Someone To Steal Read online

  “Where is it?”

  “In a safe deposit box inside a vault.”

  “I’m breaking in to a bank vault in a foreign country? Hello execution, if I get caught.”

  “So don’t get caught.”

  “I’ve already been caught once.”

  “Yeah, by me. I’ve been caught once, too.”

  “And we all see how well that worked out for you, Cain.”

  He kissed her lightly, but avoided her eyes.

  Once they were on the ground in the city, he pointed out landmarks, gave her the tour of the main thoroughfare. She was trembling with nerves. He took her hand and held it. It was colder there, and she wore gloves. She regretted the loss of feeling his palm against hers, sure and strong, but she felt like her fingers would freeze if she took off the gloves. Her whole body felt cold. They stopped outside the bank, an imposing stone edifice, and she hesitated. He kissed her forehead, glanced at his phone, and walked over to a bench to sit and wait.

  Riley composed herself and entered cheerfully. She muttered her few words of broken Russian and asked for a better exchange rate. Feigning confusion, she required the clerk to repeat herself five times before she asked for a manager. The polished older lady stepped forward and spoke to her in clear but accented English. Riley exchanged some money and peered at the receipt, questioning a decimal point. The manager put on her reading glasses to scrutinize the document, and Riley sneezed theatrically. Taken aback, the woman blinked, removing her spattered glasses. Riley was all apologies and produced a microfiber cloth for the woman to wipe her lenses. The manager nodded, rubbed the glasses with Riley’s cloth, and handed it back. Riley smiled with satisfaction, knowing the special microfiber had taken the woman’s fingerprints for later use. After a few pleasantries, she withdrew with thanks and rejoined Cain on the bench.

  Back at the hotel, he drew a map for her. She listened as he explained how she would enter, how the fingerprints they’d lifted would get her into the outer room and how she’d remove a vent and wriggle into the air conditioning duct and drop into the vault.

  “You won’t fit in the vent?” she said, finally understanding the need for her involvement.

  “It’s the shoulders,” he mused wryly. She stood straighter, glad of her lithe, sinuous form.

  “You’ll be in Belize before you know it,” she said, kissing his lips softly.

  “Be careful in there,” he said, adjusting her earpiece meticulously.

  “You’re wearing Big Ben.” She said, glimpsing the sketch of the clock tower above the zipper of his jacket.

  “I thought I needed all the masculine authority I can get tonight.” Riley lifted the scarf over her head, the purple one he deplored, and draped it over his shoulder.

  “For luck,” she said, and he nodded. They stared at each other, but the silence hung in the air.

  With resignation, she pulled her sock hat down and turned toward the bank’s door. Cain caught her by the arm and swung her back to face him, sweeping the cap off her hair so it fell loose over his hands. He kissed her, long and slow, his mouth teasing her lips apart.

  Riley whimpered as his tongue invaded her mouth and heat flooded her. Her pulse throbbed at her neck, her wrists, her breath coming hard and fast. She knotted her fingers in his jacket as if she could never bring herself to let go. As quickly as he’d seized her, he released her without a word. She felt stronger somehow, galvanized to save him, proud that she was the only one who could.

  Chapter 7

  Riley stood at the door, waiting for Cain to trip the lock remotely. When she heard the click, she’d have four seconds to get in the door and shut it. She measured the visible puff of her breaths, just like when she was running, and managed it neatly. Inside, she turned a hard right and headed down a corridor toward the vault, negotiating his hand-drawn map in her mind.

  At the outer door, she pressed the preserved thumbprint in the microfiber cloth against the sensor. The tiny indicator light flashed red, denying her entrance. Her heart rate picked up, and sweat came out on her palms inside her leather gloves. Taking a slow breath, she whispered, “I’m locked out. The print didn’t work.”

  “Swipe it again, nice and slow. Don’t press against the sensor,” his voice instructed calmly.

  The mere sound of his voice in her ear soothed her and she focused on a smooth sweep across the sensor. This time it flashed green and she heard the kick of the lock with relief. Riley pushed the door open, shutting it silently behind her. Looking around the small room, she wiped her shoes on the carpet carefully and stepped onto the reception desk, planting her feet and reaching for the tiny hook in her belt pouch. Swinging it upward with precision, it clinked against the vent’s grating. She gave a swift tug, jerking the grating out of the way.

  Judging the distance in the dim light of her headlamp, she jumped straight upward, reaching for the aperture in the ceiling. It wasn’t too high above her reach, but she missed.

  Cursing under her breath, she freed the hook and line and took another jump. Riley caught the edge of the vent by one hand and swung the other arm up to pull herself in. This was the tricky bit, she reminded herself, as she felt sweat come out all over her body with the exertion. The duct work was a tight fit even for her size, and she had to work her way up a three-foot vertical section before it curved and she could crawl. Arms shaking, she inched her grip upward, little by little, until she caught the curve of the vent and pulled herself all the way in.

  Riley shimmied forward as silently as she could, her elbows and shoulders bumping the thin metal duct as she peered out vent grates, searching for the second chamber. Not far past the first round chamber, she came to the second smaller one. The room was covered in small brass rectangles marked out by symbols and numerals: the safe deposit boxes. She wriggled the magnet and cable out of her belt and secured the magnet to the side of the ductwork gingerly. She would have preferred a carabiner or grappling hook, but Cain had insisted on the high-powered magnet. They couldn’t be sure there was anything but a smooth metal surface to attach her cord to, so a hook wasn’t viable. The magnet, he assured her, would bear two hundred pounds easily, so it wouldn’t give way. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was about to dangle from a twenty-foot ceiling by a refrigerator magnet.

  She flicked open the grate and dropped the slim cable through the hole.

  “Here I go,” she murmured into her headset.

  Riley dropped silently into the dark vault, her rubber-soled shoes striking the floor soundlessly. Unclipping herself from the cable, she scanned the endless rows of boxes for the Cyrillic symbol Cain had shown her. It was meant to be a sort of ‘d’, but she thought to herself, Find the anvil.

  After several minutes of sweaty, increasingly frantic searching, she found it. Slipping a fine lockpick from her glove, she started on the tiny jagged opening on the rectangular door. Struggling and twisting, losing her grip on the lockpick twice, she finally fitted it against the tumblers. She wriggled it and felt them move. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then pressed the torsion wrench against the lock’s opening to lever against the lockpick—just as a key would have worked.

  “I’m in,” she breathed, sliding the heavy narrow box forward and opening the top of it. She picked up the tiny flash drive with a small smile. Beneath it was a sticky note with a Russian scrawl on it.

  “There’s a note inside,” she said hastily, glancing at the alien characters.

  Тебе не спастись

  “What does it say?” his voice came quickly.

  “Looks like ‘T-e-bubble-e h-e c-table-a-c-m-”

  “Read me the letters,” he barked, exasperated.

  “T-e-bubble-e space h-e c-flat thing-a-c-m-u-c-little b.”

  She waited in silence, gripping the flash drive and hoping it meant ‘free ticket out of the mob’.

  “Fuck. Get out of there, Riley. Right now. Go up. Drop the box and go.”

  “Why? What
does it say?”

  “It says ‘you’ll never get away’. Now GO!”

  She’d never heard him sound that panicky before, ever. Riley tried to shove the box back in its space, but she was shaking and dropped it. Bending to pick it up, she fumbled, dropped it again, and as she lifted the safe deposit box, trying to align it with the hole as fast as she could, she felt hands on her head, her arms.

  “Shit,” she said, and the world bent down and went black.

  Oo00oO

  Cain Booth dropped his tablet on the street and ran hell for leather into the building he’d just unlocked. Lacking the proper facsimile fingerprint, he punched the sensor as hard as he could and yanked on the wires. The door clicked locked-unlocked-locked-unlocked as the sensor malfunctioned. He counted clicks, losing seconds until he could get the outer door open. Finding the grate hanging open where she’d entered the ductwork, he felt a sick pain in his chest, like he had only just missed her. He poked around in the reception desk until the found the loaded gun. Ukrainians weren’t much on keeping armed guards when the manager could do the job with a well-placed automatic weapon. He shot off the locks and burst through the first room of the vault. The door was standing wide open to the second.

  Charging in through the opening, he took in the scene. It was empty of all life. The black and brass rectangular lock box lay askew against the wall beneath its proper place, jagged as a tooth knocked out. One of Riley’s gloves lay on the ground, and fresh blood spattered the floor and two rows of boxes. Her cable still hung from the vent. He grabbed it in his fist, yanked it down with force, breaking the magnet’s seal and sending it toppling down into the vault. He didn’t care that the steel cable cut his palms when he pulled on it, didn’t care when it tumbled in a heap at his feet.

  He kicked the magnet against the boxes, rammed his fist into the wall with a howl. The pain cleared his head, made his rage colder. He was ready to burn down the world, to start at the top of the Ukrainian’s organization and cut throats until he had someone’s attention and got her back. Cain ground his teeth, looked up as he heard the sirens brought by his reckless annihilation of the bank’s security doors. He tore back the way he’d come, ducked out a side exit, and climbed the building next door to evade notice.

  As he picked his way across roofs and finally down to street level, he decided to return to the hotel. God knew the Ukrainian had his cell number. Whether the man would name a ransom or simply make him listen while they killed Riley remained to be seen. He’d hazard a guess it was the latter. Numb with rage, he moved through the byzantine streets, ignoring prostitutes and loud music and traffic. Back at his room, there was a package waiting for him. When he ripped open the envelope, her shirt, still wet but stiffening with blood, fell into his hands.

  Chapter 8

  His eyes were livid with waiting, with the dry unblinking stare of a man half-dead of grief already. He sat, elbows on his knees, gun in hand, watching his phone. When it lit green, his dark eyes narrowed. For an instant, he considered shooting it.

  Accepting the call instead, he barked, “Booth here,” into the receiver.

  “Ah, Mr. Booth. How are you this morning?” The Ukrainian’s cultured voice came smoothly. “I have an acquaintance of yours here with me.”

  “I guessed as much, Sergey. What do you want?”

  “I? I want for nothing, I assure you. Your little friend might want for water or medical attention. I regret to say that my employees gave her concussion in the fracas at the vault. She seems to have quit vomiting now. Quite a distasteful business,” he said cheerfully.

  “What do you want?” Cain repeated coldly.

  “Only your assistance with a project, as usual.”

  “This is not as usual. You have my—partner.”

  “Yes. Quite a pretty thing, but with a nasty mouth, unfortunately. So unladylike. We’re working on her manners, though. She’s not a fast learner.” His bright voice dripped with malice, and Cain made himself put the gun on a table so he didn’t break it in his icy rage.

  “What project?”

  “An artifact. You will receive message at usual email account. You have forty hours to complete the job and bring me the item.”

  “Then you’ll let her go? Unharmed?”

  “Of course,” the Ukrainian said.

  Cain let out a breath with some measure of relief. “I want proof of life. This can’t be like Caryn. I won’t work for you if you ‘accidentally’ kill Riley Stanhope.”

  “You’ll do as I say, or I’ll video it for you so you can watch her beg for death.”

  Cain fought down the impulse to gag and waited. After a rustling sound, he heard Riley’s voice.

  “Don’t do anything for these bastards. I mean it, Cain!” she barked into the phone, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Don’t agree to anything! They can fucking kill mem but do not help them. Cain, please—”

  He heard the strain in her rising voice and the harsh blow that stopped her words with a cry.

  “Ah, I had hoped you could persuade her to behave better. It only makes things more difficult for her,” the Ukrainian’s voice returned.

  “I’ll do it,” Cain said flatly and hung up the call. He cued up his email account and read the details.

  Within the hour he boarded his jet, headed for South Africa. There was an artifact from Pompeii held by a private collector there, and Cain was ready to shoot his way in to get it. He felt his lungs clenched as if in a massive fist, a slight breathlessness of disbelief that Riley had been taken. He set his jaw, determined not to give way to fear or blame. Self-pity would get her killed, but resolve could save her life, and he was resolute down to the marrow.

  Oo00oO

  “So you guys speak English, right?” Riley said, trying not to twist her hands in their zip ties, even though the plastic was cutting into her wrists.

  She knew how to break the zip tie bonds, but with three guards on her, it wouldn’t do much toward an escape. She was biding her time. They had to relax sometime, and then she’d strike. She had no intention of being tortured or killed. She didn’t much like the idea; plus she wasn’t sure Cain could live with himself if she died. Thoughts of never seeing him again made her feel soft, strangely weepy. She focused on how she was going to kick the ass of everyone in this bunker, starting with the guy who slapped her when she was on the phone. She didn’t take that kind of shit off anyone, whether he had a gun or not.

  “Yes. We speak English.”

  The one who spoke, she’d nicknamed TRT for tallest-Russian-thug. He had a world-weary tone, as if the mouthy American was wearing on his nerves, his feral smile showing a gold front tooth. It was a shame he was a bad guy, because, truthfully, he kind of looked like Liam Neeson. Riley hadn’t watched Taken eight times for the plot alone. She toyed with the idea of kicking everyone else’s ass but making TRT rub her feet and tell her she was pretty. Despite his tasty appearance, she decided she’d rather kick his ass.

  “When do we eat? And don’t tell me you’re serving borscht. I don’t like beets. Also, I’m gluten-free. You know about gluten, right? I mean, it really bloats me,” she went on. TRT rolled his eyes, which led her to believe he spoke enough English to find her really irritating.

  “This is not hotel. If the boss decides we should feed you, you’ll eat what you are given,” the middle sized thug told her. She thought of him as Mama Bear.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she replied with a cheerful grin. “Mind taking the zip ties off? It’s not like I’m this major threat to three big strong men with weapons and Mafia affiliations.”

  “Technically, we could untie you, but since you bit Maksim, I think it wiser to leave you where you are,” TBT advised.

  About that time, Shorty Bear (her name for the smallest guard), heard his phone beep and cued up a message.

  “Huh. She gets to eat. I have to go get take-out, I guess.”

  “Don’t look at me like I’m going to cook for her. I don’t want to hear complaints,” Mam
a Bear groused.

  “Here.” TBT flipped a few bills off a roll from his pocket and passed them to Shorty Bear. “Get hamburgers. Americans eat those every meal.”

  “No bun for me. Just plain with cheese, no pickle either—too much salt isn’t good for a girl. I want fries, too. And a Diet Coke. Make sure it’s diet. Don’t let them give you whatever and not check, because sometimes they’ll try to pass off regular Coke because they’re lazy, or if they’re in a hurry—“

  “Silence!” TBT barked. She affected a casual shrug, despite the fact that moving her arms like that chafed her raw wrists.

  Riley subsided into quiet for a while, arranging her features into an expression of total boredom while her mind worked, trying to plot an escape. She took stock of what she had in her favor. They wouldn’t know she was a cat burglar, so her reflexes, flexibility, and the element of surprise worked for her. Also, she had better guards than the first shift…the ones who’d been mean when she was vomiting from the concussion, including the one she bit for trying to feel her up. The boss, a cruel-looking man in head-to-toe Armani, had sent the more combative and sadistic crew home. The Three Little Thugs had orders not to lay a hand on her, unless in self-defense, and then they’d answer for it. She was a bargaining chip, a way to control Cain, and was more valuable alive for the moment.

  When Shorty Bear returned with a grease-soaked paper bag, she schooled herself not to retch. She had to keep up her strength so she’d eat what they gave her. Tall Liam Neeson slit her bonds and zip-tied her right arm to the chair back so she had a hand to eat with, but not her dominant hand. She tucked in to the burger and fries like she was relaxing at home with Tico, giving no indication that she was anxious.

  “Can I have my drink?” she asked. Shorty passed her a cup, and she took a drink, grimacing. “This isn’t diet,” she remarked, and then drank it with the air of a martyr. “Thanks for dinner.”