Page 94 of The Wolves Come at Night

“Le salaud,” Angelie cursed. “He is hurting her to hurt me.”

“There’s a note.”

“Finally. What does the bastard want?”

Taylor was already wearing nitrile gloves; she swung the weapon across her back before handling the note and the girl’s finger.

“All it says is the storm on the sea. Below it, trade. What does that mean?”

Angelie started to laugh. “It’s a painting. Rembrandt. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. It was stolen in 1990 from the Gardner Museum in Boston, along with several others. He’s always had a thing for it.”

“And you know where this stolen painting is?”

Jackson sounded downright prim, which made Angelie laugh again. It felt good. She was relaxing too much, though. She couldn’t afford to drop her guard; that’s how people got killed on assignment.

“I do, actually.”

“Did you steal it yourself?”

“But of course not. I am not a thief. We happened across it on a job once, though. It’s impossible. He’s out of his mind.”

“Where is it?”

“That depends on where the current owner is. It moves.”

They’re protecting it?”

“Not exactly. It is on a plane. The owner of this plane is a very rich man, who loves to play with fire. A Saudi sheik. It is not as if we will be able to bargain with him. To get the painting, we will have to steal it.”

“Steal a painting from a plane. That doesn’t sound too difficult.”

“We can only hope that is true. We must hurry. I don’t want to linger here.”

The egress was easier knowing no one was there to stop them. They found Santiago in the truck, sweating bullets, his ankle three times normal size. “I’m off the mission,” he said, and Angelie couldn’t help but agree. He was going to need medical attention, quickly.

“Alan can be here—”

“Non. That is not necessary. We know what we need to do. He’s hurt Carson, but she is still alive.”

“You hope,” Jackson said.

“I hope. He wants that damn Rembrandt. He’ll trade it for the girl.”

She gave him the note, and Santiago eyed her dubiously. “How do you propose to make this happen?”

“We find Ahmad Abdullah. His plane will be close by. Where might he be?”

Santiago scratched his chin. His normally olive skin was pale; he was clearly in pain. “Well, we’re getting to the end of the continental polo season. Maybe we get lucky and he’s in England. I’ll get Alan on it.”

“You need this ankle worked on, my friend. We’ll need to leave you with James.”

“James? Who’s James?” Jackson asked.

“A doctor. He’ll meet us at the safe house in Chevreuse, and we will plan the op. When we find Ahmad’s plane, we will go there immediately. We will take the painting, and we will get Carson back. By this time tomorrow, this will all be wrapped.”

“You sound awfully sure.”

Angelie smiled and put the truck in gear. “Trust me.”