’ve done a lot of figure drawing in college, and every redhead I’ve drawn looks like they’re sixteen at the most.

I watch her, trying to get a read, but she’s still, composed. “Why now?” I ask.

She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward, her braid dangling. “We had a good run there last year. But you messed up a simple info-gathering job this summer. Now I have a major retrieval operation you say you can do, but as the client would like his product sooner than expected, I’m concerned about your ability to successfully retrieve the item in time.”

I scoff, not able to help myself. “I thought we were going to cut the subterfuge. No need to talk in circles. You’re worried we’re going to botch the Rubens job.”

A small smile twists up one side of her mouth. “Exactly.”

My anger flares. Not only did that summer job have a tight timeline, it went belly-up because some kids pulled a fire alarm, of all things. The plan had been great, but who’d expect that level of chaos? We didn’t. When RJ pulled the police report on that one, well, Trips wasn’t the only one spending time with the heavy bag. “Either you trust us with the job or you don’t,” I say.

Jasmine brings a manicured finger to her lips. “Your team is currently my best option, but you’re not my only option. I thought an in-person evaluation might help settle my client’s mind.”

“An in-person evaluation? What, like tryouts?”

Jasmine raises her shoulder in a small continental shrug. “If you’d like to think about it like that, I won’t stop you. As you know, the commission on this job is, well, substantial, and I have no desire to have my portion disappear because I bet on the wrong horse. Or horse team, as the case happens to be.”

I try to control my breathing. This is absurd. If we were good enough for this job this summer when she offered it, why would we suddenly be any less qualified now? I’ve been working on my Rubens reproductions for months, and I’m finally getting good enough that a switch is possible. Is she just looking for a reason to break our contract? “Explain what kind of tryouts you have in mind,” I say, wanting to piece this all together.

“I thought I’d have your team and two others do a little competition over Thanksgiving weekend. Whoever wins gets the job.”

I laugh. “You’re not going to find a better Rubens forger on such short notice. I’m one of the best, and you booked me months ago.”

“Oh, I mean, it could always be a smash and grab.”

My stomach bottoms out. “Are you asking to go to jail? A smash and grab? The grabber will get caught; they always do. And who do you think they’ll sell out for a reduced sentence? You, that’s who. And who are you going to snitch on for your get out of jail free card? Your rich-as-Midas clients? Nope, you’d be selling us out. No way you’re doing a smash and grab.”

She stands up and pulls a small stretch. “Then I guess you’d better win the competition. I’ll be sending the details tomorrow. All three teams will have the same information andthe same window of opportunity. It will be a battle royale. Good luck, Walker.”

Jasmine slips on her coat before pausing at the door for me to escort her down. After that challenge, I would’ve assumed she’d gladly flounce herself down the stairs, but I guess I’m wrong.

I stand up, pulling Clara with me. I know I’m probably holding her hand too tightly, so I try to loosen my grip, but she gives me a quick squeeze, as if she’s trying to tell me it’s okay, that she knows I’m freaking out, even if I look perfectly normal on the outside. At least, I hope I look calm and collected right now. I don’t want NightAntiques, Jasmine, to feel like she won this round. But she did, and all three of us know it.

I lead her back down the stairs, Clara by my side. Before I open the front door, I turn to the slight redhead. “How did you know where to find us?” I ask, the question niggling at the back of my brain since I first got her message.

“Your hacker does a good job wiping your tracks,” she says.

“Yes, he does,” I say, proud of the work RJ does, even if I don’t understand half of it.

“Well, my hacker, she’s better,” she says, before striding out the door and into the cool fall air.

Fuck.

I shut the door, letting go of Clara so I can slide the deadbolt into place. I take a minute to rest my forehead against the cool wood. Goddamn it. Tryouts. Like we’re a high school cheer squad or something.

How am I supposed to tell the guys? How did I not see this coming?

We need this job. But now we have to fight for it, while still planning the Rubens gig, running an underground gambling ring, producing fake IDs, carjacking, and doing whatever it is that RJ does that gets us steady deposits in our accounts.

Oh, and not failing college.

This is impossible.

---