His mind spun as he paged through the materials, looking for anything that stood out. No locations, only dates and names of historical figures who may at one time have come in contact with the marble goddesses. Donald Ramsey, a treasure hunter who had gone after the Furies in the early eighties and disappeared. Seymour Tarkin, an explorer from the 1920s who’d spent time in Jamaica searching for a sunken Spanish galleon. Henrietta Sanchez, a merchant who’d made reference to seeing a marble relief sometime in the late nineteenth century.
All somehow related. He continued to flip pages, taking a quick scan. It all looked unimportant to him, but they’d mean something to Lisa. She was the research guru, not him.
The second-to-last page made him pause. Handwritten notes were scrawled on half a notebook page.
Annalise de Los Cruz. 1852–1897.
His heart skipped a beat. The woman had seen all three pieces intact. A hand-copied paragraph from what must have been a personal letter filled the bottom of the sheet.
Footsteps in the hall outside dragged at his attention. He’d dawdled too long, knew better than to spend time studying the goods. With nimble fingers he folded the few papers, stuck them in his inside jacket pocket, reset the rest of the items in the safe and closed the door. He put his tools away, made sure he left the closet the way he’d found it and headed for the door.
He waited until the guards passed, cracked the door and checked to see that the floor was empty. Twenty seconds later he was on the third level, repeating his steps until he was safely in Landau’s private office. He closed the door at his back and took a careful sweep of the room.
He didn’t expect to find anything else related to the Furies, but if Landau was the one behind the attempts on their lives last night, he wanted to know.
Shifting papers on the desk, he ran his gloved fingers over the keyboard of Landau’s computer. The man’s security was impressive, but nothing a good tech couldn’t get past. It took roughly three minutes to bypass the passwords and access the system.
Ten minutes on the computer yielded nothing of importance, and he was just turning it off when voices echoed from the hall and the door handle turned.
He slipped into the adjoining bathroom but left the door slightly ajar so he could listen.
“I thought you said this was going to be an easy hit.”
“Quit complaining.”
Rafe didn’t have a clear view of the room, but there was no way he could miss the second voice. Terence Winters. The man’s deep Jamaican accent was one Rafe had heard several times and would never forget.
“Running all over Chicago isn’t my idea of a good time,” the first man said. His voice was younger, harder to identify, but Rafe was sure he’d heard it before, too. He leaned closer to the door and listened.
“Sullivan’s canny,” Winters said, “but he’s not the sharpest
tack in the box. Don’t worry. I know how he works. He can’t outrun us for long.”
Rafe’s jaw clenched. He had no use for Winters. Never had.
The other man harrumphed. Leather gave as if he’d dropped into a chair. “Guy’s a prick.”
“What’s your beef with him anyway?” Winters asked.
Silence. And then the other guy said, “He meddles in everyone else’s crap. It’s time someone taught him a lesson.” Rafe’s mind spun as he tried to place the voice. Then the man added, “Where is she? She said to meet her here?”
Cigarette smoke drifted to Rafe’s nose, and he fought the urge to cough. Winters had a pack-a-day habit. “She’ll be here.”
At least ten minutes passed, with the younger man grumbling about Rafe and the situation in general and Winters playing babysitter. Rafe stayed quiet and scanned his memory for the connection he knew was hidden somewhere inside. His familiarity with the first voice couldn’t be a coincidence.
The door clicked open and closed. “Gentlemen, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
Female. European. The accent was strong—Mediterranean. Italian? Greek? Rafe couldn’t quite tell, and he couldn’t see her through the crack in the door to make a visual identification.
“’Bout damn time,” Winters said. “I don’t like hanging up here when Sullivan’s downstairs.”
“Sullivan is the least of your concerns.” The woman’s voice hardened. “You were paid to do a job, one you bungled last night. I said the cargo was most important.”
Springs creaked. Obviously, the other man had stood. “Hey, you can’t blame that on us. That was an accident.”
“The
second
job you’ve messed up, gentlemen,” she said ignoring the comment. “You were not careful with Laura Hamilton either. Her death has raised too many questions.
I can’t keep covering for you. My employer is most disappointed.”
Silence stretched over the room. A clock ticked somewhere in the darkness.
“The situation is crucial,” she finally said, breaking the stillness. “Dr. Maxwell is most important, especially now that the cargo is lost. When she leaves here to night, follow her and pick her up.”
Rafe’s pulse jumped.
“Is that understood?” she asked louder.
“Yeah,” the younger man mumbled. “We got it.”
Recognition finally flared in Rafe’s mind.
Son of a bitch.
“What about Sullivan?” Winters asked.
“Sullivan is inconsequential,” the woman replied. “He’s served his purpose.”
“He knows too much,” Winters interjected.
“Then make sure he doesn’t become a liability.” The woman’s voice sharpened. “I trust you know what needs to be done. And this time when you check in, my employer expects to hear success. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Winters said.
The other man chuckled.
“That’s all gentlemen.”
Muffled voices echoed through the door, but Rafe couldn’t make out the words. The shuffling feet told him his surprise guests were on their way out.
“Mr. Winters,” the woman said sharply.
Rafe tried to peer through the crack in the door. Winters stood just inside the room. The other man had already left.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Your young friend seems a little on edge.”
“He’s fine.”
“Hmm.” Her tone indicated she didn’t agree. The sound of paper rustling came from the direction of the desk. “Did you happen to read the newspapers? Double homicide at the Marriott near the airport. I trust that wasn’t your error.”
He cleared his throat in obvious discomfort. “I…there was a mix-up.”
“I see.” Her voice was calm, but the undertones of anger were evident in her words. “You’re not being paid for mix-ups.”
“It won’t happen again. I told him…” He coughed. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m not so sure, Mr. Winters. You’re responsible for his actions. You brought him into this.”
“I—”
“You know what you have to do, Mr. Winters. He has become a liability. Either take care of the situation, or I will. And if it comes to that, you’ll suffer the consequences.”
Winters dropped his shoulders and lowered his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And stay focused on Dr. Maxwell,” she added in a chilling tone. “She’s the key.”
Lisa glanced at the clock high on the wall. He’d been gone too long. Why the hell had she ever let him talk her into this?
Laughter echoed through the room, but she couldn’t focus on the conversation around her. Her palms were sweating. There was a reason she’d never become a criminal. She had guilt written all over her. How did he do this all the time?
“You seem distracted, Dr. Maxwell. Are we boring you?”
She turned at the sound of Alan Landau’s voice, blinked twice and looked up. When she registered his amused expression, she forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I was studying the tapestry on your wall. Beautiful.”
Landau chuckled, leaned in close. “When we’re done here, I’ll give you a private tour of the house. There are many beautiful things in more intimate surroundings.”
His spicy aftershave made her stomach roil. The obvious gleam in his eye told her she needed Sullivan to hurry his ass up and make his way back down here before she had to kick this guy in the balls and set him straight. She wasn’t interested. Not by a long shot.
“Sir?” A man stepped up behind Landau. “We’re just about ready in the ballroom.”
Landau nodded and looked at the group. “It seems the moment has arrived. If you’ll all follow me, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what awaits us.”
Lisa remained at the back of the crowd, lifted her champagne and took a long drink. Okay, now she was really starting to worry. Where was he?
Just as the group was heading through the large archway at the end of the room, she caught a glimpse of Rafe slipping from a doorway down the narrow hall. Her heart stuttered in her chest. But her relief quickly dissipated as he approached and she took in his tense face.
He grasped her arm and pulled her away from the crowd. “We have to leave. Now.”
“What happened?”
He didn’t get the chance to answer. Footsteps echoed above. Her eyes widened when she looked up and saw a dark-faced man peering down from the top of the stairs. Recognition flared, memories from the bar they’d run through last night.
Oh, shit.
“Now. Go.” He clasped her hand and yanked her down a long hall.
Voices reverberated behind them. Rafe increased his pace. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the tile floor at her feet. Just as her heart jumped into her throat, he jerked her into a room, closed and locked the door behind them.
He darted to the windows and flipped the lock. Darkness made it hard to see, but a sliver of moonlight near the window cast eerie light over his face as he worked the pane free. It seemed he’d pulled her into a library of some sort. “Who was that?”
He didn’t answer, instead placed his finger over his lips. Voices resounded from the other side of the door. Footsteps clicked along the floor. Rafe stepped up to her, pressed a hand against her shoulder and pushed her into the shadows beside a large potted fern to the left of the door.
He was a foot from her, back to the wall, silent and waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure, but from the way her heart was pounding, she knew it couldn’t be good.
The door handle jiggled, and her breath caught.
Then the door pushed open, and he moved like a streak of lightning. She heard the whap of fist hitting flesh, a muttered grunt and metal clanging against the floor, sliding across the room.
It was over in seconds, but felt like a lifetime.
She jolted when Rafe grabbed her hand. “Come on,” he whispered, pulling her hard.
With her heart still thundering, she stepped over the groaning man at her feet, careful to keep out of his reach. She didn’t argue when Rafe tugged her to the open window and pushed her through, didn’t think to swear at him when her skirt caught on a sharp point at the edge of the sill and he wrenched the dress free, tearing the fabric as she fell into the bushes below.
And she was still too stunned to feel the rocks scraping her palms and stabbing into her knees as anything more than an irritation.
The dress pooled around her thighs, dirty and torn. He was out the window on her heels, pulling her to her feet just as conscious thought returned and she was about to ask him what the hell was going on.
She didn’t have a chance.
Light flooded the room behind them. Voices—several now—grew louder. He grabbed her hand and hauled her with him. “Run!”
Her protest disappeared as her adrenaline surged. The air was cold on her bare arms and back. She tried to keep her feet in the stupid heels she’d worn as they darted across the yard and into the cover of the trees at the edge of the estate.
Dogs barked somewhere to their left. She heard shouts and the rumble of an engine.
A muffled popping sound echoed behind them, but it was drowned out by the blood pumping in her ears. Rafe jerked her sideways. She tripped on a root sticking out of the ground and her hand slipped free of his. She hit the dirt facedown.
“Lisa!” He was on his knees at her side in a flash, pulling her to him. “Where are you hit?”
“What?”
“
Mierda
, you’re bleeding.” His hands raced over her body, hovered on her bloody leg. Above their heads, a sharp thwack resounded, followed by wood cracking and splintering.
Her eyes grew wide with realization as he shielded her with his arms. “They’re shooting at us!”
“Yeah, I got that. Pissed off the wrong person, I think.”
She saw the fear in his eyes as he searched her body for wounds. Though he sounded calm and collected, those damn eyes gave him away, even in the dim moonlight. Alarm bells shrilled in her head.
Dried leaves crackled. Branches rustled behind them. She struggled against his hold and tried to stand. “I’m not hit. I’m not. I…I tripped. It’s just a scratch.”
Relief swept over his features as he pulled her to her feet. “Thank God. Can you run?”
“Yes.”
He peered over her shoulder through the dense forest to look back at the lights of the house. The voices were now coming from two different directions. Their pursuers had slowed down and split up, obviously unsure in which direction they’d gone. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Stay close. And quiet.”
He had her on her feet in a swift second. She kicked off her shoes, grabbed them by the straps. They stayed in the shadows and darted into the cover of the woods. She could still hear muffled voices somewhere off to the left, but for the moment it seemed they’d lost their pursuers.
She was sweating by the time they reached the road at least a mile from Landau’s estate. Cars whizzed by on the busy street. No sound echoed from the woods at their back, but that didn’t mean their thugs were far behind.
Leaning forward, she braced her hands on her thighs to
draw air into her blazing lungs. One good breath. That’s all she needed. Just one.
“Here.” He slipped his jacket over her shoulders and took her hand again. “There’s a bus.”
Her feet were killing her. She’d broken the heels of both silver strappy sandals somewhere back in the trees, but slipped them on anyway. When the bus stopped and the door whooshed open, she followed Sullivan through the stench of exhaust and up the steps, then settled into a seat on a long breath. Ignoring the questioning looks from the few passengers seated around her, she let her head hit the window, closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart.