I apologize and lift a glass from his tray. I’m not about to drink it, but I need something to keep my hands from clenching into fists. Heat radiates under my tux, my pulse pounding against the stiff collar. I resist the urge to rip the bow tie from around my neck.Did James Bond ever have this much trouble with formal wear?
Forcing a tight breath through my lungs, I seamlessly melt into the crowd on the second-floor mezzanine. I need to look natural. Casual. Like a guy just enjoying the concert, not a guy who nearly got caught by some—what, exactly? Thief? Avid enthusiast of eighteenth-century literature?
Something doesn’t add up.
An art heist during a gala is brazen, but as far as I know there’s no artinsidethe Mayer Library. Just books, magazines, and a few of Winston Churchill’s writings. All the valuable pieces are displayedoutside, liningthe halls. And if someone wanted those, why trip the motion alarm? Why risk drawing attention to both of us?
I scan the crowd, instincts sharpening. A museum security guard leans against the wall nearby, looking... bored. Not like someone who just got an alert about a silent alarm going off. Another quick sweep of the room confirms it—no tension, no crackling radios, no urgent chatter. Nothing but casual disinterest.
My confusion sharpens into realization.
The alarm wasn’t triggered—it was a distraction.
I was played.
The truth hits like a sucker punch. Whoever that was, they weren’t after priceless art. They weren’t reaching for the painting to steal it. It was a distraction. A threat. They weren’t trying to shake the museum security. They were trying to shakeme. They knew the painting was protected by a silent alarm and they banked on me reacting exactly the way I did. Like an amateur. I took the bait and probably left them upstairs, free to do the one thing I needed to do—get inside that library.
My jaw tightens. I check my watch. I need to figure out how to salvage this mission—and fast. I wait until Bart Jennings hits the chorus, the crowd singing along loud enough to cover my voice, before speaking low into my comms. “We have a problem.”
It takes a second before Ruby responds, her voice tight in my ear. “You see him too.”
Him? The first thing that flashes through my mind is the figure in black. I didn’t have a chance to communicate with Ruby when it all went sideways, but if anyone could spot a deviation in our mission plan, it’s her. If she saw someone before I did, maybe it’s the guy who just blew apart my op.
“Who?” I ask, already sweeping the mezzanine for any familiar threat.
“Below. At your nine o’clock.”
My gaze moves around the room, trying to spot where Ruby’s watching me from. I’ve learned to stop being surprised at Ruby’s ability to see things and yet remain unseen. When I don’t find her, I shift my focusleft, searching the crowd like I’m expecting to see the figure in black from upstairs. I don’t. The face Idosee turns my blood ice cold.
Sammy Pawson.
What’s he doing here?
He’s leaning against a column, popping shrimp into his mouth like he’s tailgating, not crashing a black-tie gala.
“What are the odds,” Ruby says dryly in my ear, “that a man who enjoys firebombing businesses also enjoys two-stepping?”
Her irony jolts me into motion. I hit the stairs fast and weave through guests and servers, heading toward where I saw Pawson standing. He’s already gone. A discarded shrimp tail glistens in an empty champagne glass nearby—lazy evidence he was ever here.
I pivot in a full circle, searching the room for the man who once used a tire iron to rearrange the bones in another man’s face for parking in the wrong spot.
Instead of getting five to ninety-nine, Sammy “The Paws” Pawson walked out of the courthouse a free man. The victim decided not to testify, and the prosecutor couldn’t prove the coercion. Now Pawson’s back on the street, rumored to be doing contract work for Lorenzo Ramirez—which likely included killing Agent Danny Morales.
His presence at the gala immediately has me on edge. There’s only one reason a guy like Pawson shows up at a gala like this. And it means my night has just gone from bad to worse.
“How’d it go upstairs?”
Speaking of bad. “Not good.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone else was there.”
The music’s too loud for anyone nearby to overhear, but I keep moving in the direction of Ramirez’s table, hoping Pawson might be there too. Then I’ll find out why.
“Who?”
“No idea.”
