Page 3 of Stolen Goods
“Parker here,” the Fed answered, voice gruff, edged with frustration.
Before Thad could speak, he heard shots fire and he swerved around a bend. Bulletspinged like pinballs behind him, ricocheting off stone, too close. His feet slapped concrete. The art tube bounced between his shoulder blades. Somehow the thought of that beautiful painting being damaged, being destroyed, was more motivating than the threat of losing his own life.
The Fed must have heard the gunfire. His tone changed.
“Hello? Hello?” he urged, almost frantic, a complete shift in sound. “Who is it?”
Panic. Fear. Alarm.
Thad could read it all, and he knew what it meant—concern.
Concern for Jo.
“Agent Parker,” Thad said, racing toward another intersection. If he went left, he’d be at the beach. Public enough to maybe discourage the Russians from firing. But also public enough to put innocent lives at risk. He turned right. Deeper into Russian territory, deeper into danger, but he wasn’t too concerned for his own safety, not even with bullets peppering the pavement behind him.
“Yes, this is Agent Parker. To whom am I speaking?” Fast words, eager words.
Before Thad could answer, two men turned a corner in front of him, machine guns held aloft. No time to think, Thad dove into a shop at his side, bursting through the front door, slamming it so hard the glass shattered. A local hardware store. The man behind the register froze, eyes going wide. He pointed deeper into the shop. Thad had no choice but to trust there would be a back door. He raced down the aisle, hearing guttural shouts in a foreign tongue behind him. The Russians were close. Too close.
“Hello?” The Fed again, voice staticky. “This is Agent Nate Parker. To whom am I speaking?”
Thad stormed past the bathrooms and into a back hall, praying the call didn’t drop. “I think you know.”
His voice came out smooth as butter, not at all concerned.
Good.
Never let them see you sweat.
“Ryder?” the Fed demanded through the phone. “Ryder, is that you?”
Why, yes. It is.But Thad would never give the man the satisfaction. One common denominator, Jo, didnotmake them allies.
Footsteps echoed behind him, growing louder and louder.
A door loomed ahead.
Please. Please.
“Ryder!” the Fed shouted, desperation obvious, fear obvious. “Where—”
“Jo is in danger,” Thad interrupted as he ran into the door at full speed, forcing it open, and spilled into an alley lined with trash. “I can’t get to her in time. You need to save her.”
And then he hung up.
The call was short enough they’d never be able to trace it, which meant the Feds would have no reason to go after Thad. Parker would be free to go after Jo, the way the panic in his voice made it obvious he would.
Thad dove to the ground just as the metal door he’d exited slammed open. He rolled, wincing as the art tube crunched beneath his weight, and slid underneath a car parked in the alley. Then he held his breath and listened.
Boots stomped past.
One set. Then two. Then three.
Deep voices spoke low enough he couldn’t hear. Thad strained his neck but couldn’t see what the men were doing or where they were going.
If I make it out of this—
He broke off the thought. It was dangerous to question, to doubt.
