Page 78 of Stealing Blinds

“Oh my God,” she gasps, burying her face in my neck. “Of course you’re the kind of person who knows that kind of cleaner.”

I’m sure we’ll chat more about this later, but right now, I have to handle this.

“Go,” York clips. He was expecting me, but he’s not the chatty type. A product of his profession, no doubt.

“At the address previously reported. Twentieth floor. Office 2001.”

“How many?” he asks, referring to bodies.

“Two.”

“Requirements?” That’s a request for the specific cleanup needs.

“As mentioned, there is a floor-cleaning crew roaming the building. You’ll need to blend in. We’re limited on time. I’d estimate a three-hour window before they reach this area. Doors are RFID and biometric secure. I can prop them open if needed. The whitewashed wood floors have significant staining. And vomit.”

“Plotting?” He wants to know how to handle the disappearance of these guys.

I bend to search their pockets, tapping Sylvie’s thigh so she doesn’t try to get down and end up in the blood. “Keep your feet up.”

She clings to me with a trepidation I don’t ever want her to experience again as I pat them each down, thankful the vomit hit areas other than their pockets. No identification on either of them. That’s unfortunate.

“None,” I tell York. “Do whatever is most efficient.”

“Artistic license is always appreciated.” He chuckles, like any deranged lunatic who relishes the craft of body cleanup would. “We were ready. My guys are in the building with equipment, arriving on the twentieth floor in two minutes. Do you have anything on you that will spread?”

Not worried about Sylvie because I’ll carry her, I glance down at myself and notice some blood on my shoes. Must’ve happened when I checked their pockets.

“Yep. My shoes.” I toe them off with a grumbled, “Fuck.”

“Remove them.” Annoyance escorts that demand. “Leave them for us or wipe them on the clothing we’ll be handling and take them with you. Do not wear them out. Anything they touch will need to be detailed.”

“Got it.”

“Proof of completion will be sent. Lobby cameras will loop for the next five minutes, so take the back stairwell now. My crew is on their way. Anonymity is preferred.”

Ahh. In other words, Get the hell out, thank you very much.

But I get it. It’s always best when people can’t point their finger, and York and his team are like ghosts. Summoned, but never seen.

“On it.” I end the call, wipe my shoes on the jeans of one of the dead guys without getting any more blood on me, and scurry out the door with Sylvie curled around me, my Italian cap-toe boots in one hand and my pistol in the other.

She doesn’t make a peep while we descend the nineteen flights of stairs, or dash through the lobby, or cross the street. She barely breathes.

When we reach the bike, I set her on the passenger seat, slip on my shoes, and tuck my gun away before I quickly take her face between my palms and kiss her lips. She emits a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl as a chill washes over her. I’m not sure what that means other than it being a sign of life. My chest is leaden when I put her helmet and leather jacket on her.

Still not a word.

But once she’s snug behind me, her arms fastened around my waist, and we’re headed out of the city, she mumbles into the helmet mic, something about how reckless that was to do near a Van Gogh.

I careen through traffic, eager to get us back to the jet as fast as possible. “What, baby?”

“Of all the damn places to shoot someone,” she rants. “Let’s say I can get past the fact that you wiped two people off the face of the earth and had professionals there to take care of it in minutes. If I don’t dwell on how often you must have a hand in something like that, I get it. Because I think they would’ve killed me. And while this probably makes me a horrible person yet merely human, I choose my life over theirs. But there is etiquette around art like that. That’s what I wanted to take. Because it’s priceless. And the fact that it was nearly splattered in blood …”

I do my best not to laugh, but my best falls short. “You’re pissed because I killed them too close to art?”

“A fucking Van Gogh,” she sneers. “Do you have no respect for what I do?”

While I was prepared for her wrath, fear, or sadness surrounding my methods, I did not anticipate an art-etiquette lecture, but shock sends people in weird directions, so as I speed up the on-ramp, I try to send her in a different one. “You weren’t there to steal the art.”