We are so fucked!

Perspiration glued Sean’s shirt to his back as they set off down the block. El Bashtan chatted courteously with Gretch, but his steady frown proved he was guarded and unamused. Two Mrs. Bixbys, Jesus Christ.

Sean fell a step behind, fingering his phone in his windbreaker. How could he alert Jace to this disaster without further implicating himself—and now Gretch—as frauds? If El Bashtan had sent the email invitation to William Bixby, it’d gone to the FBI task force. Maybe the address they were heading toward was included.

A block and a half from the El, they turned on to a side street, which housed small shops and a bakery that wafted cinnamon-sugar and warm yeast scents. No cars or pedestrians were visible this early, and most of the display windows were still dark. On any other day, it would’ve been a street Sean deliberately cut down to reach a destination with a minimum of crowds. Today it meant no witnesses and no help. There was no way he’d walk Gretch any further into this danger.

Still in plain sight of the busier main street, Sean stopped and retrieved the cell phone. “I’m letting our other appointment know we’re running late,” he called, and the two halted patiently. He pressed Jace’s cell number and sucked in a breath.

It was answered on the first ring. “Can’t talk—in a meeting.” Jace hung up.

Because El Bashtan and Gretch stood several feet away, Sean conversed with no one, apologizing for the delay and promising to send the file right over. Gretch’s eyebrows knotted. Good. She was catching on. Art restorers had no files on their phones to send anywhere.

Sean pressed the Share My Location option, which sent Jace an instant map of his cell phone’s position, then texted: sos. Pocketing the phone, he joined the other two, and, as a final warning to Gretch, forced his lips into a wide, cheerful smile. Life wasn’t amusing. He rarely smiled. Just as he hoped, Gretch’s eyes flickered in alarm.

“All set,” he said to El Bashtan. “Although I’d prefer if I saw your artifacts alone.”

“Nonsense,” Gretch blurted in a high voice. The sly triumph from the train platform had vanished. “You’re not going anywhere by yourself…dear.”

“Please, please.” El Bashtan ushered them toward a shop on the other side of the bakery. “It’s just this way.”

As Sean stepped off the curb, Gretch slipped her hand in his. Not knowing what else to do, he squeezed it. Their kiss had been a spontaneous fluke. The erotic rhythm of the train oscillating their bodies back and forth had done such a number on his nerves and cock that when he’d spotted El Bashtan studying him, Sean had thrown caution to the wind. If he was going to die today, he was going down with his ultimate wish fulfilled: a simple kiss from Gretch.

Her supple lips and spearmint taste had been his undoing. Even in the midst of this disaster, all he craved was to do it again, somewhere safe. And for much, much longer. As it was, something had transformed between them, because holding her hand felt right, even though they were approaching a place that might very well support ISIS. No doubt the shop owner had a concealed carry permit. Sean’s martial arts training would’ve provided solace had Gretch not been around for this debacle.

The shop’s interior was dark. A white sign hung on the glass door with “closed” in blood red. The bright red of a fresh wound, not the dark, coagulated kind. Sean shook the thought from his head.

El Bashtan dug a small ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the three locks lining the steel. He reached in, flicked on the lights, and held the door for them. Sean swallowed thickly as he followed Gretch inside. The place smelled of mold, and dust swirled in the dim overhead light, leaving most of the store in an ominous shadow. The portion of the store that was visible looked like it had been decorated by a hoarder; little aisle space remained due to cluttered merchandise stacked everywhere.

“Please look around,” El Bashtan said. “My colleague will be here shortly.”

Why would he still want to present his wares? Surely he was suspicious. Sean needed a backup plan fast. First up: a layout of the store. Hopefully an exit at the other end would lead to an alley, or even better—a busy street. He pushed Gretch in front of him. They shuffled down the first aisle, avoiding the messy arrangement of antique tables, writing desks, sofas, and cupboards. Large manila tags with prices listed in bold black marker dangled off the furniture. Smaller white tags dotted accessories, lamps, grimy books with torn bindings, and dinnerware that littered the surfaces. At a glance, the antique shop looked more like a Goodwill store. The clutter strung Sean out more than the danger they faced. The floating dust twitched his sinuses. This was literally his vision of Hell. How could this owner have third-millennium BC relics?

The aisle abruptly ended, like a maze, and they cautiously made their way down an adjacent path to the back of the store. There was no exit. Mirrors in various stages of warped disrepair hung on the entire back wall. Gretch made eye contact in the closest and said through stiff lips, “Where exactly are we, and why?”

What to tell her? This was an FBI undercover investigation gone horribly wrong? One he’d begged to be on? Or that it began as a typical exploit in Jace’s constant pursuit to be the best? He’d been an SAA for three months but still needed to stand out like he needed his next breath. Hey, why not catch an ISIS accomplice without going through proper, red-tape agency procedures, like waiting for the team anthropologist to wrap up another case?

Conscious of the mirrors and El Bashtan by the entrance on his phone, Sean picked up a glass ashtray and studied it closely, so his head was lowered. “I met him yesterday and asked about an artifact.”

“Why is he calling you Bixby?”

Sean shrugged. “Because I rarely give anyone my real name.”

Gretch scoffed, but in a testament to what a freak she must think he was, she didn’t press the lie. Her lips tightened, and she drilled him with her annoyed-princess stare. “Are we in danger?”

He placed the ashtray back in its exact position and turned to her. “Yes.” He never thought he’d miss her haughty expression, but the flash of fear replacing it speared through him.

“Why?” she whispered.

“This man we’re supposed to meet, he may have ties to ISIS.”

Gretch’s breath hitched. “Call nine-one-one.”

“And say what? We’re in a junk store and haven’t met the owner, but he may be dangerous? Running a shop like this?” He gestured at the wares.

She glanced around the clutter, then at El Bashtan, who was nodding and still talking. Her fingers tangled together. “What are we going to do?”

Her voice sounded childlike, and he ached to hold her close again. Instead he turned slowly, like he was taking in this hoarder’s paradise.

There was a wooden door in the far back corner. No doubt the owner’s office. Surely there was a back exit through there, or a window in a bathroom they could climb out of. He glanced at his dark phone screen. Jace clearly hadn’t gotten the text; there was no cavalry coming. He had to protect Gretch. “Let’s just leave. He knows I had another appointment, and his colleague isn’t here. We’ll tell him I’ll come back another time.”

Gretch’s expression cleared and, after a few seconds, she nodded. “Okay. And if he gives us any guff, you do your karate chop thing.”

“Deal.” He hid his surprise. How did she know about his martial arts?

They slowly made their way back through the aisle-maze as El Bashtan stuck his phone in his pocket and smiled. “The best of news. My colleague is on his way.”

“I’m afraid we can’t wait,” Sean said, plastering on a regretful smile. “I’ll call you and set up another time.”

“No, no. He is just down the street.”

Sean’s gut clenched. They had to get out of here. “Thank you for your time, Mr. El Bashtan.” He brushed by the man, adding, “This is an interesting store.”

“Mr. Bixby. The items you search for are not on display. He will be right here.”

Sean reached for the doorknob, but movement in his peripheral vision froze him. El Bashtan had shifted into the aisle, blocking Gretch. She stilled behind the hefty man, her dark-chocolate eyes wide and pleading.

Do your karate chop thing. Inwardly Sean sighed and gathered himself at his center, where his warrior waited, coiled like a deadly serpent. “Mr. El Bashtan, she needs to get by.”

As he stepped toward El Bashtan, the door behind Sean opened. He pivoted back. A gray-haired man holding a four-pronged cane hobbled in, his onyx eyes merry with welcome. He looked past Sean, and a smile broadened his face. “Good morning. Isn’t this a surprise?”

“Mr. Adyton,” Gretch exclaimed.

Sean frowned between the shop owner and Gretch, who squeezed past to clasp Adyton’s hand and peck his cheek. “I didn’t get to say goodbye yesterday,” she said in her flirt-mode voice.

“Gretch?” Sean murmured.

“Mr. Adyton is one of our clients,” she said, beaming. “You’ll probably be his restorer.”

Sean nodded, but a sick taste entered his mouth. Jace’s undercover investigation had just detonated. Now both these men knew he wasn’t Professor Bixby from Wisconsin who collected relics. And they knew where he and Gretch worked, potentially putting all of Moore and Morrow at risk. This fiasco could not have a more doomed conclusion if it had been named Operation Titanic. Their only saving grace was that Adyton didn’t know his silly Bixby act was an FBI-led task force op.

Tires screeched, and Sean spun back. A black Suburban rocked to a stop at the curb.