Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

I slide back into the Camaro, take a sip and nearly spill my macchiato down my shirt when knuckles rap on my passenger side window.

Burke.

I reach over and unlock the door and he folds himself inside.

“No luck with Ramses?”

He shakes his head, eying my coffee. “What are we doing here?”

“I have a hunch.”

“Perfect.” He closes his eyes, as if in pain.

I take another sip.

The street is coming alive. Another bicycler, and a car parks in front of the florist. A bus pulls up, coughs and eases to the curb at the end of the street. The neon light in the cafe flickers on and the sign is turned over.

Burke sighs, rubbing his finger and thumb into his eyes. “I need some coffee—Rem…There he is.”

I would have spotted him, given another second. He’s gotten off the bus and stands at the stop, waiting to cross the road. Ramses is a handsome, unassuming bomber, wearing a gray T-shirt, a pair of jeans, tennis shoes. Brown hair, a hint of a beard, just a guy stopping in for coffee.

Burke reaches for the door handle.

“Wait. Let’s see if he’s carrying anything.”

He is. A satchel over his shoulder. It bumps against his leg as he looks both ways, then treks across the street.

I set my coffee down. “Let’s get him.”

Burke is already out of the car, and I admit to a silent huzzah that he believes me. Because why else would Ramses be here?

I follow Burke out and we scuttle across the street, not wanting to alert Ramses before we can get close enough to grab him.

But also not wanting whatever is in that satchel to go boom.

Ramses is just about to reach the door when Burke calls his name.

There’s a moment, a hiccup, when Ramses turns on instinct, when he sees Burke, then me, advancing on him.

He hesitates. I can almost read his mind.

It’s over.

Or, he could die a martyr for his cause.

In a second he’s swung the door open and disappears inside. I take off in a sprint, a plan forming. “Burke! Evacuate the coffee shop. I’m going around the back!”

I angle toward the alley, shooting past the door, but in a blinding second of terrible luck, it slams open.

I plow into the bicycler, and we sprawl together hard on the pavement.

“Hey!” he growls.

I glare at him and untangle myself, hoofing it around back.

I hear Burke, now inside the shop, yelling. Please, God, don’t let Ramses pull a trigger.

I’ll come in from behind and trap him.