Page 22 of The San Marco Heist

The kidnapper I’d been talking to returned to the call. “Now that you’ve heard him, let’s get back to business. Your brother is alive, and you’re going to give the Codex to our courier. You will not follow him back here, put any trackers on it, or—”

“We don’t have it,” I said. “But I know the estimated sale price was three-point-four million, so I’m willing to pay that for his release.”

“No.”

My gaze rose from the phone to meet Malcolm’s. His breathing had increased, revealing more stress than his face did. No sweat at his hairline, no tremble in his hands, no fidgeting. He was calm and restrained, other than the visceral reactions most people had a difficult time fighting. He did, however, raise his eyebrows at me, likely to say, ‘I thought you weren’t going to offer them money?’

“Then what will you accept, other than the Codex?” I checked Brie’s tablet again, as her map zeroed in closer and closer to a target. “Insisting you get it won’t accomplish anything, because it’s already on its way back to its rightful owners. And if you kill Emmett, the only thing you’ll get is a need to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. So, what’s it to be?”

“Rightful owners?” Someone else was speaking this time. Still a distorted voice, but it felt more like the one who was actually in command. “I doubt that very much.”

The Codex had been stolen from the British Museum over a decade ago, and one of their wealthy benefactors who wanted it back had contracted with us. Who the clowns thought it belonged to wasn’t a debate I was interested in.

Art and cultural items could be claimed by any number of interested parties. If the museum had obtained it illegally from some other source—conquest, Nazi loot, sold by a thief—the original owner could use the legal system to get it back. If that failed, they could come to us.

But we only worked with people who had legitimate claims. People who were recovering items, not stealing them.

“Five million.” How far would I go for Emmett? How much money could we get on short notice? I could only access so much at one time without having to tell my mother. And the moment she found out about this, all hell would break loose.

“We don’t want money, Ms. Reynolds. But we have a proposition for you.”

One more check of Brie’s tablet showed me that the tracing had paused. Software glitch or were the clowns cleverer than I’d expected?

“There’s another item we want. If you bring it to us, we’ll release your brother.”

Malcolm shrugged. Son of a bitch. That shrug may as well have been him saying, ‘I told you so.’

I closed my eyes, feeling for my heart, forcing it to slow.Zen state, Scar. “What is it?”

Dear God, don’t let it be a premium item like the Mona Lisa.

“An insignificant item. A ring which is kept in a safe by a man who is not its owner. Something in your wheelhouse. A recovery, yes?”

Brie shook her head and pointed at her tablet. The trace wasn’t going to work. I gave her a curt nod and she switched to some other app. “I’ll need all the details before I can confirm it’s even possible.”

“I’m sending the information now.”

Malcolm’s phone buzzed, and before he could grab it, I did. The text message had an attachment on it, and I clenched my teeth when I opened it.

Fuck.

I tilted it toward Brie, then tossed the phone to the center of the table.

The clown’s distorted voice chuckled. “Your twenty-four hours is now one week. Everything we have is in the attachment. I’m sure you’re more than capable of creating your own plan.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed as he examined the details on the phone.

I scrunched my toes inside my sneakers, the only movement I could make that wouldn’t reveal the torrent of rage and frustration flowing inside me. The only way I could get any of the anxiety out of my body. “I still need time to go over this. Give me a chance to read it and figure out if it’s doable.”

The problem was, I knew it wasn’t doable. I knew there wasn’t enough time. Because it was the Chalcis Ring. Exactly the same case Mum had brought to my attention at the debrief this morning. I’d already said no to it once, but I couldn’t this time.

All I needed was twenty-four hours to get ahead of the clowns. We needed a plan, and we needed it fast.

If I was going to bring my brother home, I was going to have to do the impossible. My team members were some of the best in the business, but I didn’t like last-minute jobs. Last minute led to risks, which led to people getting hurt, arrested, and killed.

“One week. The ring for your brother’s life.” The call ended abruptly.

Malcolm continued scrolling on the phone while I fought the desire to be sick.

---