CHAPTER TWENTY
CASH
Sylvie struts over to the cleaning company vans, assuming her character so flawlessly that no one would suspect she wasn’t an employee.
And yet something clamps down on my lungs.
My gut told me not to let her go through with this job, to lock her down at La Lune Noire.
But when Axel dug into it, we couldn’t find a concrete reason it was any more trouble than her typical heists.
The note left at her New York loft was a dead end.
My security team had been focused on her, not her residence.
And there was nothing definitive caught by any nearby cameras.
It’s not something to be ignored, but not something to flip out over.
It could have been a friendly warning rather than a threat—likely from someone she should not call a friend.
Axel has some disturbing theories about what she could be stealing and who she could be mixed up with. It’s all conjecture though. And Sylvie is not interested in hearing speculation or being held captive because of it. Which I respect because she’s fucking fierce.
But that won’t stop me from assuming the worst-case scenario and protecting her with that in mind.
That’s precisely why I slapped the bracelet on her at the last minute.
If I’d done it earlier, she’d have fought me on it.
I had to make her believe it was the only way to keep me out of that building.
It wasn’t. I had no intention of staying by the bike, with or without the tracking device. But I did need to ensure we didn’t get separated. Aside from monitoring her position and her vitals, it also has a small camera that enables me to glimpse what she’s doing.
While I’ll support her being who she was made to be, I need to be who I am too.
I’m not the masterful thief she is, but she underestimates my skills.
I can read a room—or any atmosphere. Like how there’s a disgruntled and awkward energy among the cleaning crew, suggesting they don’t always work with one another.
Picking up on the slightest nuances in people comes second nature to me.
For instance, in one of the vans, there’s a shady fucker with his uniform hat pulled down too low, who eyes Sylvie as she breezes inside.
And when that same asshole exits from the van and taps another guy waiting on the walkway, the whole exchange is too intense to have anything to do with floor maintenance.
So, of course, I swipe one of the cleaner’s access cards, track Sylvie’s route, hold a dust mop to thwart the cameras, and take a different staircase to follow her. And like my observation skills implied, I’m not the only one.
I make it to the twentieth floor, on the opposite side from where Sylvie entered.
The door to Beatrice Shaeffer’s office is closed, but the bracelet camera confirms that my girl is inside, doing her thing.
I’m cloaked in the shadows of a nine-foot water feature when two guys skulk through the office.
I’m far enough away that they’re utterly oblivious to my presence, so I take the opportunity to film them and snap various pictures, in case Axel’s theories are correct.
The stockier of the two roams, cataloging some of the decor in the office with curiosity, but not artistic appreciation. “You got the fob to override the biometric entry, right?”
“Yep.” The lanky guy I caught watching Sylvie pulls out a gun, flipping the safety off and cocking the hammer. “And I think the girl is in there now.”
He just signed his death warrant.
Patience is key to any great win. I know this.
But ire courses through my veins. I spare a glance at the footage from Sylvie’s bracelet cam.
It appears that she’s messing with a small box, so I’d like to give her another minute before the inevitable interruption, and I don’t have the best angle on them from here because of the huge receptionist desk.
From what I can see of her position, she’s on the ceiling near the far corner.
He swipes the fob, and when the door beeps to let him in, he waves the other guy over. “In here. C’mon.”
Fuck patience. I step out from the water feature, not bothering to seek cover now that they’re entering the office, and bolt past the desk, aiming my suppressed FNX-45 Tactical.
His friend grabs his gun and wanders in after him, but he senses me coming.
Yeah, motherfucker, I’m here for you.
The floor creaks as he spins just inside the threshold with his pistol raised, and I lodge a bullet in his forehead. Then one in the back of the lanky bastard’s head.
They start to fall, but before I can process whether another bullet is necessary for either, Sylvie fucking swings down from the ceiling, flips through the air, and kicks the first dude in the face, sending him backward into the other guy.
They end up piled in a heap near the door, and only when she manages to land on her feet—like a goddamn cat—does she realize they’re dead and I’m standing in the threshold.
“What the fuck?” she heaves, clutching her chest and clearly struggling to regulate her breathing. “You … you shot … you killed them … oh my shit.”
She takes in the blood soaking into the whitewashed hardwood, and I see what’s coming before she does. Every morsel of food she ingested in the last twenty-four hours spills onto the bastards. That’s DNA we did not need at the scene.
I tuck my gun in my waistband, scoop her up, and cradle her flailing body against mine while I kick the legs of the brawny guy out of the way and shut us all inside the office. “You knocked those assholes out. Fucking brilliant, baby.”
“Put me down,” she snipes. “I need to get out of here.” A whimper emanates from the depth of her diaphragm. “Armed is twenty to life. Murder …”
That panic in her tone reminds me of the ruse she pulled with my family, but this time, it’s eerie because she’s trying to tamp it down and can’t. The fear of going away like her father probably haunts her.
Squeezing her against me, I move my lips to her ear.
“You’re doing great, but you’re in shock.
I need you to take a deep breath and let me fix this.
You’re not going to prison, Sly. We’re going home very soon.
” I continue holding her until she melts against me with a measured inhale-exhale cycle. “That’s it. I’ve got this.”
Her professionalism kicks in, and she settles, but I’m still not willing to put her on her feet.
There’s too much blood seeping around us.
I step away to avoid it and reposition her trembling body with her legs hooked around my waist and her fanny pack smashed between us.
Then I pull out my phone and press a number on speed dial.
“Who the hell are you calling?” she hisses. Her spine snaps ramrod straight, and her ambers are wild with fear.
“A cleaner.”
She shakes her head, her mind clearly racing, and I pick up on the root of her confusion.
“Not a cleaner like what’s downstairs.” I spin my finger around the carnage. “One for this.”
Axel and I knew something like this was a possibility.
We hoped we were overthinking it, but in case we weren’t, we prepared a whole team of people to be on standby for a myriad of issues.
One of them is York, a cleaner Axel and Maddox have both used.
He’s on KORT’s payroll, specifically for Wells’s crew.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, burying her face in my neck. “Of course you’re the kind of person who knows that kind of cleaner.”
I’m sure we’ll chat more about this later, but right now, I have to handle this.
“Go,” York clips. He was expecting me, but he’s not the chatty type. A product of his profession, no doubt.
“At the address previously reported. Twentieth floor. Office 2001.”
“How many?” he asks, referring to bodies.
“Two.”
“Requirements?” That’s a request for the specific cleanup needs.
“As mentioned, there is a floor-cleaning crew roaming the building. You’ll need to blend in.
We’re limited on time. I’d estimate a three-hour window before they reach this area.
Doors are RFID and biometric secure. I can prop them open if needed.
The whitewashed wood floors have significant staining. And vomit.”
“Plotting?” He wants to know how to handle the disappearance of these guys.
I bend to search their pockets, tapping Sylvie’s thigh so she doesn’t try to get down and end up in the blood. “Keep your feet up.”
She clings to me with a trepidation I don’t ever want her to experience again as I pat them each down, thankful the vomit hit areas other than their pockets. No identification on either of them. That’s unfortunate.
“None,” I tell York. “Do whatever is most efficient.”
“Artistic license is always appreciated.” He chuckles, like any deranged lunatic who relishes the craft of body cleanup would. “We were ready. My guys are in the building with equipment, arriving on the twentieth floor in two minutes. Do you have anything on you that will spread?”
Not worried about Sylvie because I’ll carry her, I glance down at myself and notice some blood on my shoes. Must’ve happened when I checked their pockets.
“Yep. My shoes.” I toe them off with a grumbled, “Fuck.”
“Remove them.” Annoyance escorts that demand. “Leave them for us or wipe them on the clothing we’ll be handling and take them with you. Do not wear them out. Anything they touch will need to be detailed.”
“Got it.”
“Proof of completion will be sent. Lobby cameras will loop for the next five minutes, so take the back stairwell now. My crew is on their way. Anonymity is preferred.”
Ahh. In other words, Get the hell out, thank you very much.
But I get it. It’s always best when people can’t point their finger, and York and his team are like ghosts. Summoned, but never seen.
“On it.” I end the call, wipe my shoes on the jeans of one of the dead guys without getting any more blood on me, and scurry out the door with Sylvie curled around me, my Italian cap-toe boots in one hand and my pistol in the other.