8. Galahad
Galahad
Grace knelt in front of the closet, clothes scattered around her like fallout from an IED.
Her shirt rode up at the back, revealing a strip of smooth skin.
Not the time to be checking her out, Cruz.
I averted my eyes, which landed on a black lace thong that had been flung aside in her frantic search.
Look at the wall.
I was here to ensure she was safe, not to wonder about her curves or notice the dimples at the base of her spine as she leaned forward.
Fucking focus, man. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She stood and turned to face me, clutching a shoebox to her chest. “I just needed to make sure this was still here.”
I’d seen that look before. The barely contained panic, the desperation.
My mother had frantically searched for our passports one night, while my father was passed out drunk in the next room.
She’d worn that face when she found them.
Fat lot of good it had done us in the end, because she’d chickened out, and we hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Can we go to the living room? There’s something I want to show you.”
I followed her, evaluating the apartment as a home instead of a CQB exercise. The open layout gave decent visibility, but the cheap locks on the balcony door—let alone the glass in the door—wouldn’t keep out anyone who was determined to get in. Anyone who wanted in would get in.
Grace gestured to the couch.
I sat, the soft cushions sinking under my weight as she knelt on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table, placing the box between us.
Her ponytail had loosened at some point, and wisps of hair framed her face.
She looked softer here than at the café, more vulnerable.
The messy apartment might have been behind it.
In her workplace, she was clearly in charge, following a rhythm she’d mastered. But here? Her defenses were lower.
And why was I evaluating her?
“I’m heading to London tomorrow,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m supposed to be there for a week.”
Tristan had mentioned it when he’d called me this morning.
“And this,” she continued, pulling the lid off the box, “is why I’m going.”
Inside was an old silk scarf in pinks and reds. Probably not what she was actually hiding in a box under a mountain of dirty clothes.
“My grandmother passed away last year.” Grace pulled the scarf out to reveal a small velvet bag, nestled comfortably on a bed of more scarves.
“My dad’s been going through her things gradually, with my mom’s help.
A month ago, they finally got to her jewelry collection.
There were a few genuine pieces in a small drawer of her jewelry box, but it was mostly costume stuff. ”
A sad smile creased her face. Between this reaction and how she’d talked about the woman yesterday at her café, it was clear her grandmother had been someone special to her.
“I used to play dress-up with her when I was little, so they gave it all to me, in case I wanted to keep anything.” She handed me the bag. “That was inside, under a pile of fake gold and foiled glass.”
It was heavier than I’d expected. I untied the bag and upended it, letting a blue-enameled egg slide onto my palm.
A bit larger than a plum, it had an obvious seam around its middle that glinted gold, with a tiny clear stone next to it.
A familiar tingle of recognition traveled up my spine.
I’d seen objects like this before, during my time with Task Force Legacy.
Artifacts with histories. Artifacts worth killing for.
Grace raised to her knees and pointed at the stone. “Press there.”
When I did, the eggshell popped open, revealing it was hollow and lined in gold. Inside sat a perfectly round golden ball, like a yolk.
“Now take that out.” She pointed to an indentation in the seam around the yolk. “Press in there and it’ll pop open, too.”
I did as she said, and the yolk opened with a soft click. The glitter it revealed made me suck in a breath through my teeth. “Holy fuck.”
Inside the yolk, a golden hen sat in a nest of gold, with easily a hundred tiny clear stones beneath. It grasped a blue stone in its beak, and dozens more of the clear stones decorated its body. The execution was impeccable—the kind of detail built by masters of another era.
“That’s pretty much what I said when I saw it the first time.” Grace shook her head slowly. “It’s like a Russian nesting doll. I think the hen opens, but I couldn’t figure out how.”
I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, which caught on the tiny stones, their rough facets winking with the fire unique to diamonds. Between them, the seam across the hen’s breast was evident, but if she couldn’t open it, I wouldn’t force it.
Working with the archaeological teams had taught me precision and care. I’d handled artifacts thousands of years older than this, including jewels, crumbling tablets, and ancient coins. This was different. It wasn’t ancient, but it was immensely valuable.
I angled the light, studying the way it hit the metal. “It’s obviously real gold, but?—”
“How can you tell?”
“Gold doesn’t tarnish, but over time, it develops a particular patina. There are also certain imperfections, like—” I caught myself before my lecture continued. “I’ve worked with archaeologists who specialized in ancient gold artifacts.”
“Tristan told me a few things about his work protecting dig sites in Afghanistan. Did you serve with him there? Or were you in the Navy or SEALs with him?”
“I met him in Afghanistan, after we’d both left the Teams,” I said, twisting the hen in the light, focused on the blue stone in its beak.
“I can see through this stone, so there’s no foil lining it.
The cut is rougher than modern work, but it’s got enough inclusions to rule out glass.
Hand-cut, but not with modern techniques. ”
“I took it to a jeweler, who said the same thing.”
I turned off my flashlight. “If you already talked to a jeweler, why do you need to take it to London?”
“I have an appointment with an authenticator who handles Russian antiquities. Izzy and Tristan introduced me to a local woman who put me in touch with the guy. The woman said it might be...” She waved her hands, as though searching for the right words, or maybe thinking the right words were wrong.
After a minute of fluster, she picked up the blue eggshell and snapped it shut.
“She said it might be one of the lost Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.”
My gaze climbed to meet hers. Double fuck.
A Fabergé egg? Those eggs had originally been crafted for the Russian Imperial family, and many of them had vanished after the Revolution.
Objects like that didn’t reappear without consequences.
If it was genuine, it was worth a shitton of money, a lot of prestige, and too many people had killed for a lot less.
And it explained why the men who showed up at her café yesterday did so, if they somehow knew about it. An image flashed through my mind: Grace alone with this egg in London, walking into a meeting with people who might do anything to get their hands on it.
“The Russian at the café was asking about your grandmother?”
She nodded and sat, pulling her knees up. She pretended none of it bothered her, but it clearly did.
“And the other man said what?” I set the hen on the table. “That he wanted this?”
“He was specific. He said his employer wanted the egg.”
“That wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I know.” Her voice was small, uncertain, and the flush that had colored her cheeks when she pulled the box from her closet was nowhere to be seen. “But what does it mean?”
“Tristan knows about it, right?” I stood as I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“Not entirely. I told them I’d found an antique I thought might be valuable and left it at that. I’m not sure it’s really Fabergé, and I… I felt ridiculous saying it.” From her spot on the floor, she stared up at me, those green eyes wide with worry and doubt.
For a moment, I was back in my childhood bedroom, watching my mother try to hide her fear as she packed my things and told me everything would be fine. I’d been too young to understand at the time. Too young to protect her.
Focus on the phone. I found Tristan in my contacts and called.
He answered before my brain started tugging toward more memories of my mother. “My meeting starts in ten. What’s up?”
“You’re on speaker.” I tapped the button and recapped everything, including the possibility she was going to be traveling with a Fabergé egg.
There was a long pause before Tristan spoke. “You’re shitting me?”
Grace blurted out, “I think it’s the Hen with Sapphire Pendant. At least, that’s what an internet search brought up. No one really knows what it looked like, except that it included a hen, encrusted with diamonds and sapphires, with a sapphire in its beak.”
“If this is real,” I said, “this is a big fucking deal.”
Grace sat up straighter, reaching for one of the scarves and fidgeting with it. “Well, at least it makes for a more interesting trip than I expected?”
It was likely meant as a statement, but it came out as a question. The subtle shake in her voice and the ‘at least’ almost had me on the floor hugging her. A hug? Where did that come from?
“Jesus Christ, I thought you meant it was an old brooch or something, not a fucking Russian treasure,” Tristan snapped. “You are not going to London alone.”
“Exactly my thoughts.” I set my phone on the table and resisted the urge to pace. “If someone already knows about it, the authenticator might have tipped them off. You can’t trust him.”
“But he’s the go-to guy for this sort of stuff. Meeting with him is a big deal.”
“Whether he is or not may not matter,” Tristan said. “Word spreads in these circles. The kind of people who hunt for these eggs? They have networks. And they pay for information.”