Page 60 of Captive of Outlaws

“You want to steal it,” I blurt out.

No one says anything for a long while.

“Yes,” Rob says at last. He sighs. “No point in prettying it up, I suppose. We’re thieves, Maren. So yes, that would be the plan. Part of it, anyway.”

Huh.

All that secrecy and subterfuge to conceal the most basic, boring-ass of criminal enterprises.

I’m almost disappointed...except for the fact that pulling off an actual heist, from the Fox Hunt Club, no less, sounds incredibly, almost stupidly, difficult.

And also...

“It’s a charity auction,” I say. “You’d be stealing the proceeds from charity.”

At that, Will snorts. “Hardly.”

I shoot a glare at him. “What do you mean?”

Will huffs a sigh. “Well, as deathly stupid as this idea is”—he looks daggers at Rob—“there’s no arguing that we’d be on the right side of justice...if not the law.”

I frown.

“What Will means,” Rob puts in, “is that the so-called charity of the Fox Hunt Club is...debatable. Right, Tuck?”

Tuck nods. “Oh, yeah. No question. If this is tied to the sheriff, then it’s a whole shell game. The money goes to a foundation, which is owned by another foundation, which trickles the cash out to other, smaller foundations...” He wiggles his fingers in the air, then shrugs. “Basically, they divvy it up into so many small pieces that it’s a pain in the ass to follow the paper trail. Then they sign those foundations up for exclusive contracts withselect local businesses”—he draws air quotes—“and then—”

“And then the money ends up right back in their pockets,” I finish for him.

It makes total sense. A bureaucratic rope-a-dope, classic Uncle John type stuff. Outwardly benevolent, while inwardly skimming off the top until nothing’s left.

Still, it’s not quite sitting right with me.

“So you just steal all their shit, flip it, and keep the cash?”

Rob gives a short laugh. “Maren, I ask you again: does it look like I need cash?”

I glance around at the cavernous kitchen, with its polished appliances and twelve-foot ceilings. “Not exactly.”

“We find good uses for it,” Will says.

“We steal from the rich,” Rob says, miming grabbing something out of the air to his left, “and give to the poor.” He hands out the imaginary loot to an invisible recipient on his right.

I can’t help but arch an eyebrow. “Really? So all these jewels and coins and valuables you swipe, you’re just going to, what, drive down to the south side of town and hand them out to street urchins?”

Will cracks up. Rob sighs. But it’s Tuck who grins and jumps in with an answer.

“Not hardly,” Tuck says. “That’s the best part. We have a whole network set up to liquidate things like jewelry, collectibles, antiques—find the right buyers and get nothing back but untraceable cash and clean hands. The bad guys aren’t the only ones who can do creative accounting.” He straightens up a little, chest out. “That’s mostly my job.”

“And we’re all very proud of you,” Will drawls. Tuck blushes.

I smile, too. Anticlimactic though it may be, now I know the truth, and it’s started to put my mind at ease—a little.

“So, okay,” I say, “You go around handing out cash.”

“Ah, wrong again.” Will, this time. “People don’t like handouts.”

“Especially not around Sherwood County,” Rob says. “You know how it is, I’m sure. Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.”

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