Page 47 of Renegade

“Who are you?” one of the guys growled.

“I told you. We’re law enforcement…recovery agents,” Miguel replied, opting for the truth. “I have credentials in my coat pocket.” He glanced at me and nodded. “So does he.” He looked back at the men who held their guns on us. “Will you please listen?” I could hear his breathing starting to return to normal. “We’re invited guests. Find Mrs. Flores or Mr. Aston. They’ll verify what we’re saying is true.”

“Mrs. Flores is one of the artist’s patrons,” I added. “Ten minutes ago, they were talking with one of the Kennedys. Please find them.” I knew I sounded like I was pleading, but I just wanted them to put their guns away. Having three of them pointed at us was ridiculous. I watched one guy look at another.

He spoke into a headset, presumably to the control room, “Please locate Mrs. Flores.”

The guard replaced his gun in a shoulder holster, before going back into the gallery doors which were crowded with onlookers and started ushering everyone back inside. The crowd of people began excitedly firing questions at him, no doubt about who we were and what was going on. He was joined by another guard controlling the situation.

“Recovery agents? Law enforcement?” the one who seemed to be in charge said. “Bounty hunters?” He looked like he was trying to keep a straight face.

“Don’t trust them, Cal,” the other one said. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five and he’d been the one who’d called Miguel a dirtbag. I wanted to laugh at the very idea of this guy who thought he was Dirty Harry just because he had a gun pointed at Miguel. If he knew half of what Miguel had done in service to this country, he would have shat his pants.

“If one of you wants to reach into my jacket pocket, you can see my credentials,” I said calmly.

“I don’t think so,” sneered Junior.

Cal muttered something else in his headset and was joined by two more security guys.

“Let’s just wait until our employer gets here,” Miguel said disgustedly. “You’ll find out who we are then.”

“Miguel, what happened?” I asked, still holding my hands in the air as I looked over at him.

“First, tell me if you’re okay,” he said, looking me up and down, frowning a little.

“I’m fine, Miguel.”

“No one touched you? Threatened you?”

“No. I spent ten minutes walking around looking for a bar to get that Cassanova woman a damned drink but then couldn’t find you.”

“You didn’t eat anything? Drink anything?” he asked, looking me up and down again.

I shook my head. “No, babe. Not even a sip of champagne. What the hell is going on?”

“So, you’re all right?”

I dropped my hands, waving them over my body. “Like I said, I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”

“I. Said. Don’t. Fucking. Move!”

We both eyed up the two armed men as I lifted my hands in the air again. Miguel let out a low laugh. “Are you stupid? I just told you we’re law enforcement.” He gestured at the doorway. “Your security detail is getting the woman who hired us.”

“Buddy…if you move your hands one more time, I’m gonna blow your fucking nuts off!” Junior yelled.

“Easy,” said Cal.

Several people still being ushered back by security control started clapping, clearly thinking we were there to do them harm and steal all the Getty’s art. It was ridiculous.

“Stop yelling at him,” I shouted at the ignorant pair. My arms were getting tired.

“That’s it,” the young one said. He glanced at his boss. “Can I put him in handcuffs?”

Cal nodded sharply. “Do it, Billy.”

The young kid replaced his gun in its holster, missing it the first time and having to give it a second go before the weapon found home. The second he stepped forward, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Try it and I’ll end you,dirtbag.”

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