Page 1 of Stolen Goods
- 1 -
Thad
There were three things of which Thaddeus Ryder was absolutely certain. One, the art tube strapped to his back held a multi-million-dollar painting by Edgar Degas. Two, he’d stolen said painting from a wealthy businessman the night before. And three, he was being followed.
Thad casually darted his gaze left then right, surveying the somewhat empty Brooklyn streets around him. Three blocks away, the beach was undoubtedly crowded, full of people in bikinis and board shorts, basking in the summer heat. But here, a little deeper into town, the vibe was different. The main language on the shop awnings was Russian. Instead of hipsters wearing tight jeans, there were women in full black skirts and men with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists. New York City was a diamond with a thousand different facets, and this small section at the southern edge of Brooklyn was one of the few that operated outside of the law. The NYPD knew better than to patrol. The local government turned a blind eye. A different set of rules was at work. But he’d been in worse neighborhoods before, and none of them had stood the hairs at the back of his neck on end.
Stay cool. Stay casual, he thought as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder and forced his grip to loosen. He kept his steps light and his pace even. A whistle came to his lips. He smiled and nodded to a woman walking past him with a sleeping baby wrapped snugly to her chest. But inside, his mind whirled.
Who was his tail?
It couldn’t be the Feds. He had incriminating evidence strapped to his back. If they knew where he was, they would’ve grabbed him, forced him to sign a plea, and made him wear a wire before the exchange. Which left one option—the Russians.
He’d met with his contacts in the mob plenty of times over the past few years, and they’d never had him followed before. The meetings were always quick. Thad upheld his end of the bargain—in this case, a stolen painting, in others a forgery of some kind. And they upheld theirs—a little money, a pat on the back, and assurances everyone he loved would live to see another day. Thad always did his best to block his ears, to blind his eyes, to ignore whatever other criminal activity might be happening around him, and then he left. Exchange complete.
But this meeting was different. It was special.
It’s my last one.
A tingle zipped down his spine, making his shoulders writhe. Thad glanced to the left, catching his reflection in a store window, but that wasn’t all he saw. A large man stepped out from behind a stone wall and fell in line behind him, both hands stuffed in deep, full pockets.
Okay, yup. Definitely being followed.
Definitely by the Russians.
And they definitely have guns.
Thad turned his face forward, forcing his gaze straight ahead as he rewound a few hours, reviewing every detail of the heist. The operation had gone entirely to plan.
Well—almost.
There was that whole thing where I caught Jo making out with a Fed…After they took the painting, Thad had hurried to his escape route on the roof of the businessman’s townhouse. As he climbed over the divider into the neighbor’s private terrace, he saw his partner, Jolene Carter, and the agent who had been following the two of them all week, Nate Parker, alone in the alley below. Even drenched in shadow, their locked lips were undeniable. The sight had almost sent him reeling over the edge to the pavement five stories below, but Thad had held on, gaping in disbelief. To his further shock, a few moments later, the Fed let his partner go. He let her run. Thad spent the next few hours huddled in the dark, watching from a few roofs over as a team of agents cased the townhome for evidence before leaving empty-handed, completely unaware of the illicit exchange.And there’s no way the Russians could possibly know about it either. Hell, I wish I didn’t know about it.
His contacts had seen Jo cozying up to Agent Parker earlier in the week, but Thad had convinced them it was part of the plan—that Jo was seducing the man for information. Then he reminded the Russians that she was completely ignorant of their arrangement, so she had no incentive to talk to the Feds. To Jo, the Degas was the endgame. She had no idea about his work with the Russians and the debt he owed them. The only thing he’d probably done right in his entire life was make sure that if they were ever caught, her hands at least would be clean.
Of course, the Fed could’ve told her the truth.
The thought made Thad trip over his feet, stumbling in the middle of the sidewalk as his heart flipped. He righted himself and kept walking, smooth and in control, but his pulse raced.
If Jo knows—
If that asshole told her—
If—
Thad pushed the panic down and took a deep breath. She and the Fed might have kissed, but it could’ve been part of Jo’s con. Parker had let her go. She’d never disclosed Thad’s hiding place on the roof. The game was still afoot. Right now, he needed to focus. Because he’d arrived at the apartment building where the exchange was taking place, and his every instinct was screaming at him to run.
Thad pressed the intercom, waiting for a buzz to signal the door was unlocked, and tried to ignore the unease.This is it. My last job for the Russians. After this, I’m free. I just have to get through one final—
A grunt came through the intercom as the front door buzzed. Thad lifted his fingers, palm hovering over the knob. His intuition whispered,Run, run, run, now while you still can.He hated going against his gut. Everything about it felt unnatural. As soon as he stepped inside, escape would be ten times more difficult, but he was so close to freedom he could almost taste it. He couldn’t leave now. Not yet.
A shadow fell over his wrist, making the decision for him.
Heavy breathing drowned out the noise of the street. Two sets of lungs, one clogged with a summer cold and one more out of breath—probably the large man he’d seen in the window—which meant at least two men loomed behind him.
Don’t look over your shoulder.
Thad pushed open the door and marched inside, keeping his head straight as his gaze danced, moving up and down, side to side, jumping across every surface, cataloguing what he saw. He stepped slowly down the hall toward the winding staircase, all the while drawing an exit route in his mind. There’d been a fire escape over the front door. The building was old, pre-war he suspected, and the windows were dirty, certainly not new, probably easy to break if needed. Two new mobsters waited inside, though there were no doubt more he couldn’t see hidden behind the many closed doors around him. He’d want to get out as soon as possible—preferably before the bullets started flying.
