Page 184 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Max pulled toward the van, but I caught Quinn’s eye.

“The house first,” I said.

We crossed the drive at a run.

The front doors were still closed. The blast had come from the east side, but whoever owned that van hadn’t fled. They were inside and working.

I reached the doors, found them locked, and broke the mechanism with one hard twist. Quinn winced at the sound but didn’t flinch away.

The entry hall had gone half-dark. Emergency lights glowed red along the baseboards. Somewhere deeper in the house, an alarm tried to start and died after two weak notes.

“They cut it,” Quinn whispered.

The stench of smoke, dust, heated metal, and the bitter chemical trace Max probably had warned us about permeated the air.

Dimitris’s staff were nowhere in sight.

Neither was Dimitris.

We moved through the hall toward the east gallery. Max kept silent now, which was worse than his barking. Every line of him had gone sharp with work. Quinn held the leash loosely, giving him room to read the space without letting him range too far.

At the first archway, I held up a hand.

Voices.

Three men. Maybe four.

“Second crate’s ready,” one said.

“Skip the bronze masks. He wants the sealed pieces and anything marked pre-War.”

“That wasn’t on the map.”

“Then use your fucking eyes.”

Quinn looked at me. The map. Of course.

Dimitris had shown his home to a documentary crew. His galleries. His security. His private rooms. His vanity had practically given thieves a floor plan and lighting cues.

I should have enjoyed the irony. Dimitris was an arrogant asshole, but that didn’t make what was happening right. My only wish was that I could get Max and Quinn somewhere safe before having to intervene.

I motioned for Quinn and Max to stay put.

I moved.

The east gallery had been gutted by the small blast. One window was gone, the frame blackened around the edges. A portable jammer sat on a pedestal where a carved figure had once stood. Two thieves were packing objects into foam-lined cases with grim speed. A third stood near the inner door wearing a utility jacket, one hand near a compact weapon at his belt. Not a gun, something likely worse. Olden Folk work attracted specialized tools.

The man by the door saw me.

His hand moved.

I crossed the room before he cleared the weapon.

He was fast. I was faster.

I caught his wrist, drove him back into the wall, and heard bone give before the weapon clattered to the floor. The other two turned. One reached for a baton that snapped awake with blue-white current along its length.

“Rafe,” Quinn said from behind me.