Page 92 of Heist in Paradise

Preacher nodded. “I’m afraid we’re running out of time. You don’t know me, but I know you.” His eyes lifted over the crew. “All of you.”

“What do you want?” Callum asked, his voice deep and dangerous.

“To make you an offer,” Preacher said simply. My heart sank at the determined twinkle in his eye. I knew Preacher had an agenda—I’d known it the moment I told him that Jax and his crew were on the island. But Preacher kept his cards close to his chest, and an awful, nervous feeling niggled at my mind.

Had I made a mistake?

A cold chuckle made me stiffen.

I looked over at Madoc, who, apart from his clutched arm, showed no sign of pain. His posture was loose and relaxed, as if we were discussing the stock market. Not bartering with loaded guns.

“He wants the painting,” Madoc said, sounding amused, of all things. Of course he is. Madoc is crazy. He was wrong, though.

He had to be.

A jolt of pure shock went through me at Preacher’s crinkled smile. “There is that infamous brain I’ve heard so much about. Very astute, Madoc. Yes, I will take the painting. It was stolen from the Vatican a good decade or so ago. It should be returned to its rightful place.”

Madoc didn’t react to the use of his name. But a tremor of disbelief traveled down the line. Jax barked a bitter laugh. “Right, godfucker. You’ll just throw away a cool hundred million for the greater good.”

“You laugh,” Preacher observed with a patient smile, “but you risked that and more to save these girls.”

“We’re not saints,” Jax said.

“No, you’re not,” Preacher agreed. “One good deed does not absolve a lifetime of sins. That is where I can help you.”

“Save your breath,” Jax said, his grin savage and dangerous. “We’re not in the market for salvation, father. Hell looks pretty good from up here.”

Preacher’s smile dropped. He suddenly looked burdened, as if he were about to deliver bad news. The gun slipped in my sweaty palm.

“I’m afraid you might not have a choice,” Preacher said gravely. He gestured to the man on his immediate left. Guns lifted in warning, but the man didn’t raise his gun.

He pulled out a cellphone.

He tossed it at Jax, who caught it mid-air and glanced at the screen. “The fuck is this?”

“Your new contract,” Preacher said. The huge men on either side of him bristled. A flash of something like excitement crossed their faces. The sinking feeling in my stomach worsened. What the hell is going on?

Whatever Jax saw on the cellphone made his shoulders drop. He lowered the gun, and his jaw flexed. “Fifty million,” he said bitterly.

Preacher nodded. “Each.”

Callum reached over and plucked the phone out of Jax’s hand. I saw a glimpse of numbers and familiar profiles on the screen before Callum tossed the phone onto the sand between them.

I stepped forward, my voice strangled. “What’s going on?”

Jax turned to me. His face was devastating—hard, distant, cold. I searched his eyes, hoping to see something, a glimpse of the man who woke up beneath me.

But it was Preacher who spoke. “Your employer, Dr. Z, is not a forgiving man. The contracts went live an hour ago. They are waiting to meet you on the mainland.”

My brain churned. I still didn’t understand.

Jax’s teeth flashed. He didn’t look at me as he explained: “Our boss has put a hit on each of us. Fifty million a pop. Every crew in his syndicate will be hunting us down.”

“The Vipers,” Ryle whispered, shuddering.

Preacher’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “They’re already on their way, child. Which is why we must act quickly. We don’t have time to negotiate.”

Jax laughed again, the sound cruel and hoarse. “How convenient for you,” he spat.