Authors: Shelly Laurenston
Every honey badger eye turned to Jocelyn and she knew why. Although the hybrid didn’t.
“Who’s Pierre-Phillipe Anwar from Paris?” Vic asked.
“Well, we’re screwed!” Jake announced, always more dramatic than the rest of them.
“Pierre-Phillipe? Are you sure?” Livy asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Still don’t know who that is,” Vic said.
“One of the best art appraisers in the world.”
Livy scratched her ear. “Jake’s right. We are so screwed.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Pierre-Phillipe Anwar works for the biggest and most powerful museums in the world,” Jocelyn explained. “He’s testified in federal and international cases that have put people away for decades, including a few of our relatives.”
“Poor Cousin Bronislaw,” Jake sighed, sadly shaking his head.
“But I thought Melly was the best.”
“She is. But so is Anwar. If anyone can sniff out her work, it’s him.”
“Then what do we do?” Vic asked.
“Can we bribe him?” Livy asked.
“We tried with Cousin Bronislaw. That was added to his federal charges.”
“Oh.”
“So what do you want to do, Livy?”
Never one for rash decisions, Livy was silent as she thought on that. After a bit, she said, “Let’s see how it plays out. We’re going through a third party anyway. If it blows up, we can clean up and be gone in less than thirty.”
“Should we tell Melly what’s going on?”
“She’s not even here,” Jocelyn replied to Jake’s question. “She went back to the City with Antonella. To meet up with her ‘boyfriend,’ ” she said with air quotes.
“Thousand bucks says she’s in jail by the end of the week,” Jake tossed out. Sadly no one took him up on it.
“Did you tell my mother all this?” Livy asked.
“And Uncle Bart.” Jocelyn shrugged. “They both said to come to you.”
Livy rolled her eyes. “I hope they don’t think this is some kind of training. I have no plans to join the family business because of this.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Jocelyn admitted. “Your father, your decisions. That’s how it works. Besides, you’ve become too much of a goody two-claws from hanging around those Jean-Louis Parkers. You’re very lucky we still allow you to call yourself a Kowalski.”
Livy snorted, returned to her ridiculous gaming. “As if I could be anything else.”
Dez stood behind the Kowalski contact handling the selling of the painting. She was fully aware this was illegal. Selling a painting she knew to be a forgery. Helping the Kowalskis lure a man to this country so they could kill another man in a foreign country . . .
She couldn’t even pretend this was
kind
of legal. It wasn’t. Not a little. Even if she wanted to bust the guy who was going to be evaluating the painting, she couldn’t do that, either.
And yet . . . Dez felt no guilt. She should. Before her life had changed to include a husband who could shift into a five-hundred-pound lion and a son who would one day be able to shift into a five-hundred-pound lion, she’d been a very clean cop. Something she’d been proud of.
But with life changes came moral changes sometimes. At least for her. Because protecting her family had become the most important thing. Sometimes the only thing. So if that meant helping a family of honey badgers track down and kill a man who’d been hunting shifters like her husband and son for sport . . . Dez was going to do it.
The art appraiser glanced up at Dez. He had small eyes behind those glasses he wore. Small and beady. And his French accent annoyed her. She didn’t know why. When Mace had taken her to Paris for their anniversary last year, she’d loved every minute of it. God, especially the food. She almost went up a pant size eating all that great food. But this guy . . .
Maybe it was just the rude arrogance behind that French accent and those beady eyes that was annoying her. Yeah. She could see that.
“Who is that?” Anwar asked, pointing a long, thin finger at Dez.
“She is my protection,” the contact replied.
“I see.”
“You don’t expect me to walk around New York with a Matisse and not have some protection, do you?”
“If it
is
a Matisse,” he sneered.
Dez watched the little man work. It took hours. Seriously. Hours.
Hours of staring, of pulling out small lights and things to test as much as he could. There was some muttering about more intensive tests like X-rays or carbon dating. But he’d need help with that, and no matter how much he was being paid by Chumakov, Anwar wasn’t about to risk his reputation with legitimate museums and reputable art dealers by taking a stolen Matisse in to have it flippin’ x-rayed.
As they hit hour six, Dez began to panic. How much longer would this take? And what if he didn’t think it was a real Matisse? Then what? Dez liked Livy. She wanted her safe. She wanted all shifters safe, even the ones she didn’t like . . . her sister-in-law coming to mind.
Finally, the man stood tall and sniffed in such a way that Dez was convinced they were screwed.
He pulled out a cell phone—a different one from that phone he’d been checking all day—speed-dialed someone, and said something in what sounded like Russian. Although Dez didn’t know. She spoke English and Brooklyn-English, which involved some Spanish, and mangled Italian and Yiddish. But that was it.
With a nod at the contact, he packed up his crap and walked out without a word.
“Well?” Dez asked the contact.
The pretty girl smiled and gave a thumbs-up.
With a relieved sigh, Dez unclipped her cell phone from the holster attached to her jeans and called Vic. “It fuckin’ worked,” she said in Brooklyn-English. “I can’t believe it, but it fuckin’ worked.”
Vic put down his phone and looked at the three badgers and panda he was playing Texas Hold ’Em with at the kitchen table. Livy, Jake, Jocelyn, and Shen. He looked and said nothing.
As one, the four shifters turned and looked out the sliding-glass doors where Melly yelled into her cell phone,
“You will never stop loving me! I will kill you first!”
She burst into tears. “Please don’t stop loving me,” she sobbed. “Please!
You motherfucker!
”
They faced forward again, shook their heads, and went back to playing their game.
C
HAPTER
36
B
ayla Ben-Zeev reviewed the finances for each of the department heads who reported to her.
Unlike her predecessor, Balya did not nitpick each and every dime spent. If a fellow grizzly liked to spend BPC money on honey or a nearly eight-foot polar needed to invest in an extra-strong office chair designed for his four hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, she wasn’t going to argue. There were always more important things for her people to be doing than worrying about the cost of chairs.
Besides, Bayla occasionally liked this kind of busywork. Adjusting numbers, deciding which department needed more, which could survive with less. This kind of work had always been a nice break from what her real work was, which at first had been protecting the Israeli people. But now, it was protecting her fellow bears.
Both jobs she was exceedingly proud of.
Bayla’s office door was thrown open and a large grizzly stormed in.
He threw his arms wide. “Bayla, my love!”
Bayla sighed, already apologizing to her ears for the next few minutes of onslaught.
She leaned back into her chair. “Vladik Barinov. I’m not surprised to see you in my office.”
“Really?” He dismissed Bayla’s assistant with a wave of his hand.
But the Bronx native black bear wasn’t so easily sent away. She looked at Bayla.
“It’s all right, Judith. You can go.”
The door closed behind the She-bear, and Vladik dropped his mighty bulk into the chair across from Bayla’s.
“You are looking good, my dearest one. This New York City life agrees with you.”
Bayla ignored the compliment. Instead, she went back to her paperwork and said, “I’ve been hearing things about your son.” She thought a moment. “Victor.”
“My wonderful boy! So very handsome! Just like his papa!”
“Unfortunately, Vladik, he’s become friendly with a rather unsavory element.”
“Honey badgers have right to be pissed, do they not?”
“Do they?”
“Rostislav Chumakov is not a friend, my dear Bayla.”
“He gives BPC lots of money.”
“Is that why you protect him?”
Bayla looked up from her work. “I protect Chumakov as much as I protect you or any other of our kind. I need proof before I condemn a bear.”
“You will have proof.”
“Will I?”
“Oh yes. But he must know, Bayla—that retaliation of any kind would be foolish on his part.” Vladik grinned. “You know me. I am friendly bear! Everyone loves Vladik! But if he tries to kill my son’s lovely little badger again—I will cut him up into little pieces and bake him in pie. My grandmother did that once to a full-human she did not like in a neighboring village.” His smile faded. “She fed him to his family—and laughed while they ate him.”
His grin returned. “For we are jovial bears, the Barinovs! And we do not like unnecessary strife. What is the point, yes?”
Bayla leaned back in her chair. “I’ll make sure everyone’s clear on this issue. As you know, I believe in protecting hybrid bears as much as their full-blood brethren. That’s important to me.”
“Hearing that brings me joy, beautiful Bayla.”
“But for this to go any further than just warnings, Vladik—I better have proof he’s been protecting Frankie Whitlan.”
“Do not worry, my dear—as I said, proof you will have. Most likely more proof than you could ever want.”
Livy woke up when someone touched her arm. “Jake?”
“Chumakov’s in town.”
She nodded and said to her cousin, “You know what to do.”
“We’re already on it.” Her cousin walked out. Livy looked up to see that Vic was awake, his gaze focused on her face.
“Already on what?” he asked.
“Keeping an eye on my mother.”
“Your mother? Why?”
She yawned, snuggled back into his chest. “It’s something she used to always tell me when I was growing up. Kowalskis never forget . . . but Yangs
never
forgive.”
“We promised my father we wouldn’t make a move on Chumakov until we had proof. And even then . . . we should still go through the BPC.”
“Don’t worry. Balt will keep her busy. How, I don’t want to know. But we should be fine. At least until Chumakov heads out again.”
“Good.” Vic rubbed her back. “Besides, I doubt he’ll be staying in the States for long. Not once he gets the news . . .”
After handing over three and a half million American dollars, four of his men packed the Matisse away and took it out a back door of the small Greek grocery store where they’d met the full-human contact who had the painting.
Rostislav Chumakov was so happy with his purchase—three and a half million for a Matisse, stolen or otherwise, was what Americans called a “steal”—he didn’t notice anything was wrong when he stepped out of the small store and onto the Manhattan street until his eldest boy stopped walking right in front of him.
Rostislav leaned over a bit and he forced himself to smile. “Bayla Ben-Zeev,” he said, walking around his son and over to the She-bear resting her big bear ass against his limo. “You look wonderful as always.” He kissed both her cheeks.
“It’s good to see you again, Rostislav. What brings you to the States?”
“A little business. I can’t stay long.”
“That’s fine. Probably for the best. I heard you’ve been making some enemies lately.” Ben-Zeev shook her head. “Badgers? You’re pissing off badgers now?”
“I didn’t know the BPC involved itself in a bear’s personal business.”
“We don’t . . . unless it threatens what we have. When you told me I could use my people for more important work because you had a handle on the Whitlan situation”—she shrugged—“I took you at your word. A bear’s word is very important to me, Rostislav.”
“And I do have a handle on it. My men will track him down any day now.”
She dramatically winced. “You may be too late on that.”
“I do not understand.”
“It’s my understanding they may have found him. Whitlan, that is. In fact, I think things are already on the move.” She pushed away from the limo, pressed her hand against Rostislav’s expensive suit. “If I were you, I’d let things play out . . . and just let it go.”
“What?”
“Let it go, Rostislav. For your own good and the good of your family. Let it
go
.” Bayla stepped away. “Safe trip back, old friend. Safe trip back.”
They watched the She-bear walk to the corner, get in her own limo, and drive away.
“I wouldn’t worry, Papa,” his eldest sneered after Bayla. “I’m sure everything at home is—”
Rostislav focused on his son. “If you say the word ‘fine,’ I will beat you to death in this street.” His boy said nothing else, which was good. “Now get me home,” he ordered. Even though Rostislav already knew he was too late.
C
HAPTER
37
B
oris Krupin was bored. But his boss was a powerful bear who paid his people well. So if Rostislav Chumakov wanted them to protect a full-human, that was what they would do.
Still, Boris was happy when he heard the first wolf howl. Normally, a wolf howl this close to Chumakov territory just pissed Boris off. But tonight it did nothing but excite him. He relished the thought of slapping around some wolves.
Boris looked at his fellow bears and they all nodded, shifted, and went after those infiltrating wolves, leaving behind three bears to keep an eye on the useless full-human.
Frankie Whitlan heard the howling ring out and pulled his .357 Magnum. He went to the window and stared down at the front of the house. He watched several of the guards shift to bear and run off into the night. They were chasing wolves? Really?
These fools were here to protect
him,
not chase after local wolves like the filthy animals they were. These idiots were supposed to be smarter than their non-shifter counterparts. And yet they seemed just as stupid and worthless.