Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

The piece of art itself surpassed the description breathtaking. But that wasn’t the main reason Wallace wanted it.

The little girl who was the centerpiece of the painting was the spitting image of Sophie.

It wasn’t just a strong resemblance. It wasn’t only similar features, facial expressions, or body movements. It was as close a rendition of Sophie as any actual portrait of her could convey—from her flowing golden brown hair to the sparkle in her wide, velvety dark eyes, to the impish grin and the dimple she always flashed that had Wallace wrapped around her little finger. The little girl in the painting had Sophie’s stubborn chin, upturned nose, and soft peaches-and-cream complexion. In all ways but in reality, she was Sophie.

Wallace had saved that final central spot on his gallery wall for this painting. A painting that he’d originally been promised by that street scum Xiao Long. That transaction sure as hell wasn’t going to happen now—not since Wallace was fully aware that it was really Liu who’d been selling him the paintings out of some sick desire to torture him.

Once again, rage knotted his gut. What an idiot he’d been. Missing all the signs. Mistaking Liu’s support of his galleries for compassion. Bartering his investment-banking services for a minority stake in that Italian company, only to learn that the Mafia was involved with the business. Missing Liu’s reasons for introducing Cindy into his life, even after seeing her strong resemblance to Meili. And missing the fact that Xiao Long, that low-class thug, was fronting all along for Johnny Liu.

Liu blamed Wallace for a negligence that was, in fact, his own.

Wallace had loved Meili. He’d never intentionally hurt or abandon her. If he’d had even the slightest inkling that she was desperate and, of all things, pregnant with his child, he would have been by her side, taken care of her and the baby.

To Liu, it would still have been a disgrace he couldn’t abide. He still would have cast Meili aside. And he still would have hated and resented Wallace. But Meili would have been alive today.

None of that could be undone. But Liu’s retaliation—to maliciously, deliberately rob a five-year-old child of her life? No one short of a monster could do that.

And the bastard wasn’t finished.

Wallace might have been blind before, but his eyes were wide open now. He knew Liu’s plans for him were building steam. He’d already stripped him of everything he held dear. The only thing left to bring Wallace to his knees was criminal prosecution. Liu would find a way to alert the authorities to the stolen paintings in Wallace’s private collection. Then, he’d manage to keep his own name out of it and frame Wallace for stealing all those works of art.

Johnny Liu wasn’t a patient man. Time was of the essence.

Wallace’s entire collection would have to immediately be disassembled and moved to the rustic little cottage in the Catskills that he’d purchased some fifteen years ago. The cottage was set on twenty acres on top of a rolling hill. He’d originally bought it for investment and recreational purposes. But after 9/11, he’d carved a hidden underground bunker into the beautiful hillside. At the time, he’d been thinking of preservation of life and the salvage of his most precious possessions.

Now he was fighting for his freedom.

He’d clear out his collection later tonight, pack up his car, and leave at dawn for the drive to upstate New York.

He’d be home before any suspicions were raised.

The three vehicles turned onto Crosby Street and paused.

No traffic ahead.

The van and one of the cars proceeded down the narrow street, while the well-worn gray Honda Accord stayed behind, maneuvering itself perpendicularly, blocking all vehicles from passing. The driver shut off the vehicle, yanked out the ignition key, and tossed the key fob belonging to the dead alarm-company employee under the front seat and out of sight.

The van continued down the block. The leader scanned the area, ensuring that the security provided by the FBI had been neutralized. Satisfied, he gave the driver the go-ahead. The van accelerated rapidly, parking at the end of the block near Prince Street. Its driver and passenger exited and watched while the second car wedged itself sideways, scraping its bumpers against cars parked on either side of the street. With the block inaccessible, the team convened on foot in the middle of the street, carrying their duffel bags.

The leader nodded.

Two members of the team responded by pulling out cell phones and dialing two different numbers. They watched as the vehicles at either end of the street exploded, bursting into flames.

The four well-trained Albanian killers headed for the door of the Jaspar Museum of Art.

They reached the entrance and pulled on their masks. The leader pointed at his watch. The other men nodded. Then the four Black Eagles stormed the museum, guns drawn.

With Rich’s car close behind, Derek turned east on Spring Street. As he approached Crosby, he and Sloane spotted a burning vehicle blocking the street.

“What the hell…?” Derek slammed on the brakes, and he and Sloane jumped out.

“Derek!” Sloane yelled, pointing. “There’s another car on fire at the other end of the street!”

“The burning cars are buying them time,” Rich announced, having abandoned his car to run over and join them. “They’re hitting the museum—now.”

“Not just the museum. Wallace, too.” Sloane grabbed Derek’s arm. “This isn’t just a museum heist. It’s an execution. Liu’s sending them to kill Wallace.”

“Yeah. I know.” Derek turned. “Rich, call for backup,” he shouted as Rich raced back to his car.