The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)

Okaaaay, Assail thought. He was probably going to have to recast his rather old-school opinion of the “weaker” sex, wasn’t he. His Marisol was certainly not, and never had been, a fainting flower to be insulated from the most minute of inconveniences.

And P.S., he was getting seriously aroused right now, even though that wasn’t fair to her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“No, you are not weak.” As his voice deepened, he cleared his throat. “You are the most magnificent, powerful force I have ever seen. You can bring me to my knees as no one ever could or ever will again.”

She blinked. Then looked away.

In the awkward silence, he studied her profile and wished there was another way for them. Then he dragged himself out of that black hole of disappointment.

“And as I was saying, even if it is his sister, I doubt she will know what transpired. Benloise’s remains are well disposed of, and Eduardo’s? They were consumed by coyotes, given where we left him. So all is well.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said tightly.

He wanted to tell her that was kind of her, but he kept that to himself. Instead, he switched to the Old Language so she would not understand what he was saying as he spoke to Vishous.

“Pray, if I fall and cannot be revived in this, I ask that you see her safely unto her grandmother and then back out into her world. Strike her memories with care and send her off with a pleasant recollection of all this, something that shall not cause her to suffer any pain. I request this with the utmost respect unto you, and as her bonded male.”

Behind the wheel, the Brother looked up into the rearview mirror. With a single nod, he replied, “It shall be done.”

Appeased, Assail eased back into the seat. The windows were tinted so darkly, he could barely see out, although the streetlamps were light enough to glow as if through fog.

At least he knew she would be okay—

“Vitoria looks like Ricardo,” Marisol said tightly. “You’ll see it in the eyes and the shape of the face. I never met her in person, but there were pictures of her at his house—the two of them were very close. Do us all a favor, if it’s her, just get out of there. Don’t assume she won’t recognize you. You just…you never know.”

Assail turned and stared at the woman—and told himself not to feel any hope given that Marisol seemed so worried about him. “All right. I will.”

FIFTY-NINE

Vitoria went to her brother’s warehouse in as circuitous a route as she could. She was generally no fan of inefficiency, but she had to make sure that none of Detective de la Cruz’s ilk were following her, and it took some time to reassure herself that they were not. When she finally pulled Ricardo’s Rolls-Royce into the facility’s vacant parking lot, however, she was satisfied she was on her own.

That was the only thing she was satisfied by, though—and not just because that detective was proving to be a Latino version of Columbo.

Looking at the passenger seat beside her, she frowned at Eduardo’s journal. Of all the numbers she had called, the man she was meeting was the only one to respond. This was worrisome. She had expected there to be a great hunger for what her brothers had put out on the streets, but she feared that, in the intervening year, the ecosystem had rerouted itself, found other suppliers, and moved on.

Regaining lost business was so much harder than simply stepping into the shoes of a functioning concern.

But she was ready to fight to get back to where things had been.

As she got out of the Ghost, she approved of this location. She had discovered its existence in paperwork on Eduardo’s desk, and she could see why it would be a good place to exchange goods for cash. The building’s floor plan took a sharp corner, one whole wing extending out from a base, and that formation, coupled with an adjacent structure that appeared to be garage space or storage units that angled in, meant that a private courtyard was formed.

And clearly, that had been cultivated. The privacy, at any rate: The security lighting was all trained elsewhere, a dark pit of anonymity enveloping the center area.

No one could see from the street who was parking. Who was getting out. Who was carrying what. Who was going inside or emerging from the interior.

Quite smart.

Proceeding to the door that had a pass code, she entered her mother’s birthday and stepped into the dim, damp interior. No light fixtures came on, but as she turned on the flashlight on her cell phone, she located a switch and flicked it.

Very smart.

All of the windows had been painted black. So there was no way to know anyone was inside.

Vitoria left the door open, using a stopper that was left by the jamb. As was typical of her brother, the interior was neat as a pin and largely empty, although not completely so. Interspersed within the cavernous space, there were large crates, some big as sofas, others the size of cars, even houses. A forklift sat, with the keys in it, off to the side, and she noted, as she walked around, that there was a garage bay at the end for such ungainly deliveries.

So she had been wrong, she thought as she inspected one of the crates and read the address plate. Art for the gallery was actually stored here. This wasn’t a place solely for the illegitimate side of things. Then again, her brother had carried on both businesses from the gallery.

And speaking of business, with any luck, this would result in an order—

The sound of a car pulling up spun her around. She was dressed in her parka and black pants, and she had her gun and her suppressor with her, all of it retrieved earlier in the day from the base of that artwork she’d stashed it in.

There was no way she was attending this unarmed. Even though this client was one Eduardo had marked with a star—indicating, per his system, that whoever it was paid on time, caused no trouble, and regularly ordered—she could trust no one.

Hopefully, however, he was a businessperson, just as she was, and there would be no difficulty.

As a single car door shut solidly, and footsteps came up the concrete steps, she put her hand into her pocket and gripped her gun, flipping the safety off.

She was going to have to find some more help, she thought as the door creaked while it was opened. She was a bit more exposed than she liked—

Vitoria recognized the fine coat first….the fine overcoat that was cut to perfection and hanging off a large pair of shoulders.

And then she saw the face. That…fucking…face…

Of the man who had kidnapped her brother.

It was him. From the security footage. She was absolutely positive—and in a quick slideshow, she saw Ricardo’s body hanging on the wall, battered, bruised, that throat torn open.

Before she had a conscious thought, her rage brought out her gun—and she began to shoot.

* * *

—

Assail saw the family resemblance at the very instant that the woman’s eyes peeled wide—as if, somehow, she recognized who he was. There was no time to think further, however, as she took out a gun and started discharging bullets as if she knew he was going to dematerialize out of there at any moment.

But he didn’t care about himself, as he dropped down and rolled out of shooting range; all that mattered was whether Vishous had hit the gas—and from the flare of headlights that pierced the partially open door Assail had come through, he was willing to bet his life protocol was being followed.

He just prayed the Brother had the sense to lock Marisol in. Or she was liable to come bursting in with her own gun drawn.

“I know you!” the woman screamed as she continued to shoot. “I know what you did!”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Except it was more than just popping. The slugs of lead were ricocheting around, and thank God for this crate he had found—

The scent of his own blood made him curse. Sonofabitch. She’d gotten him in the shoulder—of his right arm. His shooting arm.

And given the ache in his side, he was pretty sure he’d been hit somewhere else.

With a grimace, Assail got out his gun and waited for her to empty her clip. She was coming forward, closing in—and she had switched to Spanish, her fury more like a Wagner symphony than any kind of speech.

Then came the pause he was looking for.

With a quick shift, he leaned out for a glance into the warehouse proper. ay, Assail thought. He was probably going to have to recast his rather old-school opinion of the “weaker” sex, wasn’t he. His Marisol was certainly not, and never had been, a fainting flower to be insulated from the most minute of inconveniences.

And P.S., he was getting seriously aroused right now, even though that wasn’t fair to her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“No, you are not weak.” As his voice deepened, he cleared his throat. “You are the most magnificent, powerful force I have ever seen. You can bring me to my knees as no one ever could or ever will again.”

She blinked. Then looked away.

In the awkward silence, he studied her profile and wished there was another way for them. Then he dragged himself out of that black hole of disappointment.

“And as I was saying, even if it is his sister, I doubt she will know what transpired. Benloise’s remains are well disposed of, and Eduardo’s? They were consumed by coyotes, given where we left him. So all is well.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said tightly.

He wanted to tell her that was kind of her, but he kept that to himself. Instead, he switched to the Old Language so she would not understand what he was saying as he spoke to Vishous.

“Pray, if I fall and cannot be revived in this, I ask that you see her safely unto her grandmother and then back out into her world. Strike her memories with care and send her off with a pleasant recollection of all this, something that shall not cause her to suffer any pain. I request this with the utmost respect unto you, and as her bonded male.”

Behind the wheel, the Brother looked up into the rearview mirror. With a single nod, he replied, “It shall be done.”

Appeased, Assail eased back into the seat. The windows were tinted so darkly, he could barely see out, although the streetlamps were light enough to glow as if through fog.

At least he knew she would be okay—

“Vitoria looks like Ricardo,” Marisol said tightly. “You’ll see it in the eyes and the shape of the face. I never met her in person, but there were pictures of her at his house—the two of them were very close. Do us all a favor, if it’s her, just get out of there. Don’t assume she won’t recognize you. You just…you never know.”

Assail turned and stared at the woman—and told himself not to feel any hope given that Marisol seemed so worried about him. “All right. I will.”

FIFTY-NINE

Vitoria went to her brother’s warehouse in as circuitous a route as she could. She was generally no fan of inefficiency, but she had to make sure that none of Detective de la Cruz’s ilk were following her, and it took some time to reassure herself that they were not. When she finally pulled Ricardo’s Rolls-Royce into the facility’s vacant parking lot, however, she was satisfied she was on her own.

That was the only thing she was satisfied by, though—and not just because that detective was proving to be a Latino version of Columbo.

Looking at the passenger seat beside her, she frowned at Eduardo’s journal. Of all the numbers she had called, the man she was meeting was the only one to respond. This was worrisome. She had expected there to be a great hunger for what her brothers had put out on the streets, but she feared that, in the intervening year, the ecosystem had rerouted itself, found other suppliers, and moved on.

Regaining lost business was so much harder than simply stepping into the shoes of a functioning concern.

But she was ready to fight to get back to where things had been.

As she got out of the Ghost, she approved of this location. She had discovered its existence in paperwork on Eduardo’s desk, and she could see why it would be a good place to exchange goods for cash. The building’s floor plan took a sharp corner, one whole wing extending out from a base, and that formation, coupled with an adjacent structure that appeared to be garage space or storage units that angled in, meant that a private courtyard was formed.

And clearly, that had been cultivated. The privacy, at any rate: The security lighting was all trained elsewhere, a dark pit of anonymity enveloping the center area.

No one could see from the street who was parking. Who was getting out. Who was carrying what. Who was going inside or emerging from the interior.

Quite smart.

Proceeding to the door that had a pass code, she entered her mother’s birthday and stepped into the dim, damp interior. No light fixtures came on, but as she turned on the flashlight on her cell phone, she located a switch and flicked it.

Very smart.

All of the windows had been painted black. So there was no way to know anyone was inside.

Vitoria left the door open, using a stopper that was left by the jamb. As was typical of her brother, the interior was neat as a pin and largely empty, although not completely so. Interspersed within the cavernous space, there were large crates, some big as sofas, others the size of cars, even houses. A forklift sat, with the keys in it, off to the side, and she noted, as she walked around, that there was a garage bay at the end for such ungainly deliveries.

So she had been wrong, she thought as she inspected one of the crates and read the address plate. Art for the gallery was actually stored here. This wasn’t a place solely for the illegitimate side of things. Then again, her brother had carried on both businesses from the gallery.

And speaking of business, with any luck, this would result in an order—

The sound of a car pulling up spun her around. She was dressed in her parka and black pants, and she had her gun and her suppressor with her, all of it retrieved earlier in the day from the base of that artwork she’d stashed it in.

There was no way she was attending this unarmed. Even though this client was one Eduardo had marked with a star—indicating, per his system, that whoever it was paid on time, caused no trouble, and regularly ordered—she could trust no one.

Hopefully, however, he was a businessperson, just as she was, and there would be no difficulty.

As a single car door shut solidly, and footsteps came up the concrete steps, she put her hand into her pocket and gripped her gun, flipping the safety off.

She was going to have to find some more help, she thought as the door creaked while it was opened. She was a bit more exposed than she liked—

Vitoria recognized the fine coat first….the fine overcoat that was cut to perfection and hanging off a large pair of shoulders.

And then she saw the face. That…fucking…face…

Of the man who had kidnapped her brother.

It was him. From the security footage. She was absolutely positive—and in a quick slideshow, she saw Ricardo’s body hanging on the wall, battered, bruised, that throat torn open.

Before she had a conscious thought, her rage brought out her gun—and she began to shoot.

* * *

—

Assail saw the family resemblance at the very instant that the woman’s eyes peeled wide—as if, somehow, she recognized who he was. There was no time to think further, however, as she took out a gun and started discharging bullets as if she knew he was going to dematerialize out of there at any moment.

But he didn’t care about himself, as he dropped down and rolled out of shooting range; all that mattered was whether Vishous had hit the gas—and from the flare of headlights that pierced the partially open door Assail had come through, he was willing to bet his life protocol was being followed.

He just prayed the Brother had the sense to lock Marisol in. Or she was liable to come bursting in with her own gun drawn.

“I know you!” the woman screamed as she continued to shoot. “I know what you did!”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Except it was more than just popping. The slugs of lead were ricocheting around, and thank God for this crate he had found—

The scent of his own blood made him curse. Sonofabitch. She’d gotten him in the shoulder—of his right arm. His shooting arm.

And given the ache in his side, he was pretty sure he’d been hit somewhere else.

With a grimace, Assail got out his gun and waited for her to empty her clip. She was coming forward, closing in—and she had switched to Spanish, her fury more like a Wagner symphony than any kind of speech.

Then came the pause he was looking for.

With a quick shift, he leaned out for a glance into the warehouse proper.