Page 5

Eight Hours Ago…

“W hy is nothing ever easy?” I wonder aloud.

Getting out of Alejandro Torres’ ballroom after it locked down wasn’t hard.

I made my way back to the main entrance, found the woman who’d originally let me in, and flirted my way out.

Okay, I also passed her three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, so maybe the cash had more to do with it than my sparkling baby-blues.

After that, things didn’t go quite as planned, though.

Stealing my key fob back from the valet was easy, and I’d almost reached the Lambo when a couple of armed guards noticed me slipping away.

They ordered me to stop, as expected. Instead, I threw them a curveball, jumped into the car and hit the gas.

Good luck catching me, suckers.

The last thing I wanted to do was lead these thugs to the emerald, so, I called Deck and told him to get the hell out of the city ASAP.

“What about you?” he’d asked.

“I’ll call Addie. We can figure another way out for me.”

“Are you sure?”

I squealed around a corner and checked the silver Patek Philippe on my wrist. Well-worth every pretty penny I’d spent on it. Besides, when you’re hobnobbing with billionaires, you gotta be able to fit in and look the part. “The flight leaves soon. Don’t wait for me. I’ve got guards to shake.”

“Knox—”

“Go! I’ll see you back in Denver.” After disconnecting the call, I’d dialed Addie and explained the situation.

“I’ll send someone for you,” she assured me. “Hang tight. I’m calling my brother.”

Addie and her brother Ryland have a bit of a tempestuous history.

The former SEAL possesses a strong moral compass—ironic since he comes from a family of thieves and liars.

I know it’s been hard for the siblings to see eye to eye at times, but it pisses me off when he gets judgy.

Addie has always been one of my best friends, and Angel, their mother, is the reason I’ve survived and thrived. I owe her everything.

I understand Ryland sees things in black and white, but life can be very gray sometimes.

Although, after his dealings with his father and The Agency, I think he understands that better.

He and Addie seem closer now. They talk a lot, and if she asks him for help, he’ll find a way to deliver—which is good for me.

Exactly three minutes later, Addie calls back and informs me Ryland’s friend, a former Navy fighter pilot named Hunter, is on the way to pick me up at El Dorado. Sweet. I hope the guy flies fast, because I’m ready to get the hell out of here.

After a quick calculation, including the three-hour time change, I conclude Hunter won’t arrive for another seven hours and sixteen minutes.

Give or take, depending on the wind. It’s best that I lead the idiots following me on a merry chase around the city for the time being.

I want them as far away from the airport, Deck and that emerald for as long as possible.

It’s fun for a while, but I’m growing tired—literally and of their fuckery—and decide to lose these jokers and hunker down somewhere until it’s time to meet up with Hunter.

Brighton can give anyone a run for their money when she’s behind the wheel, but I’m not too shabby of a driver myself.

Especially when I’m behind the wheel of an automobile that goes from zero to sixty in under three seconds.

Once I ditch my pursuers, I start looking for a safe place to hide out, but I’m in an Aventador Lamborghini.

It was made to stand out. Not much I can do about that, so I pull over to the curb, shut the car off and look out the window.

I’m parked between two SUVs which provide a modicum of cover.

Although a garage might provide better hiding, the last thing I want to do is trap myself in a place I can’t get out of fast.

I’m not exactly sure where I am, but it’s still quiet because of the early morning hour. Sliding my seat all the way back, I pull the end of my bowtie, leaving it to hang loose around my neck, then unbutton the first couple of buttons on my shirt.

Much better . Modesty aside, I can wear a suit like James Bond, but, after a while, just give me comfy pajama pants. In this case, I’ll wait to change until I’m safely on the jet and heading back to the good ol’ US of A.

Pulling my Glock from its holster, I lay it on the passenger seat and stretch my long legs out as much as possible, trying to ignore my growling stomach.

Breakfast would really hit the spot right about now.

Maybe Hunter will have something I can munch on.

Closing my eyes, I fold my hands and rest them on my stomach.

It’s been a whirlwind of a trip so far, and it’s not over yet.

If luck is on my side, I’ll just hang out here until it’s time to rendezvous with Hunter.

That’s the plan, anyway. But things rarely go the way we want, so I’m not surprised when, sometime later, I see the same car that followed me from Torres’ mansion slowly driving down the street.

It seems like I’ve barely rested, but I know hours have passed. I sink lower in my seat hoping they won’t look my way and wishing I were in something a little more nondescript. Maybe a Honda.

Keep going, idiots.

Brakes squeal and I know they spotted me. Cue my exit. I start the engine and jam on the gas.

The sun is starting to come up, which means my ride should be landing soon.

Good. I’ve had enough of this place. A moment after that thought crosses my mind, gunfire pops through the air and I hear the ping of bullets on the car’s flawless exterior.

Destroying this beauty? Oh, that hurts. Plus, it’s too early for this crap.

Ah, well. I do lead the life of a thief.

Steal the biggest emerald in all of Colombia from a baddie like Alejandro Torres and, yeah, I can expect to be chased.

And fuck, this puts a bit of a wrench in my plans. I can’t exactly drive to the airport now. The last thing I want to do is lead these idiots straight to Hunter. Who knows what kind of weapons they might have—machine guns, grenades, a fucking RPG?

It’s not a chance I’m willing to take. If Hunter isn’t ready, and we don’t get up into the air fast enough, it could lead to something really bad happening.

Nope. Time for Plan B. Or am I on Plan C now?

“What is Plan C, Beckett?” I casually ask myself as a bullet cracks the back windshield. I’m honestly not sure, but I need to figure it out fast. Spinning the wheel, I channel my inner Brighton and put my evasive driving skills to the test.

I’m not worried. I never worry. It’s a waste of time and energy. Maybe because I always find a way. My dad used to tell me I could fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses.

#Facts . Maybe it’s my easy charm or pretty face, but he’s right. I could talk my way out of The Louvre with the Mona Lisa tucked under my arm.

I’m just that good.

My mouth curves up in a half-smile, half-grimace as I careen around a corner. As much fun as this is, these idiots are screwing with my schedule. I could still be napping, but now I’m driving around the city like a maniac.

My pursuers have become more persistent, and I look in the rear view mirror and sigh.

By now, Deck and the emerald should be safely back in Denver, and I’m guessing Hunter will be landing shortly.

Weighing my options, I think my best bet is to lose these dillholes again, hunker down somewhere and call Hunter for a pickup.

They chase me through another section of town, and I manage to fly through a red light, zip around a truck and shoot down an alley. On the other side of the block, I stop and take a look around. It’s a touristy area full of small shops and restaurants.

Time to ditch this beauty and hole up until Hunter can get me.

After making sure I’m no longer being followed, I pull up to the curb and cut the engine. I wait for a few extra minutes. Confident the coast is clear, I slip out, tucking my pistol back in the holster beneath my jacket. Staying alert, I pop the front trunk and pull my duffel bag out.

It’s early and the scent of baking bread makes me groan.

My stomach wins and I head in the direction of pastries and carb heaven.

Jogging forward a block or so, I pass endless shops and finally spot the bakery.

Ducking around the nearest corner, I follow my nose, moving fast, counting doors.

Stopping at the fourth one down, I peer through the flimsy screen to see a middle-aged woman working at a flour-covered counter, rolling dough.

Without a second to spare, I open the door and step inside.

“I’m sorry,” I say in Spanish, and she looks up, startled. Giving her my most dazzling smile, I concoct a story about being a lost tourist who was nearly robbed. I tell her I managed to get away, but that a few men are looking for me. “So I ducked in here.”

Once she hears my story, her shoulders relax and she tells me it’s becoming more and more common. My Spanish is decent enough to get by and I discover she speaks English fairly well, so we switch over.

“It smells delicious,” I tell her, dropping my duffel bag. “Any chance I can hang out here until the coast is clear? And buy some breakfast? I’m starving.”

That seems to do the trick, and suddenly I’m embraced with good ol’ Colombian hospitality.

She ushers me into the front of the store and points out the baked goods in the display case.

Through the glass, I spot quite a few tasty-looking goodies—bread, pastries, and lots of South American sweet treats.

I choose a few things then pull my wallet out of my back pants pocket, peel a couple of hundreds off my stash and hand them to her.

I may be a thief, but I don’t like taking from people who work hard to make a living. That’s not my style.

For as much as I’ve accumulated, I’ll never forget where I came from—a working class family who struggled to make ends meet.

Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head.

“I insist. Muchas gracias .”

She points out a small table, serves up my breakfast and a cup of steaming coffee with gusto, and tells me to stay as long as I need. The moment she disappears into the back room, my gaze slants out the front window.

Fuck. A group of men are wandering up and down the sidewalk across the street. They must’ve found the Lambo and now they’re searching for me on foot. Angling away from the window, I make sure to stay out of sight.

The surrounding businesses are still closed, so I should be fine for now. Unless they start breaking down doors, of course. As much as I’m enjoying my breakfast, I probably should get a move on.

I savor the last bite of a delicious pastry then pull my phone out.

Ah, the life of a thief . Stranded in a bakery in South America, being hunted down by an arms dealer’s thugs, while waiting for a pickup from some former military guy. As much as I love the danger and excitement of what I do, I can’t help but wonder again how much longer it’ll continue.

The truth is, I have more money than I know what to do with, and my family has been taken care of financially. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before I move on, but I don’t think Addie will be happy.

Considerations for another day. Right now, it’s time to call my golden ticket outta here.

I open Addie’s text messages, find Hunter’s phone number and hit call. I hope the guy is going to be cooperative.

It barely rings before a brisk, feminine voice answers. “Pyro.”

Not expecting a woman or “Pyro,” I hesitate. Not much catches me off guard, and I have no idea why I assumed Hunter was a man, but just in case I dialed the wrong number, I say, “I’m calling for Hunter.”

“This is Hunter.”

Hmm . Unexpected and certainly a nice surprise. I assumed some former military flyboy would be escorting me home.

“Hey, it’s Knox.”

“Do you plan on showing up to the airport any time soon?” she asks in a tart voice.

“Change of plans,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“Unfortunately, I’m in a bit of a jam.” My attention moves back outside where Torres’ men continue to search. “Any chance you can pick me up?”

“I thought that’s what I was doing.” Her voice is dry as tinder.

“I can’t exactly get to the airport at the moment.”

She huffs out an annoyed breath and I find myself wondering what she looks like. If it’s anything like her sultry voice, I’m in trouble. Distractions on a job aren’t good.

“You can’t just grab a taxi?”

“Not at the moment, no. Sorry to put you out, Hunter.” Apologies can go a long way, and I infuse my tone with sincerity. “I know you’re doing me a huge favor, and I appreciate it. You have a lovely voice, by the way.”

I’m not sure where that last part came from, but it’s true.

“What?”

“Kind of smoky. Like my favorite top shelf whiskey.”

“I’m sorry, are you flirting with me?”

Her directness is refreshing. “Maybe?” I can’t help but laugh.

Another sigh. “Where are you?” she finally asks, and I grin from ear to ear. Even through the phone, my charm serves me well. Clearly, she isn’t thrilled about the change of plans, but I send her the address and she tells me she’s on her way.

Time to blow this pop stand. Er, bakery.