Page 191 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

We were boxed in. Unless we stopped behaving like we were.

“Okay,” I said. “We surrender.”

Dimitris recoiled. “Absolutely not.”

Rafe’s eyes stayed on my face. “Explain.”

“No time.”

“Quinn.”

“I need them to bring us where Luke is.”

Dimitris gave a high-pitched laugh. “What a marvelous plan. Shall we also gift-wrap ourselves?”

“You already did that with the documentary,” I said. “Try silence as a growth exercise.”

His mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Rafe growled. “Trust her.”

Dimitris turned to him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m always fucking serious.”

“I can attest to that,” I said.

Rafe didn’t look away from me. “Quinn is brilliant. She has yet to lead me wrong.”

The words hit so cleanly I almost forgot people were coming to kill us.

Almost.

I swallowed. “Then hands up.”

Rafe didn’t like it. I could see how much he didn’t like it. His whole body had gone tense with the effort of allowing a plan that put me anywhere near harm.

But he raised his hands.

So did I.

Dimitris muttered something ancient and rude-sounding, then raised his too.

Dimitris opened the vault door and the thieves rounded the corner seconds later. Four of them, masked, armed, efficient. One had a knife. One had an electric baton like the one that had hurt Rafe. Two carried compact rifles that looked modern until the metal shimmered faintly around the barrels.

Olden Folk weapons.

One of them jerked his chin. “Move.”

We moved.

They took us through a wider passage into the main lower gallery, where the scope of the operation finally became clear.

Not an army. Worse, in some ways. A small crew that knew exactly where to stand, what to guard, and how little time they needed.

Gray explosive blocks had been placed at structural points near the secured room entrance. Wires ran back to a detonator unit on a folding table. More crates sat open nearby, already packed with smaller objects wrapped badly in foam. A painting leaned face-down against a chair.

Dimitris made a wounded sound.

“Focus,” I whispered.