Page 69 of Stolen Goods
Jo inhaled sharply. Addy turned to the side, meeting her friend’s panicked, questioning gaze. For the first time that day, she was calm. Jo said they needed to be separated, andthatshe could do.
The Russians stopped arguing. One turned. “What?”
“The painting Thaddeus Ryder stole? The Degas?” Her voice was surprisingly steady. “I know where it is.”
“Where?”
Addy swallowed. “I have to show you. It’s hidden.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She knew exactly what he saw—a weak woman who was small and fragile, easy to overpower, and scared out of her mind. The assessment was accurate. Yet deep down, a strength thrummed, whispering she was so much more than the outside world believed.
“Untie me, and I’ll get it for you.”
The second man said something in Russian. They both laughed. At first, she thought it was a,Ha! Ha! Look at this silly woman trying to get us to untie her. Does she think we’re idiots?But then, one of the Russians stepped forward and Addy had to force a smile from rising to her lips. Because the laughter, well, it had been nothing more than classic male chauvinism. And there wasn’t a woman in the world who didn’t understand the special glee that came from being underestimated by a man—that bright, burning knowledge that he was about to be proven wrong. Of course,Addywouldn’t be the one proving them wrong. That was all Jo. But still, if everything went well, she planned to steal a little of the credit.
The hope sparking to life in her chest died the minute cold steel pressed against her temple. A violent twitch spasmed up her spine, causing Addy to flinch. Every nerve in her body was attuned to that small circle, no bigger than a quarter, promising death. Her pulse raced. Her skin buzzed. She swallowed, trying to regain the calm.
“Where is it?” the man grunted.
Her chin wouldn’t stop shaking. She had a stutter when she spoke. “The car.”
“Let’s go.”
He pushed the barrel deeper into her skin and grabbed her by the shoulder, then pulled her to a standing position. Addy stumbled, tripping over her feet as he yanked her toward the door, stopping only to grab the keys. He was strong and he held her upright, grip hard enough to bruise. The other man stepped to the side as they passed, holding his gun up, aimed at Jo’s head. And then they were outside in the desert heat. The street was empty, not another soul in sight. The hour was odd, late enough that the acrid air was starting to cool, but not so late people would be coming home from work. A witching hour under the bright light of day. The man shifted the gun to her lower back and gripped the twine tying her wrists. A subtler hold, but an unbreakable one nonetheless. He didn’t slow until they were next to the car.
“You run, I shoot.”
Addy nodded.
He dug the metal deeper.
“Okay,” Addy said out loud. “I understand.”
A tingle zipped down her spine as steel sang—a sound she could recognize blind. Addy had spent enough time in the kitchen to know a knife when she heard one. He jerked her arms back, a painfully high angle. Addy inhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes against the ache as he cut through the binds. A moment later, she was free. Addy pulled her wrists into her chest, unwinding the twine and rubbing at her chafed skin. He threw the car door open and used the gun to push her inside. She landed face-first against the seats and scurried as far away as possible.
The painting… Where is the painting?
Addy ducked her head, scanning the shadows beneath the seats where she’d seen Thad tuck the art tube a few times before. It wasn’t there. Panic scorched, a wildfire alive inside her chest.
No. No. No.
Thad had been the last one in the car. Had he taken it? She knew he was planning to run—that gleam in his eyes had been unmistakable. But for some reason, she’d been convinced he wouldn’t take the Degas with him. She’d been certain he’d leave the painting behind for the Feds to find rather than steal such beauty away. Addy’s faith in that one tiny part of him had been absolute, but now doubt tickled at the back of her thoughts.
If I was wrong about that…what else was I wrong about?
What else did I misjudge?
A bright spot caught her eye. Addy blinked, realizing it was light reflecting off shiny rubber—the top of the art tube. The painting was there, hidden deep beneath the middle seat.
I was right. A whoosh of relieved air pushed through her lips, blanketing a little bit of the fear. She took a breath, clearing her mind.And now I need to buy Jo some time.
Addy curled her fingers in, resisting the urge to grab the art tube, and sat up. After crawling over the second row of seats, she fell none to gracefully into the trunk and fiddled with the tent, trying to look busy. Really, she was searching for a weapon, anything she could use to fight back.
Would the tent stakes do any damage? Could she stab him with one?
No.
Addy sighed. They weren’t sharp and she wasn’t very strong. What about the tent itself? Could she just throw it on him and run? Pull a vanishing act?
