Code Name Heist (Jameson Force Security 3)

That we’d been in a serious relationship before I’d gotten caught wasn’t a secret.

“We’re good,” I say, smoothing my hand over the sheets I’d fucked her on not half an hour ago.

“All right. That’s good,” William says, his relief evident. “We need Sin on the big project. But she’ll also be on the London job with you. It involves a safe.”

Sin’s one of the best when it comes to lock manipulation. Since whatever we’re going to do involves a safe or vault, we can rule artwork out. I’d already dismissed the idea we might be boosting a car when he told me how big the pot would be.

Has to be jewels, gold, or maybe even cash. Hell, for all I know, they want to break into Fort Knox.

Guess I’ll find out soon, but I have another heist to pull off before then. At least I’ll be working with Sin again.

London is our old stomping ground. It’s where we met. Where she’s from.

Where we fell in love.

But all that’s in the past, and it needs to stay there. Like Kynan said, I have to keep my head in the game.CHAPTER 12SinLondon should feel like coming home, but it doesn’t. I’ve lived in so many places since reaching adulthood. Because of that, it’s been a long damn time since I’ve had somewhere to call ‘home’.

Sure, my dad lives in London in the neighborhood where I’d grown up, but it’s only been a few months since he returned. Prior to that, he was like me… a free spirit who wandered wherever the urge took him.

Like me, he traveled to wherever the work was.

Opportunities to steal fancy artwork, expensive jewelry, or antique cars.

For an exceptionally long time, I was my father’s daughter, but there came a time where I started to dream about having a different life. Saint and I used to talk about those dreams. About pulling off that one heist that would allow us to retire to a tropical island where we’d drink rum swizzles and nap our days away in swaying hammocks.

After Saint went to prison—therefore solidifying his hatred for me—I’d lost the ability to dream for a while. Why would I want to go to a tropical island by myself? Besides, I couldn’t imagine wanting to be with anyone but Saint.

Those couple of years he’d been behind bars, nothing had been the same. I continued to plug along as a thief—not because it was all I knew, but because I hadn’t had the desire to want anything better. I drowned in my guilt over what I’d done, settling into the mindset I didn’t deserve what I had, much less anything better. Truthfully, I’d expected the carpet to be yanked out from underneath me at any second. I’d most definitely had it coming for what I’d done to him.

But I’d recently started thinking about it again. Leaving this life, I mean. Doing something worthwhile and interesting. Something I could be proud of.

The life of a thief is solitary and lonely. I can’t have normal friends. I’ll never attend parties where I can talk freely about my career. It’s not a stable life, which rules out a spouse and kids. And as I can attest by growing up as the daughter of a thief, I most certainly do not want to raise a child while in this line of work. The child getting mixed up in it would be inevitable. It’s like preordained destiny or something.

Yeah… I need to get away from this life and start over again. My dad’s stroke was a wakeup call. An important reminder about how fleeting life can be and how career criminals have no stability when they need it the most.

It was time to get out. My interim plan was to move home to London, right into my dad’s house, so I could get a job and help take care of him. While he’d bounced back pretty quickly from his minor stroke, he still had some limitations. I love him more than anything, and it would be my honor to help him.

Hadn’t worked out that way, though. Mercier dug his claws into me, and it doesn’t seem like he intends to retract them any time soon. Shaking my head, I force myself out of my thoughts. Saint and I are in a cab together, but we’ve barely spoken. When I glance out the window, I realize we’ve made it to our destination—the exclusive London nightclub Throb.

“You ready to do this?” Saint asks. Before I can answer, he opens the cab door.

He exits, turns, and extends his hand to me. I take it, sliding gracefully out of the backseat. My clubbing attire consists of a mint-green strapless dress, which barely covers my ass, four-inch silver sandals, and heavy makeup. Because we’re staking the place out, I pulled my hair into a tight ball at the nape of my neck. My hair—in all its wild glory—is too identifiable. Tonight, we want to blend in with the other patrons.