Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(72)

“Not happening,” Bowen said. “It’s all of us, or the deal’s off.”

Austin slumped back against the van wall, making a silent but fervent promise not to be an * to Bowen in the future. At this point, he just wanted Polly out of there so f*cking bad, weight bore down on his chest, crushing his lungs. They would regroup. Do it by the book—

“Whatever. I’ll go,” Polly broke in, speaking in a hushed tone, pushing straight through Bowen’s repeated protests. “You can’t turn down that much money. Take his wife’s name and phone number and call it if you don’t hear from me in half an hour. Fair?”

“She’s smarter than she looks,” Reitman observed. “Maybe you should listen. She’s already contemplating how many dresses she can buy with the winnings.”

“Look, it’s settled,” Polly said. “No big deal. One quick ride so we can get this party back on track. Take the number.”

Austin knew what Bowen and Henrik were thinking. With Polly wearing the wire, they would be able to hear everything. They would have him on illegal gambling charges as soon as he handed over the cash. Not to mention, Chicago PD was outside, prepared to follow Reitman’s vehicle. But they didn’t know Reitman like Austin did. There was blood in the water, and no one could see it but him.

“Get Polly out of there,” Austin croaked, forcing words past the squeeze in his throat. “He’s made her. I don’t know how, but he’s made her.”

“I’m not getting that.” Derek appeared skeptical, but not dismissive. “He’s covering his ass. And we’re going to cover it, too, as soon as they’re on the road.”

Austin lunged toward the van door, but Derek wrestled him back. “If he sees you, this entire operation—or any others—will be blown. You think Polly wants that?”

Austin heaved Derek off of him with a growl. “I want her alive to be mad at me.” He was shouting and didn’t give a f*ck. His heart was going to explode inside his chest if he didn’t get eyes on Polly now. “I’m getting her out. If you try to stop me, I will kill you all.”

Two guns were drawn on him. “Wrong thing to say,” Derek said, gesturing for his officers to lower their weapons. “You can either sit down and be an asset in this operation or I can have you taken downtown to wait in a cell to hear the outcome.”

There was only one factor in play that kept Austin from tearing the van apart from the inside out—and he hoped to God he hadn’t misplaced his faith. I never go into a job unless I know for sure I can win. When he’d told Polly that, he’d meant it. If tonight were the one time that oath failed to be true, he wouldn’t allow himself to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

…

Polly waited for Reitman outside the hotel’s back entrance. He’d gone around front to retrieve his car from valet parking, after which he would swing around and pick her up, since they couldn’t be seen leaving together. She truly expected Austin to come storming down the dark, narrow street any moment, asking if she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had. But letting the whole ruse drop when so many people were counting on the outcome seemed worse than a car ride with Reitman. His logic had made sense to her, his lack of desire to be robbed or overpowered by two men he didn’t know. They were so close to the finish line, derailing now wasn’t an option.

Her decision might have been different if the captain hadn’t supplied her with a gun, in addition to the wire. The department-issued piece weighed her purse down in a manner both comforting and unnerving. Polly’s wits were her weapon of choice in every instance. Having the option of violence, whether it was unlikely or not, started a pulse ticking behind her right eye. Made her depth perception feel off, the way it does in abstract dreams.

Trying not to think about her squad mates’ obvious disapproval over her choice, Polly ran a finger down the wire between her breasts, between the unbuttoned opening of her coat. It was comforting, knowing Austin could hear her. But she couldn’t say what was on her mind with God knew how many officers listening, so she kept quiet. When headlights illuminated the street, Polly straightened from her casual lean against the wall. He slowed to a stop at the curb in a silver Mercedes, reaching across the console to push open the passenger door.

“Such a gentleman,” Polly murmured, sliding onto the leather seat and closing the door. “Silver car for a silver fox, huh?”

His smile was tighter than it had been inside. “Sure.”

Polly crossed her legs and dug through her purse for a piece of gum. “How far away are we going?”

“Not far.”

All right. That wouldn’t really help the officers listening. She’d been hoping for a neighborhood, at least. She resisted the urge to check the rearview for any headlights following them. “You’re a real conversational—”

“It was the way you danced,” Reitman interrupted. “I didn’t get a good look at your face that night at the club, but I remember the way you danced. Same way you danced tonight. All hips and no shoulders. Not that I’m complaining about the hips.”

Before he even finished speaking, Polly was considering a grab for the door handle, prepared to dive out of the car, if necessary. Her decision was split between that dangerous idea and removing the gun from her purse, but two things happened at once, preventing her from following through on either. Reitman locked the passenger-side door. And he cocked a gun at her, holding it down in his lap with the hand not occupied steering the car. Her breath echoed so loudly in her ears, it almost drowned out the passing traffic. Shit. Shit.