Page 72 of Kings of Sherwood

Chapter Seventeen

Maren

The next morning, apparently, begins phase two.

We meet in the library this time, the map of ley lines neatly taped across the front of one of the bookshelves, folders of printouts and receipts spilling on every flat surface, and every available outlet stuck with a charger for a burner phone. I’m barely halfway through my second cup of coffee, but Will’s wired, pacing near the fireplace and rattling off options like he’s listing breakfast cereals.

“We’ve got a jewelry wholesaler doing cash-only deliveries on Thursdays,” he reads from his phone, “a dealer fencing vintage stuff through estate liquidators, and some trust fund brats are auctioning off their late uncle’s collection of stolen antiquities, but that’s technically through a museum, so—”

“Too much heat,” Rob mutters. He’s flipping through printouts, expression unreadable. “We hit the museum circuit too recently.”

Tuck cringes. “Besides, those things shouldn’t be sold. They should be repatriated.”

“Calm down, Indiana Jones,” Will says. “That one’s a few months off anyway.” He picks up a folder, reads off the top. “There’s also some niche little buying club the society wives have going—crooked French-Canadian furrier smuggling cheap stuff in for pennies on the dollar. Could be promising, if you want to end up on three separate international watchlists.”

“Yeah, interstate commerce, no thank you,” Tuck mutters, without looking up from his tablet, and shakes Will off when he offers him the papers.

LJ hunches over, elbows on knees. “Why even put that on there?”

“Fox pelts,” Will says simply, and hands me the folder when I gesture for it. “Figured that one might be less business, more personal. Strikesomeone’sfancy as a matter of principle.”

Rob shrugs. “Long asmyskin’s still on my body, I’m good.”

I glance down at the fur lead. Unmarked van, no cameras, overpriced pelts from Quebec. But potentially messy.

“Well, I’m batting a thousand,” Will says sarcastically. “How areyourleads, Fozzie?”

LJ looks daggers at Will, but clears his throat. “Construction. Lots of supplies. But we’ll need time to arrange transport to get it out quick, so that’ll be a while yet.”

“‘Specially with the roads gone to shit,” Rob adds. “I’m not getting caught ‘cause of a flat fuckin’ tire.”

“Um.” Tuck clears his throat, looks up. “The...Fox Hunt Club’s doing another fundraiser.”

The air in the room shifts.

Will picks up his espresso. “What’s the cause this time? Widows and orphans? Therapy dogs for emotionally stunted billionaires?”

Tuck shakes his head. “Veterans. Supposedly. Gulf and Iraq Wars.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Rob tense.

It’s barely a half-second. His eyes flick to the window, then back down like nothing happened.

I clock it. He knows I clocked it. Neither of us says a word.

“They’re building a memorial in town...or so they claim,” Tuck goes on. “For a cool quarter mil.”

“So everyone’s bringing a check.” LJ shakes his head. “No good for us. Too easy to trace.”

“Wire fraud? Inthiseconomy?” Will nods in agreement. “I’m with you. I’d much prefer physical goods to any kind of cash or cash equivalent.”

“Well, that’s the thing...” Tuck says, scrolling. “Actually, Nick?” He calls out into the hallway. “Can you come here?”

Nick practically jogs in, clutching a battered laptop that must be an old one of Tuck’s. He’s cleaned up a little, I notice—in different clothes than the virtual rags he came in with. Clean T-shirt, new jeans. Someone must have gone shopping for him.

I flick a glance at Rob, but he’s just staring out the window.

“What is he, your intern now?” Will cracks to Tuck, who shrugs.

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