Sean adjusted the SUV’s passenger vent so the air conditioning flowed directly on him. Sweat covered his brow, and his heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears. Why the fuck had he agreed to this field-espionage crap? These microbursts of courage, this need to be a hero—it was going to get him killed. “I’m not going to wear a wire.”

Margo laughed. “You watch too much TV.” She glanced over at the next red light, her sky-blue eyes sparkling, then rummaged in the deep console between the seats. Out came an ordinary-looking pen. “Here. It’s why we asked you to wear your lab coat. Just click it like this, and the mic turns on. Digital, voice activated, and records up to six hours.”

He appraised the device. Aw, hell, lighten up. “Thanks, Q. Where’s the Aston Martin?” Sean forced his lips to curve along with her laugh. He could act like a big sissy, or he could march into Adyton’s shop and get this the hell over with. They were four blocks away. “Seriously. Any words of wisdom?”

“We’re looking for any information on the size and scope of his operations, locations of warehouses, merchandise within, and anyone he works alongside.”

“Besides El Bashtan.”

“Turns out El Bashtan is a middleman and a small fish. All indications are that Adyton is either the head of a substantial ring, or high up in the hierarchy. We’ve pulled his phone and email records and are investigating those leads. Jace is taking the financial angle, but anything you can gather in your Bixby role will be of great help.”

He nodded. At two blocks away, she pulled over. “Walk the rest of the way, so they don’t spot the car.” She gave him her cell number and Bixby’s wallet minus the wad of cash, then tucked in an earbud and asked his name to test the pen. “I’ll be in the bakery next door,” she said. “If you feel like you’re in over your head, your safe word is tangerine.”

Sean clenched his jaw to keep the word from flying out. It took very little to visualize the next family dinner, and Jace’s entertaining story of how Sean compromised an international smuggling investigation caterwauling tangerine. He yanked the door handle. “I’ll do my best.”

“The Bureau thanks you for your help. You’re very brave.”

Funny, that was the last word he’d have chosen. He shut the door, knocked on the roof twice, and headed down the street, hands deep in his pockets. Scents wafted past. Garlicky gyros from the Greek restaurant across the street, exhaust as a city bus roared by, and sour urine on the homeless man asleep in a doorway.

The next block held stale beer and vomit from a bar that had thrown open its doors, and a discordant mix of perfumes from a group of women waiting at the crosswalk.

Breathing shallowly, Sean turned onto the quiet street from yesterday, where honey and cardamom dominated from the bakery next door to Days of Olde. “I’m here,” he muttered, as he strode to the door.

He stepped into the dusty clutter, his OCD instantly rebelling. Two middle-aged women were perusing the far aisle, murmuring to each other as Adyton waited a respectful distance away. The ordinariness of the shoppers and shopkeeper eased some of the tension banding Sean’s torso. He lifted his hand in greeting.

“Ah, Mr. Bixby,” Adyton called. “My great-nephew Victor is in the office.” The old man pointed to the lone door by the mirrors, now standing open. “Please go in and introduce yourself. I’ll be right with you.”

Sean picked his way to the office and entered another hazard zone. Stacks of papers littered the desk and floor. A filing cabinet with drawers stuffed-to-spilling stood in the corner, next to an empty watercooler on a wood stand. A brick house of a bodybuilder lounged near the desk, thumbing his phone screen. He sported a buzzcut and a goatee. The comforting bakery aromas were stronger in here, masking most of the underlying dust and old-man stink. The ovens must be right on the other side of the wall.

“Victor?”

The man glanced up, startled. “Wow. Some stealth moves there.”

Try a lifetime of evading four brothers and a father in a crowded house. “Your great-uncle asked me to wait in here.”

“Yeah.” Victor motioned to a sturdy metal chair on the other side of the messy desk. “You deal in art?” His accent was pure American, his attire right out of a sporting goods store.

Sean claimed the chair and breathed through his mouth, because Victor had glazed himself in the woody sweetness of men’s body wash. “Mostly art restoration,” Sean answered. “You?”

Victor shrugged. “Dabble in a few things. Help the old man out if there’s heavy lifting.”

What questions to ask? “I’m assuming you have climate-controlled warehouses.”

“Sure. State of the art.”

Sean visualized Margo thumping her head with her palm. He needed intel fast before Adyton came in and grew suspicious. How to establish a connection? A question he’d asked himself since grade school. He shifted his weight. “I uh—I’m working on the gold-leaf Quran. Pretty sweet piece.”

“Yeah. Just got that in a few days ago.”

“Assyrian?” A wild guess, but given the brutal civil war, Syria was the highest probability. One side or the other was systematically stripping museums clean to pay for weapons.”

Victor nodded. His phone whistled a tweet, and his attention was riveted to the device.

Adyton called out a goodbye. Too close—like over by the aisle with the ashtray. “So where are your warehouses?” Sean blurted.

“Couple blocks over.”

“Are we going this afternoon?”

Victor tore his gaze from his phone, eyebrows knit at the flurry of dumb questions from a geek. Sean knew the expression well. “Dunno.”

Time was up. Adyton shuffled into the office and shook Sean’s hand. “Thank you for coming in today. I look forward to a mutually beneficial relationship.” The accented greeting was marred by the scrutiny of his gaze.

“I should be at work on the Quran,” Sean said lightly. “My deadline is suddenly tight.”

The old man bowed his head once in acknowledgement. “It could not be helped. We received a substantial offer on condition of the date.”

“Perhaps you could offer my name if they’d like to consult further. Three weeks to repair so much damage is a risk. Why pay so much money for a sloppy result?”

Adyton kept silent as he maneuvered to his desk. Victor’s attention strayed from his cell phone long enough to see his great-uncle situated, before he refocused on the screen.

“I will pass the word along,” Adyton said, leaning back in his chair with a wince of pain. “Tell me more about the service you offer matching buyers and sellers.”

Why haul me down here to ask a question better suited for Walter over the phone? Unless Adyton hadn’t believed Gretch. Alarm for her helped form the words. “Our consultation isn’t formal enough to list on a brochure—it’s merely word of mouth. We know the value of the piece and can trace the provenance so both buyer and seller trust they’ve received a fair price for an authentic artifact.” It sounded so legitimate, Sean was surprised Walter didn’t offer the service. “Is there an acquisition you’re interested in selling?” Get something useful for Margo.

Adyton studied him long enough that Sean’s pulse picked up a notch. Was he pressing too hard?

“I have a statuette of an ancient sun god,” Adyton said at last, and spaced his hands about twenty inches apart. “Solid gold. It dates back to the second millennium BC.” His eyes strayed to the doorway, like he expected company. Why? Sean strained for a sound out in the shop, but the only noise was another whistled tweet. “Victor,” the old man admonished his great-nephew quietly.

“Is the statuette here?” Sean glanced around the untidy office. He had to get more for Margo than this cat-and-mouse exchange. “I’d like to inspect it.”

“We can arrange that for later this afternoon.”

The certainty that the old man was playing him grew. “Mr. Adyton, I don’t have the time to stop my restorations at every whim.” He said the words sharply enough that Victor’s thumbs froze and his attention swung fully to the conversation. Sean spared him a glance. The guy could unleash immense power with those overdeveloped muscles, but he wouldn’t have a quick reaction time, which gave Sean the advantage if it came down to a fight. The thought emboldened him to readdress Adyton with the impatience of someone wasting his day. “Victor told me your warehouse is nearby. Take me to see the piece, or let me get back to work.”

Sweat streamed freely down his back. He may have forced Adyton’s hand, but he’d also dug himself in deeper. Everywhere his gaze landed, he spied a tangerine-colored object: a pair of bookends, a row of plastic binders, a plastic cup atop the watercooler. None could even remotely be mistaken for salmon, peach, or orange hues, either. Perfect examples of tangerine.

Adyton folded both hands on his desk and cocked his head. Sean met his gaze with the skill of a baby brother adept at hiding his panic from much more threatening, eagle-eyed stares. The airless office and heavy lab coat suffocated him, but his heart beat the dull thud of someone who’d drawn a line and was standing firm.

“Very well, Mr. Bixby.” Adyton opened the top desk drawer and produced a key rimmed in red plastic. He wrote some numbers down on a slip of paper and handed both to Victor. “I shall say goodbye to you here. If you’d be so kind as to suggest one or two buyers who’d be interested in the piece, we shall be on a path to a very profitable affiliation.”

Sean nodded and swallowed. Victor fidgeted and shot his great-uncle a look. This had been too easy. It had to be a trap.

“If, however,” Adyton continued, “this is not a legitimate service, I will not look kindly upon you or Miss Allen.”

And there it was. In the age of information gathering, the one who’d just been threatened was Gretch. They knew her real name, knew where she worked, and in lying to protect Sean, she’d dug their association with this smuggling ring deeper. It was Gretch they’d go after, and she possessed no self-defense skills to speak of. With immense effort, Sean managed to shake the old man’s hand without reacting to the warning.

Out in the fresh air, Sean sucked in a breath. Victor motioned to the right, and they quickly walked back to the busy street with the bar on the corner. Brakes screeched nearby. A horn blared, then a second one, the angry disharmony heightening Sean’s unease.

Victor slowed, assessing whatever scene unfolded, but Sean took advantage of the distraction and dug for his phone. At any moment, this undercover op would go south. It wasn’t pessimism—it was reality. And Gretch had no FBI protection, no safe word, and no idea of the danger she faced.

He called Margo. “Hello, Gretch,” he said loudly when she answered. He plugged his ear as furious shouts were exchanged on the street. “I’ve been detained.”

“Good work. I’m shadowing.”

Sean glanced at Victor, who seemed to be bored of the altercation and had finally noticed him on the phone. Sean motioned a “go ahead” wave and they began walking again. “Start researching buyers interested in ancient sun god statuettes.” He paused for effect. How could he convey his concern for Gretch? No way could she go home by herself tonight. “I know who might be interested—Margo. Is she in town?”

“I’m not following you, Sean.” Margo had the same sharp tone as during the taxi debacle outside of BAM. He doubled his efforts to send the cryptic message.

“Terrific. What hotel is she staying at?” The strain in his voice made it an octave higher.

“I know you’re trying to tell me something, but you need to be clearer.”

“I said what hotel?” Sean repeated, firmer. “I hope it’s in a safer neighborhood than last time.” Victor studied him under knit brows. Sean mouthed, “Gunshots.” It cleared the bodybuilder’s suspicion, and he motioned to the left. They turned another corner, off the busy street. Rows of identical warehouses lined both sides as far as the eye could see. Sean needed to get his head in the game. He wasn’t even paying attention to what street they’d turned down.

“Are you telling me Gretch should go to a hotel?” Margo asked in exasperation.

“Yes.” Relief poured through him. “Yes. I’ll speak to her as soon as I get back.”

Sean entered the cool, dry unit with renewed confidence. It took Victor a minute to find the light switch, then he snapped them all on and the vast space illuminated in grid formation. Every cranny was stuffed with crates and cardboard boxes.

Victor pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at the numbered aisles. He jerked his head. “This way.” As they walked down the center aisle, Sean studied the spaces, counted the rows, and gauged the heights so he could re-create it as accurately as possible for Margo.

“How often do you get shipments?” he asked.

“Twice a week, sometimes more.”

That was a hell of a lot of looting. “This is quite an operation.” There had to be four, five hundred separate containers stacked in here. Chills coated Sean’s skin. All blood artifacts. Literally a stolen culture. And the profit paid for worldwide chaos and murder.

Victor halted and bent to retrieve a box beneath a bay. He pushed through a tangle of straw and lifted out the statuette. “Here she is.”

“He,” Sean corrected automatically, then caught the stiffening of the other man’s shoulders and plastered on a grin. “Notice the absence of boobs.” As expected, Victor immediately relaxed and laughed. Sean may not ever be a testosterone-laden alpha like his brothers, but he knew their lingo, their commonalities. And female body parts were a large obsession. “Mind if I take a picture?” At the hesitation on the man’s face, Sean gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Time management, man. If I can see my source this afternoon, I’ll be able to show her the artifact instead of trying to describe it.”

“All right.” Victor propped it on the straw, but Sean’s synapses were finally firing creatively. “Hold it, so your hand gives a sense of scale.”

“I don’t want to be in the picture.”

“You won’t be. Straighten your arm out. A little further so the light shines off the gold. That’s it.” Sean snapped a picture of the statue in Victor’s palm with a clear shot of the warehouse in the background. “Perfect.” He held out his hand. “Do you mind?”

Victor passed it over, and Sean hefted the weight. Not that he had any proof without testing, but artifacts from this period were rarely made of solid gold. “Tell your great uncle this is gold leaf too. Probably covering bronze. He should not be pricing this as pure gold.”

As expected, respect dawned on the bodybuilder’s face. “You think your chick will still be interested?”

“Depends on the adjusted price. I’ll be in touch.” Sean pulled off a casual salute and strode away.

* * *

Five minutes before closing, Hannah called Gretch into the conference room. She switched the phones to night message mode, lips pressed tight. Conference room meant this was not Hannah chatting like a bestie, updating her on Devon or what was happening with Devon’s sister. This better not still be about the morning’s fiasco. Anna had pestered her all day for details on why everyone thought she’d been kidnapped. Instead of his usual worshipful gawk, Dane had looked at her funny. And once Sean had returned, he’d never left his cubicle. The guy’s bladder had to be the size of Lake Michigan.

Gretch shoved in her chair, glancing at the main door. All she wanted was get to the shelter. Eve had proven time and again that she would back away from a solid plan of action and return to the abuse. What if she was second-guessing the shelter right this minute? What if she’d already returned home?

Gretch marched stiffly into the conference room and greeted Walter, who was already seated, hands folded, expression grave. Butterflies pitched and dove in her stomach. She perched on the edge of a chair and smoothed her skirt.

“I’ll get right to it,” Hannah said, coming in and closing the door. “Margo called a few hours ago, and we agree with her recommendation.”

Gretch braced herself.

“We strongly suggest you check into a hotel.”

“And bill the company,” Walter added, which was thoughtful, given he was the tight-fisted partner.

Nevertheless, Gretch folded her arms and exhaled loudly. “I’m honestly not in any danger. Why won’t anyone believe that?”

“Will you let me read all of Brandon’s texts?” Hannah countered.

And let you glimpse my sick world? “I liked you better when you had no backbone.” Underneath the rudeness was a compliment, and her bestie reached over, tugged one of Gretch’s arms free, and squeezed her hand.

“Please do this for me. Or sleep at our new place. It’d be on the sofa; Devon’s coming back late tonight, but I’ll tell him—”

“I’d rather sleep on a park bench.” Gretch fought a smile. “Not because of Dev. After ten minutes with your great-aunt, I want to hide her oxygen tank.” There could be only one queen in this universe, and Aunt Milly was under the mistaken impression it was her. “Seriously, Hannah, I have a housemate whose size is intimidating to most.”

“This was a strongly worded recommendation from Margo. Whatever happened with Sean today worried her enough to suggest it.”

Gretch flushed. It was the damn eBay bid. Or the lies she’d spouted in the Days of Olde store. She’d tripped Sean up. God, what if he was in danger now because of her? Why hadn’t he spoken to her when he’d returned? “Did Margo suggest a hotel for Sean too?”

“No. Luckily, they don’t know his real name.”

So she had only herself to blame for this banishment. Fuck it. If it would get her on her way to the shelter, it wasn’t worth another second of debating. “Okay, fine.”

“That’s settled.” Walter jerked his head toward the door. “Why don’t you book a place, and I’ll take you over.” That was double sweet. Walter had evening mass every Wednesday at the Holy Name Cathedral, on North Wabash. In fact, if he didn’t hoof it, he’d be late.

“I appreciate it, but it’s my volunteer night at the shelter.” Finally.

Hannah shook her head. “Margo doesn’t recommend any extracurricular activities.”

“Christ in a cradle—”

“Gretch,” Walter interrupted, “I’m very uncomfortable with your language and this situation. For once, please do as we ask.”

Gretch swallowed the urge to throw a verbal tantrum equivalent to blowtorching the freaking room. No way would she be a no-show at the shelter. “I’ve worked too hard to develop a relationship with this woman,” she said tightly. “I’m not abandoning her for some vague danger. I’ll say yes to the hotel only if I get to spend the evening at the shelter.”

She eyed her two bosses. Hannah had her hands full with her great-aunt, who suffered from emphysema and was as stubborn as a toddler. Church was back on the table for Walter, and it was like holding a carrot out to a donkey.

“Go,” she said to them in her trainer’s bark. “I’ll be fine.”

Hannah shook her head, her fingers flying on her phone. Who else would she ask to help? “Oh no.” Gretch made a grab for the phone, but Hannah swerved out of reach. A few seconds later, a ding rang through the room. She glanced at the screen and held up the phone triumphantly. “Sean will meet you by the front door.”

“Forget it. I’ll spring for an Uber.”

Walter jangled the keys in his pocket. His mouth twisted in a weird way.

Gretch clenched her hands. Every minute she spent in Sean’s presence was fraught with danger. Tiptoeing into that minefield, blindfolded.

Very little about him should be attractive, and yet the more she uncovered bits of his personality he tried so hard to hide, the hotter he became. Oh, not LVR-app date hot; that was what was most disturbing. This kind of confusion never happened with the men who fed into her need to feel beautiful. It was the guy who saw her true skin tone under makeup instead of her skintight dress. That just wasn’t right.

The least she could do was text Dwayne to meet them at the shelter with an overnight bag, so Sean didn’t have to escort her to three places. Gretch sighed in frustration and defeat. This was all so unnecessary, but she did appreciate how her friends rallied when they thought she was in trouble. “Thank you both. I’d love to spend my evening with Sean.” The sincerity in her words surprised her.