Page 3 of Devil's Due: Sarge

They didn’t ask me to find out about any other thefts, and besides, I doubt he keeps the offending emails once the transactions are completed anyway. Andrew is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. At least, I didn’t used to think so. But he did leave his email up. I don’t know what to think anymore.

Anyway, thinking that I’ve left fingerprints on his mouse, on his desk chair, and on the door handles, I retrace my steps using my shirt to wipe down any surface that I touched. I have no idea if Drew would think to check for fingerprints, but since I didn’t know he was an art thief, I have no idea who he has on his payroll. Best not to take the chance. I peer out of the office having only just cracked the door, and check to make sure the coast is clear before I leave. When I’m confident no one else is around, I slip out of the office, close the door behind me, and run upstairs to my room.

The room is beautiful, comfortable, and normally comforting with its bold colors and fabrics, and large, fluffy pillows on the floor. When we moved in all those years ago, my mom wanted me to feel like this house was my home. She told me to decorate however I wanted. Not being happy about moving all the way across country, I came up with the most extravagant decorative palette that my eleven-year-old brain could think of, One Thousand and One Nights – or what most Americans think of as Arabian Nights. To my surprise, she’d done it. And it’s every bit as beautiful today as it was back then.

But there’s no comfort in the room today. I plop down on a ruby-colored pillow and begin to read the emails that I took pictures of on my phone.

Once I piece together the information that I think they’re looking for, I make the phone call to Special Agents Drake and Stanhope.

I’m a ball of nerves. I feel in my gut that something about this situation isn’t right. I lie in my bed all night tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. And in the morning, that feeling of dread intensifies when my phone pings with a text message from Patrick, Drew’s oldest son. I can honestly say, in the eleven years that I have known Patrick and his younger brother, Stephen, for that matter, I have never received a text message. Ever. The message says I’m to meet them in Miami by the boat docks. Oh my god. By the boat docks? I’ve seen enough true crime television to know that nothing good happens by boat docks, especially involving people who do shady things, and who never, ever, ever, ever,evertext you. I don’t know what to do.

If I go, it could very well be the last thing I ever do. But if I stay, ignore the message, well, that certainly makes me look guilty, doesn’t it? No, I think my only choice is to go. But how would he have known—any of the hes—Drew or Patrick? Did he see me with the special agents somehow yesterday? Or – what if Drew’s office has cameras? I never even thought of that. Oh no. My stomach grows sour, and I feel like I’m going to puke. Like,now!Stumbling from my bed I run to my bathroom, falling down to my knees before heaving into the toilet. Nothing comes up, save that bad acidic sulfur taste in my mouth, but that doesn’t stop it from happening over and over and over again.

Once I get the cramping to ease, I pick myself up, dust myself off, and get into the shower, where I proceed to burst into tears, but at least this way, nobody will hear me. Then I don a flowery peasant blouse with cute little short sleeves and flowers embroidered on the front, and a pair of shorts. I don’t want to worry her, but I go searching for my mom, tell her that I have some errands to run in town, and make sure to give her a big hug, telling her that I love her before I let her go. Because I have a terrible feeling that she won’t be seeing me again.

On the drive to Miami I don’t dawdle, don’t stop for a drink or gas, because Patrick gave me a timeframe for when I’m supposed to meet them. It’s eerie up at the boatyard. I cut the engine and get out of my car. There’s no one around. This is South Florida… in the summer. How is there no one around? Exhaling to grasp on to any bit of courage I can cling to, I begin walking toward the slip where I’m supposed to meet my family. My stepbrother Patrick is the first to show his face. He’s the spitting image of his father, both with perfectly clipped brown hair and piercing blue eyes. My mother is forever going on about their eyes. He’s wearing an expensive suit, Armani—I’ve spent enough time amongst the wealthy to recognize the quality and cut—which here, on the water, is out of place. And he looks pissed as hell.

“Good of you to join us,” he says, gesturing for me to precede him down the dock.

“I wasn’t under the impression that I had a choice.”

He doesn’t answer because we both know there is no answer, not one that I want to hear.

Drew climbs down from his yacht, not in a suit, but shorts, polo and boat shoes, tall, slender, lithely athletic. He’s a competitive yachtsman and keeps his physique mostly by using the rowing machine in the gym at the house. He’s carrying a black leather artist bag, the large kind. “Greer, my dear…” he says with false warmth. “Since you apparently wanted to join the family business, we had a group meeting and decided to bring you in.”

“I never said I wanted to join your‘family business.’”

“By actions, my dear… by actions. Now you’re going to take this bag and you’re going to walk to the very end of the dock, where you will meet a man called Sidney.”

I open my mouth to ask him I don’t know what, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

“You and I both know his real name is not Sidney. It doesn’t matter what his real name is, just that you hand over this bag.”

“Am I supposed to get a check from him or something?”

“This is the electronic age. Funds have already been transferred into an offshore account. He’s just waiting for the delivery of merchandise.”

I know he expects me to cry, or squirm, or something. But I’m not going to give him that. He thinks he has the upper hand—no. I’m going to do exactly the job that’s been tasked to me because I want to live and doing this seems the best way to achieve that. With the Feds involved now, Drew can’t know that I betrayed him. It might be wrong of me to assume, but I feel like people who deal within the underbelly of society, tend to know bad people all over. Even if Drew went to prison, I feel like my days would be numbered. Considering all this, I reach my hand out to take the bag. “I’m ready.”

The shocked expression on his face is almost worth it. Shoulders back, head high, I take the bag and head down the dock.

Straight out of a James Bond movie, I see a man in a suit ride up on a jet ski. He parks, pulls himself up the rope ladder, and cautiously approaches me.

“Your name?” I ask.

“Sidney.”

“Then I have something for you.”

He eyes me up and down, like he’s mentally undressing me, and it gives me the willies. Because although he’s not a bad-looking man, broad shoulders, sandy hair, he’s too athletically lithe, reminds me too much of Drew and Patrick. Uppity. Society. He’s so not my type and I don’t much like being leered at.

“Not on your life,” I say, faking confidence. “But I do have this…”

He laughs, not at all put out by my rejection, and takes the artist bag from my hand, dragging his finger along mine slowly, almost in a seductive manner. I shiver not in a good way.

Just as the transfer happens, we are bombarded by FBI, who’ve been waiting. They were so good. I know I tipped them off and still didn’t know where they were. And in truth, I’m shocked. Anyone who sees my face can tell I’m shocked. Sidney grabs a hold of me, spinning me around pressing my back against his chest. He has the long strap of the artist bag slung around him and just that quickly he pulls a gun from his pocket and has it pointed against my head.

That’s when I see Special Agent Drake slowly approaching. “Put the gun down. We don’t need anyone getting hurt.” And he uses that calm-down gesture that people do with their hands.

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