It took over a week to set up the job. Such as it was.

Philadelphia. Home of the cheesesteak. The Liberty Bell.

And the Barnes Foundation.

Arthur Barnes had been a contemporary of the Rockefellers, a working-class man from a poor background who, together with a German chemist, had created something wonderful: a silver-nitrate antiseptic that prevented the blindness in newborns caused by the rampant STDs of the time. A rather interesting man—unlike most people, Arthur took to money well. He used it to explore new passions, of which his greatest became collecting art.

He had an instinctive eye, and what he didn’t understand he learned.

Pretty soon this working-class man from the humblest of beginnings had amassed the largest private art collection in the world. Not only the largest, but categorically the most important. Yes, the Louvre had some nice pieces, but compared to the Barnes Foundation . . .

Well, there simply was no comparison to the Barnes. And god knew the art world hated Arthur for it. Oh, they’d laughed when he started collecting, but they hadn’t laughed for long. By then it was too late; turned out Arthur could hold one hell of a grudge. He vowed never to share his collection with the establishment. No lending to museums, no tours.

Basically, old Arthur decided to fuck the Man way before it was popular.

His collection would be used to train new artists. A school, not a museum. He didn’t even display the art the way museums did. He grouped pieces in rooms, with period furniture and without regard to era or class.

He opened his school to the public only a few days a week, for a few miserly hours. For years, the art world quietly seethed, waiting for him to die.

But his will prevailed even then, at least for a while, because Arthur was smart and had good lawyers, and he’d picked his trustee well. But in the end, decades later, the Man won.

The Barnes Foundation trust was broken up and moved.

Into a museum. Into the heart of downtown Philadelphia. Where it was still arguably the greatest collection of art a person could see in one day anywhere on the planet.

Darnell didn’t just want to steal from the Barnes Foundation. He wanted to steal the jewel in their crown.

“It’s not possible.” Jake was arguing his point for what felt like the dozenth time, even though he’d only talked directly to Darnell twice since NOLA.

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Darnell’s voice was dry and unconcerned even through the distortion he still used on every phone call. Jake was positive the man was losing his grip on reality. “But I believe in you, Jake. I really do.”

“I can’t haul it out on my own.”

“That’s quite all right, you just get us in and secure the joint. We’ll get the Matisse out.”

The Matisse. There were no less than fifty-nine works by Matisse in the Barnes, but Darnell was after just one. The Dance. A triptych of large wooden panels currently in a place of honor in the main gallery of the museum, high above three windows. Getting them out would be a bitch. What the hell was Darnell thinking? “There’s other guys who could do this better than me. This shit is above my pay grade.”

It was true. Jake was a hell of a thief, but he’d never pulled something like this. Hell, no one had. This wouldn’t be as simple as stealing the Mona Lisa, more like trying to make off with a section of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling.

“Oh Jake, because you deserve to be in the spotlight.”

If Darnell only knew. Jake was already there, like an insect pinned to a bit of cardboard. With multiple pins. Both the US Marshals and Darnell had him by the balls. And Charlie right through the heart. He was feeling laid bare these last few weeks and it was taking its toll.

Between conversations with the lunatic pulling his strings, he had nightly meetings with Bri. The consensus of Bri’s superiors was that in no way, shape or form could the Barnes Foundation be compromised. Billions of dollars of art were not to be risked for the life of one international criminal, no matter how much they wanted him. So the official plan had become to trick Darnell, but everyone was well aware of the risks.

No one more than Jake.

And if he fucked up—hell, if anyone fucked up—it was his ass that would be hung out to dry.

He hadn’t been able to risk calling Lucjan, not with the DOJ hanging on his every word. And since his sister was barely speaking to him, he hadn’t tried to get a message through her either. That Lucjan was aware something was going on, Jake had no doubt. He could only hope Darnell didn’t share that awareness, though sometimes he wondered if they were all being played.

But the thing Jake worried about most wasn’t Darnell, or the marshals, or Lucjan, or the damn job, or even his sister.

He missed Charlie so bad it was a constant ache in his gut. Where was she? What was she doing? Did she hate him?

She must.

Bri had assured him Charlie had been assigned her own security detail. The DOJ had approached Charlie about an anonymous threat, citing the attack already on file as a reason to take the concern seriously and put her under their protection, albeit in a discreet manner. Both Charlie and Stacia had apparently cooperated, thank god, though he had no idea why, or what had been said. Bri had shown him video of Charlie being escorted from a showing last week under heavy guard. At least if you knew what to look for. The marshals were undercover and they did plainclothes well, but it made Jake nervous. If he could make the feds, would Darnell?

Darnell had only mentioned Charlie and his apparent separation once. Jake had shrugged it off, saying they’d had a fight and were taking a break, but that nothing essential had changed. He was still willing to do the job to keep Charlie safe. Darnell had seemed to accept this, with a sneer about Jake’s touching display of loyalty.

The marshals were wary, too. Bri’s team milled about him, a dozen men and women in the basement of a warehouse off Market Street, blocks from the Barnes, checking their weapons one last time. He’d never seen so many Glocks in one room. He touched his own Sig once, but there was no need to check it. It was ready and so was he.

While everyone else was humming with nervous energy, Jake felt better than he had all week, rock steady. Whatever happened after tonight, at least it would be over. He brushed a finger over the earpiece in his ear, watching the tech across from him. Roger tapped a keyboard and Jake got a burst of static. He winced at the volume and the man tapped again. More static, but quieter this time. Jake nodded.

“They can scan all day and not pick this up,” said Roger. And a quick visual wouldn’t pick up the device either, as it was flesh colored and tiny, built to mimic the inner whorls of the ear. “But the transmitter is another story. If they’ve got Orion or something similar and we’re live when they scan, they’ll get a hit.”

“Which is why the transmitter is only turned on every forty-five seconds, for a fifteen-second burst,” Jake recited, per their earlier conversations. The transmitter was affixed to the back of one of the buttons in his shirt.

“Yup. They may still get a hit, but it’s dicier. And false positives happen.”

“He may not even show.”

“We think he will.” Bri moved to his side. She didn’t look like the elegant insurance investigator now. In her body armor, covered by a long-sleeved blue T and a windbreaker with US MARSHAL in bright yellow across her shoulders, she looked every inch the competent agent she was. “Not at the scene, maybe. But his last calls were local, so he’s close. You done?”

At Roger’s nod, Bri pulled Jake aside. “Don’t do anything stupid out there. I can protect you from theft. I can’t protect you from murder, even if the nasty son of a bitch deserves it.” He didn’t say anything and Bri sighed. “Hand it over.”

He stared at her. “You can’t send me in there without a gun.”

“Yes, I can. You’re a wanted criminal—”

“Who is cooperating. Without me playing along, your shot at Darnell is gone.”

Her lips thinned. “That is a chance I will take, but I won’t take the chance of you being armed when my team heads inside. Can’t do it, Jake.”

He took a deep breath, then slipped a hand back and grabbed the butt of the Sig. He held it out with a glare. “You could have warned me this was a suicide mission.”

“It’s not. We’ll protect you. Like you said, he may not show, and if he does, we’ll be there before you can blink.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said. “Just make sure Charlie is safe.”

“She is.” Charlie and Stacia were at a showing in Baltimore tonight. “With a dozen law officers in plainclothes on her every step. Your painter is secure, Jake.” She put a hand on his arm. “Seriously. There is no need to take this into your own hands. Think of Charlie.”

He was.

---

Charlie dressed in silence. A new dress, sleeveless, in champagne velvet. Stacia had wanted her to wear the yellow silk again tonight, but Charlie had refused. She knew it was silly to associate the dress with what had happened to her and Jake, but she couldn’t help it.

Everything had been upside down and wrong since that night. She’d cried in Stacia’s arms, then screamed at her to get out. It hadn’t been pretty. Stacia had understood, but it was still awkward the next morning, and it didn’t get much better.

Neither of them had brought up Jake after that. Not until those feds had shown up. US Marshals. Undercover. To keep her safe from some ‘anonymous threat.’

She believed them that it had something to do with the attack on her and Jake in New Orleans, but she didn’t believe for a second that they were telling her the whole truth.

Something was going on, something with Jake.

Stacia agreed. They had talked it over last night. Stacia had managed to reach out to Lucjan, but he had given her nothing, or so Stacia said. Charlie was finding it impossible to trust anyone at the moment. Surprise, surprise. Especially since Stacia had told her all this while huddling in a steam-filled bathroom for an hour last night with the water running.

Stacia thought something was going on with the Bratva, which was apparently the Russian version of the mafia and an organization Lucjan had ties to. That was terrifying, but Charlie had a different idea. She thought the whole mess had something to do with the man who had killed Jake and Stacia’s mother. Stacia had dismissed this. “If it was Darnell, Jake would tell me,” she’d insisted.

“Would he?” she had wondered aloud. Stacia had stared at her for a long time, the mist curling between them, but in the end, she’d just shaken her head. And they’d left it at that. After all, what could they do? Jake was gone. Lucjan as good as, since he refused to tell Stacia anything, and they were surrounded by people with guns.

It was insane.

This whole thing was so far outside Charlie’s experience, she had no idea what happened next. That Jake had lied to her was obvious. Something had happened to make him push her away. Something awful.

But nothing could be more awful than the choice he’d made. Jake hadn’t kept his promise. He’d left her, just like everyone else. With a sigh, she zipped the dress and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The color was perfect. It warmed her skin and made both it and her hair seem to glow with an otherworldly light. She was beautiful and for once she wasn’t scared of that beauty, or the attention it might bring.

Her worst fear had already happened. As she was reaching for her wrap on the desk, she heard a series of pops in the hall. Cocking her head, trying to place the odd sound, Charlie straightened just as the door burst open. A man stood in the doorway and he smiled when he saw her. Her heart thumped hard in her chest as the panic started. One of them.

Not the hatchet-faced one Stacia had called Timor, but the other one, the one she hadn’t seen since the night Jake fell through the window. The one with the cold eyes.

He waved at her with the gun he was holding. She didn’t move.

With a curse he stepped into the room and grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. “Come on, you stupid cunt.”

She dug her heels in, surprising them both. “I am not stupid.”

The man stared at her, then shrugged. “Maybe not, but you’re definitely a cunt.”

Before the words left his mouth, he backhanded her across the face. The blow was powerful, instantly lighting up her whole head with hot agony. It would have sent her reeling if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly with his other hand. With a laugh at her cry of pain, he yanked on her arm and pulled her out into the hallway. Her lip burned and pulsed where a ring he wore had split her lip, and the taste of blood filled her mouth, along with bile as she noticed the bodies around them.

People were dying. Two of the men who had been watching over her were slumped against the walls, bleeding from the head and throat. The man holding her kicked one aside as he continued to drag her away.

“Stacia,” she whispered in horror, her eyes wide, praying she wouldn’t see her friend.

The man with the cold eyes shoved her through a door as an alarm shrieked. “We couldn’t find the bitch. Which means the boss will be pissed. But at least we got you. That should count for something.” As he opened a waiting car door, he glanced back at her. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll kill you myself.”

Then he threw her inside.

---

Traffic was slow this time of night, even slower off the boulevard. Around the corner, armed with a paintball gun, Jake took careful aim at each of the three cameras in turn. One by one, he took them out. Kicking the gun under a nearby car, he walked around the corner, looking around carefully. No one in sight. He leapt onto the dock, ran lightly across it, then jumped. He caught the edge of the ornamental brick, just as planned.

Hand over hand he pulled himself up the building. One story, two. The Barnes had been alerted to their operation tonight and the political nightmare that must have caused was one Jake was glad to be excluded from. But he still had to break in.

Playing Peter fucking Parker again, just like he had the night he’d met Charlie. Best not to think of that now. Thankfully, he was far from Minnesota’s ice and cold. It was a warm night, even for August, and by the time he gained the roof, Jake was sweating. In the minute or two it took him to catch his breath, Jake pulled the next tools in his arsenal from his backpack. A flashlight, a power screwdriver and a hack saw.

He cut the power to the AC’s fan motor. While he waited for the blades to stop rotating, he reached behind the unit, holding his breath as his fingers slid over the warm metal. His eyes closed in relief as he touched duct tape. With a hard grin, he yanked the tape free, the familiar weight of the Sig in his hand seconds later. Swiftly, he flipped off the safety and checked the clip. Thank god he had friends in Philly. Or at least Tomas did. He’d known Bri would take his gun—he’d have been shocked if she hadn’t—but no way was his cooperation going to extend to being a sitting duck. Not to mention his own agenda for the night. Bri was a smart woman, but she wasn’t running this show.

It took less than a minute to remove the screws securing the grate that covered the fan. The grate itself was heavy, but he hefted it, feeling more sweat break out along his spine.

With the hacksaw, he cut into one of the fans just enough to bend it back with his gloved hands. Another minute and some more sweat and Jake dropped into the ventilation system. Ten minutes after that, he pulled out a vent in the men’s bathroom and dropped without a sound to the tiled floor, glancing at his watch.

Less than twenty minutes since he’d hit the first camera. He was ahead of schedule by three whole minutes.

He tapped his ear, activating the mic inside. Static went off in a soft burst as he moved to the doorway, easing the door open and looking out into a wide hallway dim with night lighting. Security took a backseat to environmental friendliness these days.

“Jake? You’re early.” Bri sounded almost annoyed.

Jake shook his head, moving down the hallway, sticking to the darkest shadows. The Barnes had unscheduled foot patrols, at least one per hour for every wing. Of course, tonight those patrols were made up of US Marshals. “We’re good. I’m inside.”

He got out his phone at the next corner, intending to text Darnell as planned. Having two handlers was a bitch. But as his thumb swiped to wake the phone, something prickled along the back of his neck. What the hell was that sound? Jake lifted his head, staring down the hallway.

Like a rustling wind. But with the AC out and the doors closed, the place should have been still as a tomb. Where were the goddamn guards? Jake set down his backpack, pulling the Sig from the small of his back. Then he saw it, a flicker in the distance, right before he smelled the smoke. Fire.

Darnell was already here. Or someone was.

Shit.

He ran, leaving the backpack. Static buzzed in his ear from the wire. “What is going on?”

“Fire. Someone is already here.”

A curse. Then silence, before . . . “We’ve lost contact with our men.” Bri’s next words ratcheted his screaming nerves up several more notches. “Not just here, but in Baltimore, too. Get out, Jake. Now.”

Charlie. Jesus.

His phone chimed just as Jake skidded around the corner. No one was there. Just the flames, less impressive in person, spewing out off a small trash can. Their wavering light highlighted the block letters drawn carefully on the floor.

Is that all you got, kid?

Something cold dragged its way down Jake’s spine and hooked into his gut. His phone buzzed again. His heart racing, Jake glanced at it. Then he stumbled, the heat of the flames licking at his face as the receiver in his ear crackled to life once more.

“Jake, I said get the fuck out. What the hell are you doing?”

Jake closed his eyes, ignoring the question in his ear to ask one of his own. Even though he had the answer right in front of him.

“Where is Charlie, Bri?”

Silence for a long drawn-out beat. “I don’t know right this second, Jake, but we’ll find her. I swear.”

He laughed darkly, feeling sick and cold. “No, you won’t. That is up to me.”

He tore the receiver from his ear, dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his heel as he stared down at the picture of Charlie that had been texted to him—Charlie on her knees with her blue eyes wide, a man’s hand wrapped tightly in her hair. A hand with a familiar wedding ring.

A hand that he knew now belonged not to Darnell, but to his own father.