Page 36

New York City

October 22

M iles sat on the little bench in front of the closed bakery and tracked Clara’s movements on his phone. The night was chilly, and Harlem was active as New Yorkers headed to the bars and restaurants that lined the street. None of that distracted him from the pulsing dot on his screen.

Clara would be coming around the corner right about… now.

He looked up, and there she was, laughing and giving her companion a little shove. Miles couldn’t explain why he was here tonight. The man with her was her friend, Richie, another Art History TA at Columbia who lived with his husband and their daughter. This wasn’t a date. Additionally, Richie was a karate black belt who taught self-defense. Clara was safe with him.

Still, something compelled him to take his Ducati a hundred blocks to check on her. When it came to Clara, there was a demon inside him, a little, evil thing that punched and kicked at his gut until Miles did what it demanded. Once he saw her, the tiny devil calmed.

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind Lucien Kite had unmasked The Lynx, and the men in that armored SUV in front of her apartment were watching her. That was his reason for his watch-keeping. Had he known she had been tangling with Lucien Kite when she was at that warehouse in France, Miles would have handcuffed her to his wrist.

Clara pointed to the sky, and Richie followed her motion, as did Miles. The moon was full and orange; clouds swept past at nearly time-lapse speed. Clara was an art lover, an art connoisseur, an art thief. Every facet of her life was colored with beauty. Her world had a gilded frame.

Miles stood as Clara and her friend stopped at her stoop to say goodnight. He was annoyed with his irrational need to watch her, to know that she was safe.

Suddenly, an SUV pulled around the corner in front of him and made a screeching U-turn. It was the same Escalade that had been parked in front of Clara’s apartment. All four doors opened at once. Richie put up a good fight but was no match for what looked like trained mercenaries. Two of the men subdued him, knocking him out cold. The other two grabbed Clara and tossed her in the back seat while she screamed and clawed like a wild cat. She scratched one guy in the eye, and he reared back, covering the injury with one hand and backhanding her with the other. A feral rage filled Miles as he ran to her aid—and quite possibly to kill the man who had hit her. He was two steps into the street when the driver floored it as the final door slammed shut.

The entire event took half a minute. When the Escalade sped away, and he could see a neighbor calling nine-one-one to help Clara’s friend, Miles jumped on his Ducati and followed.