Chapter 3 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
My eyes narrow on the figure dressed in black. I don’t move. I can’t. From where I’m tucked against the wall, it doesn’t look
like they’ve spotted me—but they know someone’s here. At least that’s my guess based on how fast they stopped trying to pick
the library door’s lock.
Whoever it is, they know what they’re doing. Their movements are clean, practiced, and efficient enough to make my gut tighten.
The museum is full of priceless art, and a clever thief might choose a fundraiser to pull a job while everyone’s distracted
by a country star and free champagne. But this one? They’re not interested in art. They’re focused on that door. Who else
besides me would be trying to break into the very room where Ramirez’s laptop is sitting?
My mind spins. Nearly two years deep undercover with Operation Shadow Broker, and my team combed through every one of Ramirez’s
potential enemies, looking for anyone who might want to take him down. The list was long, the task tedious, but in the end,
nobody was reckless—or suicidal—enough to go after Ramirez head-on. At least no one we knew about.
So who is this mystery figure in black?
My pulse hammers in my ears. Time’s bleeding away and soon Ramirez will be up here. I have two choices. Both will expose me. But one might give me the upper hand. Maybe.
“Who’s there?”
My voice echoes off the gallery walls. I brace, expecting the figure to startle, run—something. They don’t even flinch. The
complete lack of reaction feels deliberate. A power play I wasn’t ready for.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, keeping my position tight against the wall. My tone sharp. Steady. “This area is
off-limits to guests.”
A scuffling sound pulls my attention a few inches left of where I’ve been looking. That’s when I realize they are moving.
Blending into the shadows. I thought I had them pinned—but with tiny, imperceptible steps, they’ve been shifting just enough
so that I’m mostly talking to a wall.
Unease coils through my muscles. Every instinct I have is screaming to go on the offensive, to drag whoever’s lurking into
the light. But I can’t blow my cover. So I lean into the part.
“Museum security. You need to leave now.”
There’s a noise—small, so small I almost miss it—but unmistakable. A snort.
I blink. The moment of confusion barely has time to register before another sound cuts through the air: voices. Footsteps.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. Two museum security guards are heading straight for me.
The shadow figure must hear them, too, because they bolt—slipping deeper into the darkness and disappearing toward the back
hallway. Instinct kicks in and I follow them. Not because I want to give chase. I don’t. As much as I’d like to unmask whoever’s screwing with my mission, getting caught up here isn’t an option. And I’m pretty
sure “I was stopping a mysterious cat burglar” won’t hold much weight when the museum calls the police.
Ahead of me, the door to the stairwell clicks shut. I reach it just in time to catch a flash of black darting up the stairs.
I hesitate, heart hammering.
Down is safer.
Down is smart.
Down is how I stick to the plan. But the figure in black just blew my mission—and when Special Agent Katherine Scott demands
an explanation, I want a name.
I make my choice and go up.
If there’s even a small chance I can ID whoever ruined eighteen months of undercover work, I’m taking it.
Slowly, I pry open the door and peek into the fourth-level gallery. I have no idea if the person I’m chasing is armed. Whoever’s
lurking is probably just as ticked off at me for interrupting their plans as I am at them.
I slip inside. Technically, I should have the advantage. I was just here. I know the layout. But whatever ease I felt minutes
ago? Gone. Now, every dark corner between the sculptures and display cases looks ready to strike.
Turning back isn’t an option. If museum security catches me skulking around, I’ll have to explain, and there’s no version
of that conversation I like. The only way out is across the gallery, through the stairwell door on the far side. And the only
thing standing in my way is the figure in black.
Movement by a window snaps my attention left. I pick up my pace, careful to stick to the shadows. A display wall stands between
us, and as I duck past a spotlight shining down on an abstract piece, my shoulder brushes the frame.
I freeze. A soft red glow pulses behind the painting—a motion alarm. One wrong move, and this place will light up like a Christmas
tree. Exhaling slowly, I ease back.
Behind me, the stairwell door bangs open. Male voices echo across the gallery. The guards. Fantastic. My time’s up.
I pivot toward the stairwell, moving fast but quiet, rounding the corner—expecting my quarry to be long gone—only to find
them less than ten feet away. They’re facing me. Or at least, I think they are.
Darkness cloaks them so thoroughly, all I can make out are the whites of their eyes. Something about the way they’re standing, the tension vibrating off them, feels . . . wrong.
There’s no time to puzzle it out. The guards are getting closer. I spin toward the stairwell—only to hear footsteps coming
up fast.
“I’m heading to the fourth level now,” a voice says, followed by the sharp burst of static from a radio.
Backing up a few steps, I realize I’m pinned. Two guards behind me and one about to cut me off in front. I glance at the mounted
security cameras. Someone on our tech team had better be awake at the wheel tonight.
My gaze cuts left—to the figure in black. They’re edging toward the window. If they try opening it, the alarms will make both
our lives harder. But they stop. And the wall beside them shifts. Not a wall—a door. One hidden so well it even has fake crown
molding and a painting hung on it. In the space of a blink, the figure slips through and vanishes.
I start for the door—it’s my only shot out of here—but when I get to the wall, there’s no knob. The first two guards are only
a room over now, and the third guard is calling out to them. Only a wall and this door separate me from getting caught.
My fingers scrape along the molding until I find the latch. I twist it and wedge the door open just enough to slip through
into a low-lit hallway. Crates and frame boxes line the walls. This must be where they move the pieces in and out of the gallery.
The hallway only leads one way, so I follow it, quick and silent, until I hit a service elevator and another set of stairs.
No sight of the figure in black. Doesn’t matter anymore. Saving this mission is the only priority.
“What are you doing?”
Ruby’s voice crackles in my earpiece, making my heart spike. If she’s checking in, I’ve already burned too much time. Ruby
doesn’t do patience. If I don’t answer her fast, she’ll come looking, and that’s the last thing I want.
I can’t drag another agent into this mess.
Sweat beads along my collar as I jog down the steps. I don’t know where this stairwell exits, but I can’t take the risk of popping out in the middle of the gala. The guards are clustered on the fourth level. The third level should be clear.
I ease the door open and step into a narrow, dark hallway. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Then I spot the easels
and half-restored paintings. The oily chemical smell hits me a second later—linseed oil, varnish, solvents. Conservation studio.
If I’m here, then—
I crack open the next door and confirm it. Across the hall sits the Mayer Library. Only now, I’m out of time. Ramirez and
Rook could show up any second—or Ruby will. Neither option ends well.
Frustration tightens in my gut.
Movement across the gallery catches my eye. The figure in black, slipping between the exhibits. They don’t know I’m here.
Yet. So I take advantage. Moving swiftly toward them, I keep the pedestals holding sculptures between us.
“Stop.” The word rumbles out, half growl, half command. To my surprise, they do.
It feels like déjà vu. Shadow against shadow. Facing off. Only now, they have two choices—run upstairs toward the guards or
downstairs toward the gala.
I take a step forward, feeling like the tables have finally shifted in my favor. Until I see their hand move. Quickly, I shift
left, putting a marble bust between me and whatever they’re about to pull. Gun? Blade? Something worse?
But they’re not aiming at me. Their hand presses against the wall, right next to a portrait of a woman reaching from a boat
to rescue the shipwrecked.
I freeze, confusion cutting through the adrenaline. Then it clicks. The motion sensor. One nudge of that frame and the alarms
will go off and chaos will descend. But—what about them? They’ll be caught too. Unless . . .
They have a plan.
Who are you? The thought barely forms before they tap the frame. I brace for the shriek of alarms, the explosion of red lights, the pounding boots of security. Nothing.
I glance wildly around, heart hammering, but all I hear is the honky-tonk twang drifting up from the gala. Silent alarm. By the time the realization hits, the figure in black is gone. This would never happen to Bond.