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Many countries pay handsomely to hide them on foreign soil in hopes of no one ever finding proof of their dirty deeds. The United Kingdom and Spain are two of those countries; interchanging classified information to avoid anarchy amongst their people.
There’s money involved in that. A lot of it.
Power too.
The drive to the port isn’t long, and when it comes into view, I hand Casper a small stack of papers. My driver passes the parking lot and drives straight through; he knows where to go, while the others stay alert. These are men my cousin isn’t too familiar with; the other Collado brothers being two of them.
Contract killers from Spain I’ve hired on a long-term basis, something they were pleased with since Mauro is my weapons supplier. We’re keeping it all in the family. And with them, once a contract is signed, nothing will break it.
“Read it and tell me what you see,” I say, my tone leaving no room for jokes at the moment. Right now, he’s not my cousin. I’m in charge.
Nothing will fuck up a job more than lack of focus.
“Okay.” His eyes scan the top sheet with the artifact’s picture and estimated worth in both legal avenues and the black market. The numbers are high. Ostentatiously, which could mean one of two things: others know what’s hidden inside, or it’s a set up by Interpol.
The second sheet holds the schematic, weight, number of people working the dock tonight, and the container ship’s number. Then, he flips to the last and his brows furrow. I know what he’s looking at—it’s a picture of the thief. My Aliana.
They show a thin person wearing all black with a demon’s mask covering her face. However, there are two things you can’t hide from me; the brown hair even if the length is off—and the small tattoo she got while in London of a black whip on her wrist.
It’s her idea of a corny joke. She holds the whip in our relationship.
Funny thing is, she does. That woman owns me.
The next picture is of a man I don’t recognize, and he’s not a part of their family either. He’s either someone they know in Nicaragua or was brought in to do a job. These images came from a small memory drive on Jorge’s keys Giannis went through and saved what was important, before demanding to know what they’d done to her. He’s grown on me, to say the least.
What came out of Jorge’s mouth next is why I lost one of my favorite hunting knives that day. I drove the blade so hard into his skull that the handle broke and we had to bring in a butcher to remove it.
“Two different people here. A couple?”
“Possibly.” No. My jaw clenches, leg shaking. He knows my tells. “Don’t give me that look, Casper. I need your help to confirm my suspicions.”
“Okay. You know the risks attached to your request.”
“I can’t let her get hurt.” Once those six words are out, I know they change everything. He’ll do for me what I did for him. “I’m asking as your best mate. If she’s involved…if she’s really here today, I need to get her the fuck out.”
“Done.” Papers down, he holds up both hands. “The right one means in and out without incident. The left is we tear the bloody place apart and walk out with everything, and this time it includes the artifact they are here to steal.”
“This one depends.”
“On the why?”
“On what it means to her.” If she wants me to break it into a million pieces, I’ll do so happily. If she wants to live dangerously by my side, I’ll marry her tomorrow. “You in?”
“I’d never let you go in alone, wanker.” The car stops behind a stack of old containers for shipping overseas—the area seems empty, devoid of security, but we know better. Casper spots a flashlight skimming along the ground; he rolls down his window and aims in their direction. “Ours, or not?”
A low whistle rends the air, and I snort. “Ours. It’s Archie.”
“He’s a good lad.”
“A little psychotic too.” All doors open and we step out. The smell of salt in the air is crisp, as is the wind coming off the water.
Archie stops before us, hands full of uniforms similar to what he’s wearing. “Good to see you, Mr. Jameson.” Casper shakes his hand while I take a port overall for myself. These are customary for all employees working the unloading zone. “It’s a busy night and all hands are on deck—bobbies and every other department they could swing this way. Bloody bastards are watching every entry point for movement, but they missed this section due to it not being used and the museum’s director wanting them to surround the piece until it’s inside the armored car waiting to transfer.”
“How many in total out there?” my cousin asks, slipping on his own uniform.
“About fifty, and twenty of them work for us. Those handling are all under payroll.” Archie looks at his watch and then back at me. “You two will walk toward the armored truck, slide your ID, and pretend to go to the bathroom to clean up afterward.”
“We have our change in the truck?” I’m smearing mechanic’s grease across my face, making sure to look dingy before handing over the tub to Casper. Our hands are filthy now and our faces have enough to dissuade others from looking our way, especially when we put on hats with the company’s logo.
