Page 21 of Revelation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #2)

KAT

J osh, Henn and I are sitting in a dive bar in Henderson, Nevada, just down the street from the fifth and final bank of this morning’s money-stealing tour.

As far as we know, every single money-transfer went off without a hitch, exactly according to plan—but all we can do now is sit and wait to hear from Jonas to find out whether or not the feds were able to access the money.

“Just say as little as possible,” Henn coached me this morning as we stood across the street from the first bank on our agenda.

“Be pleasant and polite but completely unmemorable ,” he added—but then he looked me up and down and rolled his eyes.

“Which is like telling LeBron James or an Oompah-Loompah not to be memorable.”

“Henn, come on ,” I whined, trembling. “I’m freaking out. Just tell me exactly what to do.”

“Don’t freak out, Kat,” Josh said, putting his muscled arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”

“Indubitably,” Henn agreed.

I rubbed my face. “Just tell me exactly what to do,” I said, my voice wobbling. “Because I’d rather not go to prison for robbing a bank today.”

“Well, you wouldn’t go to prison for ‘robbing a bank,’” Henn corrected. “You’d go to prison for multiple counts of bank fraud, grand theft larceny, identity theft, and conspiracy, probably.” He snorted with laughter, but neither Josh nor I joined him.

“ Dude ,” Josh said.

“Not at all funny,” I added, gritting my teeth.

“Sorry,” Henn said, stifling his grin. “Hacker humor. Gotta keep things light and bright or else you go a little cuckoo. But, okay, listen up. When you go in there, just think, ‘I’m filthy rich and this is my money and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it.

’ It’s all in the attitude. You gotta have swagger. ”

“Just like baggin’ a babe,” Josh added, winking.

“Exactly—except, for God’s sake, don’t ‘dick it up.’” Henn cast a snarky look at Josh. “That might work in a bar, dude, but we’re in my house now.”

Even through my anxiety, I couldn’t help but grin.

Henn grinned. “And never flirt. You’ll be too nervous and it’ll come off as weird.

Just open with a simple pleasantry to get your nerves out—maybe like, ‘how’s your morning going?

’—and then, boom , launch into instructing the teller about the transfer in a clear, calm voice.

Don’t explain why you want the transfer or act apologetic—they’re not doing you a favor here—it’s your money. ”

“Jesus,” I mumbled, putting my hands over my face. “You guys really think I can pull this off?”

“Of course,” Henn said. “The trick is to be Oksana Belenko—not pretend to be Oksana Belenko.”

“Wax on, wax off, Kat,” Josh added reverently.

I laughed. “I know, right? Henn’s totally Mr. Miyagi-ing me right now.”

Henn rolled his eyes and forged ahead. “You already look the part—thanks to Josh’s impeccable sense of style—now all you have to do is be the part.”

I looked down at my ridiculously priced designer outfit—Prada dress, Louboutin heels, and Gucci bag—all supplied by Josh the day before during a whirlwind shopping spree. “Oksana Belenko wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Prada,” he’d insisted.

“I have to admit, being dressed like a mill-i-on-aire definitely makes me feel more Oksana-Belenko-ish,” I said, staring at the bank across the street. I tried to smile breezily, but I couldn’t do it.

Josh assessed my ashen face for a long beat.

“Henn, give us a minute,” he said, and without waiting for Henn’s reply, he cupped my entire head in his palms like a bowling ball and kissed me full on the mouth.

When he pulled away from kissing me, still holding my head firmly, he leveled me with his sapphire-blue eyes.

“You’ve got this, Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he said quietly, gazing with intensity into my eyes—and then he did the thing that’s rapidly becoming my Achilles’ heel: he gently touched the slight indentation in my chin .

And, just like that, my stomach stopped turning over and my jaw set.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Freak-out officially over.”

Josh kissed my forehead. “There’s my girl. Okay, Henn,” he called over his shoulder. “Oksana’s ready to rob a bank now.”

“Yeehaw,” Henn replied. “Oksanta Claus is coming to town, bitches. Let’s do this.”

And now here we are, an hour and a half later, all transfers completed, drinking beers and Patron shots in a seedy bar, waiting to hear from Jonas.

Just like Henn promised, the whole thing went off without a hitch (or so it seems thus far).

Each and every bank believed, without a doubt, that I was the one and only mill-i-on-aire (many times over) Oksana Belenko—and therefore entitled to do whatever I pleased with my millions of dollars.

Of course, I crapped my Stella McCartney panties (another gift from Josh ) every single time I waltzed into yet another new bank and informed the teller of my desire to close my account—especially when a teller went to get his or her manager for “standard approvals.” But, each and every time, my panty-crapping turned out to be completely wasted energy because no matter the approvals or security clearances or identification required at any particular bank, thanks to Henn, I always checked out as Oksana Belenko.

Indubitably .

Josh throws his head back, laughing at something Henn just said.

I sip my beer, still trying to get the shakes out.

“‘Oksanta Claus is coming to town’?” Josh says, laughing. “Where do you come up with the shit you say, Henn?”

Henn shrugs. “I just get divine inspiration, what can I say?”

The waitress passes our table and Josh flags her. “Another round, please.” He holds up an empty shot glass and shoots her a panty-melting smile.

The waitress visibly swoons. “You got it, sugar.”

I bring my beer to my lips again, and my hand visibly shakes.

“You okay, Kat?” Josh asks.

“Yeah.” But the truth is, I feel like I’m gonna barf—and not from the Patron.

Today was insane. It’s one thing to want to do something outrageously scary to help your best friend, and it’s quite another to physically force yourself to actually do it while crapping your pretty undies the entire time.

As I found out today, thinking about doing something brave (or tremendously stupid) and doing it are two very different things.

“Do you need—” Josh begins, but his phone rings and we all jump.

“Here we go,” Henn says, rubbing his hands together.

Josh puts his phone to his ear, his eyes bugging out. “Jonas,” he says evenly, and then he listens. “Oh, thank God.” He addresses Henn and me. “We did it, guys. They got it all.”

Henn fist-pumps the air, but all I can do is lean back in my chair, my body melting with outrageous relief.

“We’re in a bar in Henderson,” Josh says.

He looks around and his eyes fall on a television behind the bar.

“Yeah, they’ve got one, but it’s not on.

” He listens for a moment and rolls his eyes.

“Really? We’ve been sitting here wondering this whole fucking time, shitting our pants, and you didn’t—” He listens again and smiles wickedly.

“ Oh . Well, then I forgive you.” He snickers.

“I’m sure you were. Okay, we’ll turn on the TV and check it out.

I’ll call you right back.” Josh flags the waitress.

“Hey, could you turn on the TV—put it on the news?”

“Sure, sweetie.” She walks over to the bartender, says something, and the TV comes on—and, literally, instantly, there’s no doubt our crafty little Oceans’ Eleven crew has hit a grand slam homerun.

“Just keep it here,” Josh calls to the bartender.

On the screen, a female reporter is talking into the camera while a banner declaring “Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las Vegas” scrolls beneath her. Behind the reporter, law enforcement officers in Kevlar vests are marching in and out of a cement building, carrying boxes.

“Hey, could you turn up the sound, man?” Josh calls to the bartender.

“... being told by federal authorities the terrorist plot was ‘sophisticated, imminent and massive,’” the reporter is saying.

I’m confused. They’re calling The Club terrorists ? Maybe I don’t fully understand the implications of that word. The Club was plotting terrorism ?

“... and that the terrorist organization has ties to the Russian government. ”

Henn chuckles. “Dude, it’s like I’m a fucking ventriloquist.”

“Straight from your puppeteering mouth into the reporter’s,” Josh replies, his eyes fixed on the screen.

I’m totally confused. What the hell are Josh and Henn talking about?

An older woman with dyed blonde hair appears on-screen being escorted into a dark sedan.

“... in this footage from earlier, we see one of the alleged terrorists being taken into custody,” the reporter says.

“Is that Oksana?” I ask.

Henn nods. “Yup.”

“She’s a terrorist ?” I ask dumbly.

The look that passes between Henn and Josh in reaction to my question makes me feel like I must be having a total blonde moment. What the heck am I missing here?

The reporter continues: “... the names of the two alleged terrorists killed during the raid have now been confirmed by authorities—”

“ Henn ,” Josh says insistently, yanking on Henn’s sleeve.

“Yeah, I know,” Henn says, batting Josh’s hand away like he’s swatting at a fly.

“... the two men killed in a shoot-out with federal authorities at the scene were Mak-sim Be-len-ko and Yu-ri Na-vol-ska,” the reporter says slowly, clearly doing her mighty best not to screw up the pronunciations of the names.

“Oh shit,” Josh says, beaming, and Henn high-fives him.

“Both,” Henn says.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”