This was the best fucking night of his life! Halting at the final traffic light, Jace glanced in his rearview mirror. The headlights of the Moore and Morrow van were right behind him, the journey to FBI headquarters on West Roosevelt blessedly uneventful.

In minutes he’d present The Concert to the hastily summoned heavy hitters: Margo’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Felix Garcia, and his boss, Special Agent in Charge of the entire Chicago field office, Jonathan Webb. Sure, the painting wasn’t a blood artifact, nor did it have any bearing on all the different terrorist factions profiting off conflict antiquities that they were investigating. This was more like Tim Jennings intercepting those two passes last fall to lead the Bears to a 7–0 victory. An unexpected, miracle-out-of-nowhere bonus.

Jace exhaled impatiently as the light finally turned green. He led the van the remaining half-block to their destination, the intense pride swelling in his chest almost painful. He fucking deserved this.

Given the late evening hour, he was able to find two parking spots close to the entrance. He cut the engine, jumped out, and waved Hannah Moore aside so he could assist Devon Ashby with the crated painting. “They’re expecting me,” he said to the security guard, flashing his credentials. The man nodded, and the trio rode up to the third floor. In the conference room, seven seats were occupied, and wide-eyed expectation shone on every face. As Hannah carefully uncrated the masterpiece, Jace stood next to her at the head of the table and filled the team in on the find. He nodded to Margo, who’d pulled intel on the Donatello family.

“Sal Donatello is head of the Genoa Family, mostly gambling, prostitution, and money laundering. Sixty-two. Married to wife, Sylvia, for forty-one years. Son, Johnny, is twenty, and the two much older, married daughters live in San Marino, California and Westport, Connecticut. Neither husband is associated with the family.”

Hannah removed the top of the crate, and Margo ceased talking. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and craned their necks. Almost immediately a collective exhale went through the room.

“Outstanding.” SAC Webb smiled up at Jace. “Excellent work, Jason.”

“Actually,” Hannah said, “his bro—”

“This was underneath a painting given to Harrison Wickham,” Jace said quickly. “Even though he requested that other art be donated to charity, we should probably notify him of the find.”

Webb glanced over at Devon, lounging by the door. “Isn’t he your father?”

Devon nodded, expressionless. “I’m sure he’ll want to see this returned to the Isabella Gardner,” he said. “The positive publicity alone will make up for the loss of ownership.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Harrison Wickham I know,” someone muttered, and Devon searched the table for the speaker.

“You’ll find he’s a different man,” he said slowly to the agents. “But if he does take issue, let me know and I’ll step in.”

Hannah’s tender smile at her boyfriend was so filled with meaning that Jace shifted uncomfortably. He ran from intimacy. Smiles like hers scared him more than an ISIS ambush.

He turned back to the team. “We have an APB out on Donatello and are acquiring a search warrant for his residence. Hopefully we can capture the rest of the looted art.”

The SAC held up a hand. “We’ve already notified the Boston team in charge of the nineteen-ninety heist. They’re flying their agents out tonight.”

Jace clenched his teeth and managed a nod. The Boston team had found squat for almost thirty years. “Margo and I request clearance to assist them while they’re here.” He ignored Margo’s startled head jerk. There was no way he was walking away from this find, and all the glory that came with it.

SAC Webb folded his hands and said quietly, “Denied. You’re too valuable on the Blood Antiquity Task Force, and we’re too close to uncovering the snake head behind the smuggling.”

Margo visibly relaxed, and Jace struggled to remain expressionless as he stared at the painting by his side. So goddamn close…

A rap on the door captured everyone else’s attention.

SSA Garcia’s assistant stuck her head in. “A Mrs. Sandra Mayfair is on the phone. Her son wears a GPS watch capable of sending emergency signals and two-way communication. She received an alert from him at Randy’s Dojo. The class is being kidnapped. Instructor was just led out the door.”

Jace stiffened, blood draining from his head. He gripped the table for balance as agents rose around him to get organized. “It’s Sean,” he mumbled. The late lunch he’d eaten pitched upward, and he swallowed hard.

“What’s that, Jason?” the SAC asked.

“The instructor. It’s my brother.” His lips felt numb. “This is Donatello’s work. He’s not giving up the painting without a fight.” He fumbled for his phone and looked at the screen. No SOS this time. Figures.

* * *

The plastic zip tie that bound Sean’s wrists behind him was much tighter than the one circling his ankles. Or maybe it was because he instinctively kept trying to get his hands free. The plastic cut deep. The pain kept him sane and focused. The rancid garlic and body odors permeating the car did not. “Let the boys go,” he said for the millionth time. “They have nothing to do with this.”

The ancient leather on the front seat crackled under Donatello’s weight as he peered out his window. A wasted move. Even from the back seat, the mass of swirling police lights illuminated the night like a tropical blue paradise. Donatello sure had balls, parking a block from his own felony in progress.

“I would dearly like to call it a night,” the mobster replied. “I’m missing the Cubs.” He turned to his driver. “What’s your take on Martinez?”

Sean gritted his teeth. “Mr. Donatello—”

“Mr. Quinn.” His beady eyes focused on Sean in the rearview mirror, the gaze so deadly that Sean shuddered. “I’ve gathered quite a few facts about you since this afternoon. I know where you work. My colleagues visited your firm an hour ago. Evidently my canvas is still in your company’s possession, but the painting underneath is not. Where is it?”

“I would guess FBI headquarters, since, as you know, it was stolen.”

Donatello sighed. “Those small boys must be very hungry.”

Sean squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think about the guys smashed into that tiny bathroom. Their fear and confusion. Their parents’ terror. And if Donatello’s men had rummaged through Moore and Morrow already, God knew how much theft and damage the company would find tomorrow. Surely the place was under FBI surveillance. How had the mob slipped through? Where had Gretch gone, and was she safe?

Sean opened his eyes to the neon-blue lights and the claustrophobia of two very large, stinking men stuffed in the front seat of a luxury car.

“You’re not a stupid man, Mr. Donatello.” Sean waited for the death glare in the mirror again. He met it without flinching. “There’s no way your men are getting out of that dojo. You have me. Call them off, and let the boys go home.”

Donatello crooked a brow. “You’re not a valuable asset to trade for the painting. Five small boys? Now I have bargaining power.”

Sean felt the flicker of victory. Or bottomless fear. “I am an asset. The agent who’s no doubt taking credit for finding your painting is my brother. Call the FBI and ask for him. His name is Jason Quinn.”