Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(4)

Austin still hadn’t managed to trap the alarm that had run free when Darren Burnbaum walked into the bar, the familiar swagger tipping off Austin immediately. His anxiety had only tripled when Polly got up to leave the bar with the man. By God, she’d barely made him work for the pleasure of her time, agreeing to dinner in two minutes flat. If that easy agreement had come off suspicious to Austin, it sure as hell hadn’t gone unnoticed by Darren, which was only one of his aliases.

See, the drawback to needing additional players in a good con meant Austin had crossed paths over the last fourteen years with some of the best. When word went out that a mark was prime for the taking, cons swarmed like piranha around the opportunity. Kind of a f*cked-up version of supply and demand. Oftentimes, if anyone wanted to score, it meant organizing the team and working together. So Austin was quite familiar with Darren’s skill set, and he didn’t want it anywhere near Polly.

She was playing a part, so the fix was definitely in. This wasn’t just a random meeting at a bar—it had been planned. Until he knew the particulars, Darren was going down for the count.

Because as dangerous as Darren Burnbaum had proved to be, Austin Shaw was twice as lethal. And not a goddamn hair on Polly’s head would be harmed on his stolen watch.

When Darren led Polly to a diner, Austin shook his head. Still a cheap f*ck. Loath to let Polly out of his sight for even a minute, Austin hung back and waited for them to enter the diner and be seated. Then he sneaked around to the kitchen entrance through the alley around back, nodding to the bored cook who shrugged and flipped over a grilled cheese sandwich. He slipped into the bathroom, grateful to see two stalls, and closed himself in the left one.

If he remembered correctly—and he always did—Darren had a coke habit that would require a trip to the bathroom at some point—

The ancient bathroom door swung open. Austin held his breath and waited for Darren to lock the right stall door and tap out a line of coke…onto the goppin’ toilet tank? Austin grimaced. The lengths a man went to for his vice. Darren’s came in the form of white powder while Austin’s stood five foot two and smelled like fresh-squeezed lemonade. At least Darren’s position would make what came next easy.

Austin left his stall, braced his hands on either side of the one occupied by Darren and kicked it open. The door slammed into Darren, sending him crashing face-first into the wall behind the toilet. Austin wasted no time wrapping an arm around Darren’s throat, tightening until drawing air was impossible.

“Forget you ever saw her,” Austin whispered into Darren’s ear, just as the other man was forced into unconsciousness.

He let Darren’s dead weight drop onto the floor before moving quickly from the bathroom and back out into the alley, palming his cell phone with a curse. Just like any good con, sometimes other players were needed to pull it off successfully.

Austin scrolled through his contacts and dialed Erin O’Dea. Arsonist, escape artist…coworker. She answered on the fourth ring in a singsong voice. “Aus-tin. Connor doesn’t like when boys call, especially on a school night.” He could hear the strike of a match in the background. “So make it snappy, before he makes your bones go snappy.”

“Right.” Austin descended the stairs to the Red Line train that would take him back to Lincoln Park. “I need you to call Polly and get her home, please. Set the smoke alarm off in her apartment or something.” As if on cue, the train pulled up and Austin entered the half-empty car. “Should be a treat for you, O’Dea. The sound of an alarm without the drawback of being arrested.”

“I don’t like easy treats. Give me a challenge.”

Austin sighed and checked his watch. Only another few minutes before Darren regained consciousness. “I’ve no time to indulge your whimsy tonight. What do you want?”

“I’m bored with my Ruger. Bring me the shiny, British.”

“Done. It stays between us.”

An alarm pealed down the line in response.

Austin hung up and fell into a hard plastic seat, staring at his reflection in the opposite window. Only it wasn’t him at all, was it?

Really, who the hell was Austin Shaw? Self-designated protector of Polly Banks? Con man? Master of disguise?

And since when did he give two shits?





Chapter Two


Polly paced the squad meeting room, which was essentially a basement in an abandoned youth center in Ukrainian Village. Seraphina, her saintly squad mate, had hung a tapestry and placed scented candles on the concrete window ledges, but it still looked like a dungeon. Which was apt, considering they were all prisoners of their past transgressions.

She’d come early, unable to remain in her apartment while harboring so much restless energy. Her lead—her one and only lead on Charles Reitman—had been within her reach last night. She hadn’t been gullible enough to buy Erin’s innocent story about the miraculous fire alarm deployment. Before she’d left the diner last night, she’d gone to check on Slim and found him unconscious in the men’s bathroom. Not wanting to end up the same way, she’d done the smart thing and bounced with a quickness.

Now she was back at square one with the added variable of a third player. A meddler. Someone had choked out her ticket to Reitman, and she was not happy about it. Since childhood, she’d been a sucker for riddles, but this was one time she didn’t appreciate having to piece a mystery together. Making another attempt to connect with Slim would be a bad move because of what had befallen him while in her company. The nightclub, Tossed, was the final venue on her list of Reitman’s haunts, and she had no choice but to seek him out there after her face had been seen by one of his associates. Chancy, but necessary.