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“Then stop being stupid. Get the one you came for and get out now. You’re lucky you haven’t been caught already, what with the—”
An alarm blinked on her palm.
“You’re too late. The militia has caught on to the loop. Leave now.”
“We don’t have—”
“Get out now!” Lila o
pened her clutch and slipped in a second earpiece, tuned to the LeBeau militia’s audio feed.
“Baxter to Wendy, over?”
Lila held her breath.
“Wendy? Who tranqed that one?” Toxic snickered in her other ear. The young woman pumped the militia’s audio through their earpieces, audio Lila had captured before the auction.
“I think I did,” Fry grunted, not turning away from his work. Tristan broke away from Phillip’s cell and joined him. He pointed his blowtorch toward the last steel bar holding the slave inside.
“Baxter to Wendy?” the man asked again impatiently. After a slight pause, he tried again. “Baxter to Thomas?”
“I believe our fearless leader got Thomas.”
“Baxter to Lewis?” the man pleaded, naming another downed blackcoat. Frustration replaced panic when no one answered. “Doesn’t anyone have their damn radios on down there?”
“Ah, Hood tranqed Lewis. That guy really needed a bath.”
“So everyone got a point?” Toxic asked.
“It’s generally not good to get a point. It means someone found you when they shouldn’t have. It means we’re out of time.”
“Natasha to Baxter, what seems to be the problem?” Another voice had broken in on the militia’s channel.
“We’re being robbed, that’s the problem. Go check on the art.”
Lila flicked to the relevant security footage, watching a capable-looking blackcoat in a hallway near the basement. Upon her whistle, a half-dozen blackcoats trotted to her position and fell in line. “Switch to the emergency frequency,” she ordered Baxter. “Someone might be listening in.”
“I’m on it!” Toxic squeaked, all humor gone from her voice.
“Abort now,” Lila hissed at Tristan as the militia’s audio fell silent. “You have one minute before they realize you’re not here for the art. Maybe less if they get the basement cameras back up.”
“Not yet. We just need more time.”
“There is no more time! Get out, and get out now!”
Tristan turned off his blowtorch.
The small-framed teen inside the holding cell stepped forward, his cheap trousers and gray t-shirt too big and too new.
“Please,” Oskar wailed, tears running down his cheek. Once again, freedom had slipped through his fingers. He shook the last steel bar madly as though he might be able to break it. “Don’t leave me, please. I’ll do anything!”
Tristan hesitated before the red-faced, crying boy.
“We’ll fetch him later,” Fry promised, shoving his boss toward the hole in the floor, a hole Dice had cut while the others had worked on the bars. “Hood, if you’re still there, we need you. Tell the boss what the militia is doing.”
Lila looked up to check.
A well-manicured hand snatched her palm.
