Page 39 of Maximus

Con made a weird sound and asked, “How did you disable my notifications?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He smiled despite being tired.

Reaper laughed. “Someone who only works at it part-time is better than you, Con.”

“No, no, this is not okay,” Con said, and Max swore the guy’s fingers would punch a hole through the keyboard. “Nobody can do that. You can’t. Not unless …”

Max chuckled. “Get the information to Merlin. He has to be in and out by Tuesday morning. The art is being packed then.”

“Wait, I want to know what unless means,” Smith interjected.

“Ah, nothing. Nothing. It can’t be that. I’ll figure it out,” Con answered, distracted by whatever he was doing.

“Sure. I have no doubt.” Max chuckled.

“Hey, this is payback for the way you pester Fury. Damn, what goes around comes around, Con.” Reaper laughed.

Con groaned, “No, no, this is bullshit. This isn’t possible. I have to get ahold of Jewell.”

Max laughed. “If it isn’t possible, how did it happen, Con? Maximus is clear.” He took out his earbud. He’d watched Con torment Fury for long enough. It was time for him to get a taste of his own.

He got up and returned to the bedroom, sliding between the sheets and pulling Elena back into him. She made a sound he swore was a purr and snuggled against him. He closed his eyes and pictured Sokolov in his mind. The target on the man had just come into focus. They had less than a week before the showing. Less than a week before he and that bastard would finally meet.

CHAPTER 18

Merlin walked down the vault hall and gazed at the works of art secured behind the system he’d just circumvented. In his hand was an oversized briefcase made to hold the canvases hidden in the frames in the storage room.

He’d received all the information Maximus had sent him and the tidbits Con had given him. Maximus somehow had his cell phone number. Only two other people in the world had that number. He didn’t ask the Shadow how he’d gotten it. Respect. Merlin chuckled when he opened the storage room door. A sticky note was on the first frame. “Push indention on back of frames. Wear these gloves.”

“Well, that makes it boring.” He put the case down and opened it. There were thirteen slots for the rolled canvases. He changed his gloves from the anti-static ones he wore to those left for him.

He could have rushed the job, but there was no hurry. The security system to get into the vault was complex, true. Still, it was easily defeated, especially because the camera system and bugging devices were defeated outside and inside the office.

The compartments hidden in the frames were brilliant. He’d put that idea in his bag of tricks. One by one, he carefully moved the rolled canvases to the specific slot made for them in his case. The case would hold a change of clothes and other items, hiding the four-inch interior that ran the length of the case and shielding the canvases from airport security and environmental concerns.

If the paintings were, in fact, stolen, he was happy to steal them back. He was a thief with a conscience—a modern-day Robin Hood. He chuckled as he closed a frame and replaced it on the easel, moving to the next. He wouldn’t be caught dead in tights and those damn pointy shoes, but he was damn good at giving back to those who’d been screwed.

His phone vibrated, and he frowned, stopping what he was doing to look at the damn thing. He sat beside his case and answered, “Maximus, these frames are ingenious.”

“They are. Any problems?”

He let out a snort in response. “As if.”

“How did you dupe the fingerprint?”

“You and your lady had dinner tonight. When you left, the water glass may have disappeared off the table. She’s beautiful, by the way.” There was silence at the end of the line. “You didn’t see me, did you? You were a bit occupied.”

“Medium height, I’d say five feet ten or eleven inches tall, dark hair, glasses, wearing a blue henley with a sweater, black slacks, Hermes belt, and I believe your shoes were handmade. Italian.”

“You’re good. Not Italian. I had them made in London.”

“By an Italian artisan,” Maximus replied.

Merlin chuckled. “Possibly. I didn’t inquire. To what do I owe this lovely chat? Would you like a referral to my shoemaker?”

“Thank you, no. I’m more of a tennis shoe and t-shirt person.”

Merlin laughed. “Not tonight. That was a Tom Ford suit, or I’m purple with pink dots.”

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