The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(107)

Vitoria kept up a brisk pace as she went along, hands in the pockets of that parka that added to her bulk, head still down, her face obscured by the hood.

She went deeper and deeper into downtown…until, some number of blocks later, she got to the bridge that spanned the river.

Courtesy of the many on-and off-ramps that fed the four lanes across the waterway, there was a vast, dark netherworld underneath the great elevated stretches of pavement—and she kept her pace as she proceeded into the sheltered area. Here, the wind gusts lessened and the snow was blocked from falling to the rock-hard, frozen dirt. Cocoons of homeless people dotted the barren landscape, their bodies curled up in filthy blankets such that they became boulders on the face of poverty’s moon. And all around, loose newspapers danced about countless abandoned bottles empty of booze, like children showing inappropriate levity.

Overhead, traffic was a steady stream of ambient noise, the heavy weights of cars and trucks bumping along, coughing out the occasional horn or siren.

Vitoria walked all the way to the far side, to the place where the highway began its elevation from the earth, the parting of two planes creating an especially private area.

And there he was.

Streeter was precisely where they had agreed to meet, his tall body likewise in the same clothes he had been wearing during their arctic trip. As she approached, he flicked his cigarette away and exhaled.

“Hey, what’s going on—”

She shot him twice. Both times in the chest.

The suppressor did its job beautifully: The loudest sound was of him falling to the ground and landing faceup in a flop.

Two steps forward brought her to him. As he gasped, he lifted one hand up as if to ward her off while the other grabbed on to his chest.

She put a bullet into his forehead and a final one through the front of his throat.

Then Vitoria re-tucked the weapon into the waistband of her snow pants and walked away, head down, hands in pockets.

As she went, she noted the warmth of the barrel as it rested against her body, and thought, oddly, about the last time she had had sex. It had been a while since she had had something hot, round, and hard against her lower belly. Too long—although part of that was because it was difficult to be discreet back home. She would not have that problem here.

But that was a concern for another time. Now, she had to continue with her plan for the evening.

She would much have preferred to catch a bus or a subway back to the gallery. A taxi would be even better. But she couldn’t risk anyone seeing her or interacting with her. So she walked out from under the bridge and hooked up with a city street.

Now the snowflakes fell upon her once more, and her breath came out in puffs, like smoke from a locomotive’s engine.

It was nearly forty-five minutes of trudging before the gallery came into view, and she avoided entirely the rear entrance. Instead, she went in through the front, just as though she were a legitimate customer. Thanks to de la Cruz, she knew that, for some reason, her brother had no monitoring cameras on what was the primary entry. Then again, his illegal associates had come and gone through the back one—and Ricardo certainly had never had any intention of turning security footage over to the police.

No, upon further reflection, Vitoria was willing to bet that he had kept it for his own records, as an insurance policy in case anyone got any bright ideas.

She’d left through the front, too. And had not engaged the security alarm.

That way, there would be no record of her having left the premises and returned. And to that end, she was careful to circumvent the camera field that monitored the gallery space and the doorway up to Ricardo’s office.

One other advantage to her having watched the footage de la Cruz had showed her so many times was that she had figured out where the blind spots were.

Accordingly, she went into a dark corner that had no security coverage and changed back into the office clothes she’d left there. Then she stashed the parka, snow pants, hoodie, and gun in the hollow three-dimensional representation of a toadstool. After that, she took a circuitous route around so that she could go into the staff area unseen….only to make a show of striding out of there with her coat and bag.

Certain she was being watched and recorded by the cameras, she walked through the gallery space and checked the front door even though she was out of frame for that…then she reentered the camera’s eye and walked to the rear exit.

After engaging the alarm, she stepped out and locked up.

Then she looked left. Looked right.

Frowned.

Walking out of frame, she waited for as long as she guessed it would take for her check around and see where the Bentley should have been.

With hands that deliberately fumbled the keys, she let herself back in and disengaged the alarm, making sure to relock the door. Then she got out her phone. Dropped it. Picked it up and pushed her hair out of the way.

With hands that she made shake, she dialed a number and put the cell up to her ear. When the call was answered on the third ring, she made sure her voice was panicky.

“Detective de la Cruz? I’m so sorry to bother you, but you told me to call you if anything strange happened? Well, my car appears to have been stolen.”





FORTY-NINE


On the heels of a nightmare about being chased, Assail woke up with a jerk that flopped all his four limbs. For a split second, he had no idea where he was—was he still in an alley with slayers behind him? Was Marisol screaming for him to help her—except he knew if he went to her, he was bringing death along with him…?