4. Walker
Chapter 4
Walker
I cannot believe that my freaking fence just messaged me from the front porch, asking for a meet. The whole point of the internet, of bouncing our IP address halfway around the world, is so we both stay safe and anonymous. But now NightAntiques has blown the whole thing wide open. How does he even know where we live? How is he even in the country, let alone the state?
I mean, I guessed he was in the Midwest—the info and jobs from him were centered in the land of corn and cheese. But here? On our doorstep? On a Saturday night while Trips is hosting a game? Too many coincidences.
I shot a message to the guys so they know what’s up, but they have their own jobs to do upstairs. Only I’m redundant. I free up Jansen to do more lifts, but he’ll be just as effective behind the bar as I am, and a challenge has always helped him keep his compulsions in check.
Clara’s letting me hold her hand, and it feels good, right, centering. I have a long fuse, but when I reach the end, it’s explosive.
Without her here? I’m sure I’d be itching for a fight right about now. With her? I might not start yelling. Yelling is never a good way to deal with criminals. There are too many guns, and the stakes are too high.
Be reasonable, Walker, be calm, be in control of yourself and your reactions. I force out another breath, pulling on a bored face, forcing my shoulders to relax, arrogance bubbling in my chest to mask my anger, my fear. I flick on the lights for the front hall and the front porch, and with one last breath, I open the door, Clara’s hand soft and warm in my own.
Framed in the half light of the front porch, a woman leans against the railing, swiping through her phone. Once the door creaks open, she turns, a tight braid of red hair whipping around to follow her, freckles visible even in the half light.
Huh. So this is NightAntiques.
“DaVinciDeux?” she asks, using the continental pronunciation.
I nod, uncertain what tact to take. Where before I was waffling between throwing a punch and playing up my arrogance, now I’m not sure either tact will suit this development. The press of my palm to Clara’s reminds me she’s still there, that she’s paying attention, that she’s got my back.
“I’d rather not chat on the front porch,” NightAntiques says, sauntering up to the door. “I’d also like to talk without…a guest, if possible.”
“Come inside, but I won’t speak alone with a stranger. I figured Clara here would make you less nervous than one of the guys on my team,” I say, pretending like I have a plan, like I knew she was a woman all along.
NightAntiques dips her chin before she follows us in, a thick puffy coat covering her to mid-calf. It’s not quite November yet, so either she’s a transplant or she goes south when real winter hits. I debate taking her to the living room, but there’s no way to secure that space. Instead, I start back upstairs, heading for my bedroom, my hand anchored to Clara’s.
None of us says anything until we’re closed up with the door locked behind us. NightAntiques examines the space, sizing up my half-finished canvases, before stripping off her coat and claiming my drafting chair. I lead Clara to my loveseat, and we both settle in, waiting.
NightAntiques pulls her braid over her shoulder before crossing one leg over the other. I realize with the height difference in our chairs, it’s as if she’s on a throne and we’re commoners requesting an audience with the queen.
Bad tactics, Walker.
Her sharp gaze takes in Clara, whose dark eyes are wide, darting from our visitor’s feet to her face, both taking the measure of the other, before the fence turns to me. “So, can we cut the subterfuge? I’m Jasmine. You’re Walker. We’ve worked together on a few gigs, and I figured it was time we finally met, face-to-face.”
I take my time answering. Jasmine doesn’t fit her. I’d have figured she was a Fiona or a Kathleen with that hair. Although, who am I to talk? I’m Korean and my parents named me Walker .
She looks about our age, which I figure means she’s a few years older. I’ve yet to meet a true redhead who doesn’t look younger. It might have something to do with the freckles, but I haven’t done a study or anything. It’s just, I’ve done a lot of figure drawing in college, and every redhead I’ve drawn looks like they’re sixteen at the most.
I watch her, trying to get a read, but she’s still, composed. “Why now?” I ask.
She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward, her braid dangling. “We had a good run there last year. But you messed up a simple info-gathering job this summer. Now I have a major retrieval operation you say you can do, but as the client would like his product sooner than expected, I’m concerned about your ability to successfully retrieve the item in time.”
I scoff, not able to help myself. “I thought we were going to cut the subterfuge. No need to talk in circles. You’re worried we’re going to botch the Rubens job.”
A small smile twists up one side of her mouth. “Exactly.”
My anger flares. Not only did that summer job have a tight timeline, it went belly-up because some kids pulled a fire alarm, of all things. The plan had been great, but who’d expect that level of chaos? We didn’t. When RJ pulled the police report on that one, well, Trips wasn’t the only one spending time with the heavy bag. “Either you trust us with the job or you don’t,” I say.
Jasmine brings a manicured finger to her lips. “Your team is currently my best option, but you’re not my only option. I thought an in-person evaluation might help settle my client’s mind.”
“An in-person evaluation? What, like tryouts? ”
Jasmine raises her shoulder in a small continental shrug. “If you’d like to think about it like that, I won’t stop you. As you know, the commission on this job is, well, substantial, and I have no desire to have my portion disappear because I bet on the wrong horse. Or horse team, as the case happens to be.”
I try to control my breathing. This is absurd. If we were good enough for this job this summer when she offered it, why would we suddenly be any less qualified now? I’ve been working on my Rubens reproductions for months, and I’m finally getting good enough that a switch is possible. Is she just looking for a reason to break our contract? “Explain what kind of tryouts you have in mind,” I say, wanting to piece this all together.
“I thought I’d have your team and two others do a little competition over Thanksgiving weekend. Whoever wins gets the job.”
I laugh. “You’re not going to find a better Rubens forger on such short notice. I’m one of the best, and you booked me months ago.”
“Oh, I mean, it could always be a smash and grab.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Are you asking to go to jail? A smash and grab? The grabber will get caught; they always do. And who do you think they’ll sell out for a reduced sentence? You, that’s who. And who are you going to snitch on for your get out of jail free card? Your rich-as-Midas clients? Nope, you’d be selling us out. No way you’re doing a smash and grab.”
She stands up and pulls a small stretch. “Then I guess you’d better win the competition. I’ll be sending the details tomorrow. All three teams will have the same information and the same window of opportunity. It will be a battle royale. Good luck, Walker.”
Jasmine slips on her coat before pausing at the door for me to escort her down. After that challenge, I would’ve assumed she’d gladly flounce herself down the stairs, but I guess I’m wrong.
I stand up, pulling Clara with me. I know I’m probably holding her hand too tightly, so I try to loosen my grip, but she gives me a quick squeeze, as if she’s trying to tell me it’s okay, that she knows I’m freaking out, even if I look perfectly normal on the outside. At least, I hope I look calm and collected right now. I don’t want NightAntiques, Jasmine, to feel like she won this round. But she did, and all three of us know it.
I lead her back down the stairs, Clara by my side. Before I open the front door, I turn to the slight redhead. “How did you know where to find us?” I ask, the question niggling at the back of my brain since I first got her message.
“Your hacker does a good job wiping your tracks,” she says.
“Yes, he does,” I say, proud of the work RJ does, even if I don’t understand half of it.
“Well, my hacker, she’s better,” she says, before striding out the door and into the cool fall air.
Fuck.
I shut the door, letting go of Clara so I can slide the deadbolt into place. I take a minute to rest my forehead against the cool wood. Goddamn it. Tryouts. Like we’re a high school cheer squad or something.
How am I supposed to tell the guys? How did I not see this coming ?
We need this job. But now we have to fight for it, while still planning the Rubens gig, running an underground gambling ring, producing fake IDs, carjacking, and doing whatever it is that RJ does that gets us steady deposits in our accounts.
Oh, and not failing college.
This is impossible.
Damn it, I should have seen this coming. I brought in this connection, but then I couldn’t identify that damn Van Dyck before that whole gig went sideways. I thought I was good enough to work with a top-of-the-line fence. But of course, I’m not. I never was. I never am.
My bravado? It’s going to sink us.
The frustration and anger boil up, and I know I’m going to lose it.
God-fucking-damn it.