The Perfect Ten Boxed Set Read online

  Sometimes the best tool was his small pocketknife. He used the blade tip to move the band out from under the seat. It had been cut in half and crimped in several spots.

  His stowaway had made good use of the time when he’d left her in the Titan while he met with his High Vision representative. This had to be a tracking device. And he’d bet she’d used his tools to cut it off of her arm.

  He’d lift a print off of this.

  Zane could do that, thanks to Ben.

  When Vance had offered Zane serious cash for keeping his ears open and passing on any tips that would help the DEA, Ben had spent a day teaching him how to pull fingerprints just in case. He’d given Zane the small box that contained aluminum dusting powder and a zephyr brush. Wearing latex gloves and safety glasses, he brushed everything that Angel could have come in contact with, including the silver band and the tools in his toolbox.

  A half hour later, he hadn’t found a single fingerprint, meaning she’d intentionally wiped the areas clean.

  Not an encouraging sign for a person with nothing to hide.

  And now he had to clean the damn powder off of everything in the cabin.

  Who was she hiding from? He’d searched online for any police activity in the Raleigh area from the night before. Nothing significant had shown up, leading him to believe someone chased her for personal reasons.

  Hack said the guys who’d come barreling into his airport had left just as quickly. And that the vehicles had some sort of triangle logo on the car doors. Whoever chased Angel had deep pockets.

  The lack of fingerprints stumped Zane.

  Why would she go to the trouble of hiding her identity from a pilot? Did she think he’d call in the police?

  Probably. That’s what he would think, if he were in her grubby yellow running shoes. In fact, he’d offered to call ahead to have the police meet them in Jacksonville.

  Damn. That had to be why she ran.

  But what did she have to hide?

  Someone wanted her back badly enough to band her with a tracking device and send men who played rough.

  Zane clenched his fists. Spineless bastard. He’d seen the brutal marks on Angel’s body. He couldn’t blame her for covering her tracks so well, but he should have pushed for more information, a last name at least.

  Even as he considered it, he knew it wouldn’t have happened. Pushing a terrified woman ranked right up there with booting a puppy.

  He wiped the powder off the toolbox then picked it up to reposition it, and something gold rolled out from behind it.

  He snapped on his latex gloves again and lifted the small ball up to view.

  On a flat side of the golf-ball-shaped object, an embedded compass gave him a northeast heading from where he stood. And the compass was dead-on. That meant the thing was non-magnetic. Probably made of solid gold.

  Damned expensive paperweight.

  What was this thing doing in his aircraft?

  There was only one reason for a compass to end up lost in his airplane last night. A passenger had lost it.

  And he’d carried only one passenger in months.

  Angel.

  Zane grinned at this break. Lifting a print from the pebbled surface was beyond his skill level, but if he could convince Ben to do a little overtime, the genius print matcher would have an identity for him by Thursday morning.

  Chapter 8

  Mason assessed each of the six men standing in a line on the back lawn of his property. Long shadows stretched from the trees behind them as if the setting sun wanted to point out each one responsible for the fury burning his scalp.

  Someone needed killing.

  It was beyond the pale that these men had lost Angelina. He hired the best when it came to security for a reason. Jeff had been the exception and he’d been around for a long time. He’d been loyal, certainly.

  But he’d outlived his usefulness.

  Jeff should have been able to keep Angelina contained.

  And yet in hindsight, Mason could understand Jeff’s screwing up.

  But these men?

  Ten armed and dangerous guards, including these six, had allowed one woman to escape.

  He couldn’t tolerate ineptness and every one of these men knew it. But now was not the time to vent his frustration. Now was the time for results. The best way to get what he wanted was to offer an incentive. “Kenner will go over the plan when we’re through here. I want Angelina back. I’ll award a half million dollars to the man who brings her in alive and with the eight coins she stole from me.”

  A pittance compared to what those coins – and vengeance – were worth.

  Six sets of eyes stared back with cold confidence.

  Kenner ordered the men to meet him in the guard quarters. Once they dispersed, Kenner told Mason, “We need a tracker.”

  “Agreed.” Mason had men in Jacksonville checking every way out of the city by public or mass transportation. “Get a list of the best who can be discreet. I’ll be in my office.”

  When he walked into the office in his private estate outside of Raleigh, he eyed the glass case where he’d placed the coins. He’d been certain that Angelina believed him when he told her he had eye witnesses willing to testify that she was seen leaving the museum at the time of the coin theft.

  That should have brought her to heel.

  But the bitch had stolen the coins instead.

  He still couldn’t believe it.

  His cell phone played a piece of music with dire notes, meaning the caller was unknown. The only person he’d given this number to who didn’t already have a ringtone was Angelina. Had she come to her senses?

  Grinning, he answered, “Lorde.”

  “Listen very carefully as I do not repeat myself,” a decidedly male voice ordered.

  Mason cut in, “Who the hell is this?”

  “You can call me Czarion. Have you found the coins yet?”

  Shock didn’t begin to describe Mason’s first reaction. His second one was to yank the phone away and check ... no caller ID. His next move was to pull it back and say, “What coins?”

  A lofty sigh came across the lines then Czarion said, “I don’t have time for this. You stole eight St. Gaulden’s Double Eagle coins, one of which is a 1933. You intended to trade them to a German for a panel from the Amber Room.”

  Mason sat down in his chair. Hard. It couldn’t be the FBI. They didn’t call up and discuss a felony when they could just raid the compound.

  “Since we both know that you had the coins, let’s move this along. For someone as adept at art theft as you are, Mr. Lorde, I would have thought you’d do a better job of protecting those coins.”

  Criticizing Mason generally ended with bloodshed. The insult pissed him off enough that he regained his footing. “What’s your interest in the coins?”

  “Better. Now we can deal with the business part of this call. You will locate those coins within five days and be prepared to deliver them to me when you do.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, you’ll pay a hefty price starting with your operation.”

  Mason wouldn’t be paying the price. This idiot would. Just as soon as Mason located him. “Threatening my operation could be bad for your health. Interfering with it would be painful and deadly.”

  “You should realize by now that you’re dealing with someone far out of your league.”

  The ego of some men amazed Mason. He leaned back in his chair, amused by someone stupid enough to threaten him. This guy obviously had no idea of the depth of Mason’s resources and how quickly he’d stomp a pest. “Maybe you should enlighten me on just how far out of my league you are so I can show proper respect.”

  When the line remained silent for a moment, Mason gloated.

  Czarion spoke again. “You own forty-three locations, which include distinctive properties in New York, Atlanta, Raleigh, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Twelve are warehouses where you store both legal and illegal inventory..
.” Czarion spouted a list of items that no person should have access to besides Mason. “During your trip to Palm Beach eight days ago, you completed a trade with the Russian broker Valkimir. I was surprised to learn of the Degas and Ming vase in your New York vault as both had belonged to a sheik I’d believed had better security. That should remove any doubt on your part as to the vulnerability of your operation.”

  Son of a bitch! Mason stood, clutching the phone so hard his hand shook. Who was this guy and how could he know that much?

  He calmed himself. Losing control lost battles and he intended to win this one. He wanted this asshole’s head in jar to put in his office. “What do you want?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, the coins.”

  “Are you after the Amber Room panel?” Mason had acquired the gold coins specifically to trade for an eighteenth century artifact from the room sculpted of amber, considered by many to be the eighth wonder of the world. King Fredrich Wilhelm I had gifted it to Tsar Peter the Great who had once admired the room. The Tsar had moved it to Königsberg Castle, the one the damned Russians had destroyed during World War II.

  They’d torched the castle after the room had been looted.

  Czarion said, “I’ve already told you what I want. I’ll contact you in five days, on Monday, unless you retrieve the coins sooner, which I’ll know. If you fail to meet my deadline, I’ll destroy one of your properties, regardless of who or what is nearby. And there will be clear evidence pointing the finger at you for the body count. I’ll continue to destroy one property each day until you fulfill your part of this agreement ... that is until you run out of possessions. And then I will kill you.”

  After years of dealing with liars, Mason knew when he heard the truth. Muscles in his neck tightened with the rage pulsing through him. “You can have the coins.”

  “That was never in question.”

  Ignoring him, Mason considered one way to solve all his problems right now. He tested Czarion one more time. “Since you know so much, I’m surprised you don’t know who has the coins.”

  “Oh, but I do. Angelina Farentino took them when she escaped your compound. Can’t say that I blame the girl, considering your perverted sex habits.”

  You’ll die in slow agony, because I’ll keep you alive and awake for a very long time once I find you. “Why are you calling me if you know who has the coins?”

  “You interfered with my plans when your men captured the thief who’d originally targeted the coins. You tortured him to find out the name of the German buyer and how the thief had planned to get past security. Had you not done so, I would be talking to him. You took the coins. You lost them. You get them back. And do it in a way that does not draw the attention of law enforcement.”

  The line went dead.

  Mason fought the urge to scramble a team to find this Czarion. He didn’t give two shits for the people around his properties who would die. He had insurance to cover the loss of his investments. But not his exceptional art inventory.

  Because no one had known he had it. Not until now.

  A knock rapped at the door. When Mason called his man in, Kenner entered. “I’ve got the list.”

  Standing, Mason shook his head. “Not necessary. I realize who I have to send, but I want you to review everyone in charge of our warehouses, and start with the ones that hold my private art.” He called the stolen pieces private art to all of his staff, to prevent a verbal slip up by someone who didn’t possess his level of discipline.

  “Sure. Anything in particular?”

  “I want to know if you suspect anyone of giving out information on our operation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kenner left.

  Mason raised his phone into view and hit a speed dial number to the one person absolutely capable of finding and capturing Angelina. A top-level operator. Mason seldom used him because he was expensive, unpredictable, and hard to control, but this situation called for bringing in a true predator.

  When the call connected, Mason said, “I have a job for you, CK.”

  Chapter 9

  If the coins have been discovered in the package of boat curtains, the FBI will be waiting for me.

  Angel gripped her knee to keep it from bouncing up and down, glad not to have someone in the seat next to her. How could it be Thursday? Over a full day had passed since she’d abandoned the coins and Zane. Her gaze strayed to Ft. Lauderdale’s palm trees, concrete-block houses and the occasional plastic pink flamingo flying past her window on the Broward County Transit bus.

  Maybe Zane hadn’t delivered the boat curtains yet or maybe the boat owner was waiting to install them over the holiday weekend.

  She clutched the edge of her seat. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  There was the word again.

  With her rotten luck, the boat owner was installing the curtains right now, to have his boat ready for the holiday weekend.

  Worry had rolled around in her stomach until it felt like a lead ball with spikes. Sleep had been sporadic at best on the bus ride down the length of Florida.

  She pressed her face to the window where one souvenir shop after another, each decorated with giant seashells and water floats, dotted the beach scene.

  Nothing like New York where she’d been a courier.

  A job she wouldn’t take again even if cleaning toilets was her only other option.

  That wasn’t exactly true. She’d enjoyed courier service, especially given the added bonus of constantly training.

  But one delivery had ended everything.

  To be fair, it hadn’t been the delivery so much as blind trust in a man. Her father.

  When the bus turned away from the beach and the street signs Angel had been watching for came into view, she straightened in her seat. Rolling up the cuffs of her long-sleeved white blouse, she leaned forward and tucked her shirttail into the faded jeans she’d found in a salvage store near the pawnshop. Her running shorts and T-shirt were stuffed inside a linen shoulder bag along with the ball cap.

  She’d twisted her hair up and stuffed it under a floppy hat. Sunglasses finished her disguise, covering half of her face. She could pass for an incognito celebrity on a tight budget.

  The bus rolled to a stop just past the cross street she’d been anticipating.

  Angel descended the metal steps quickly and jogged away at a subtle pace, feeling better than she had a day ago even if she wasn’t fully rested. Using directions given to her at the downtown bus terminal, she located the marina with no trouble. Her shirt had stuck to her back, soaked with moisture from the thick humidity, by the time she passed through the Gulf Winds Marina entrance.

  No one paid her any attention.

  Floridians definitely had an easygoing attitude.

  Small white signs above each dock listed the slip numbers. The second one read “11-20.”

  To avoid being caught by Mason’s men watching the bus stations, she’d thumbed rides with truckers who’d been kind enough to call from one to the next after the first one gave her a ride outside of Jacksonville. She’d arrived before dawn in Ft. Lauderdale where she’d found a place to grab a catnap, then scouted out the local city bus system and schedules only to get lost switching buses.

  After all that, she deserved a moment of pride at standing in front of the dock for slip eighteen.

  Now tell me the package with my coins has not been opened yet.

  For the benefit of anyone watching, she strolled casually down the weathered planks when she wanted to run. Most of the slips held twenty-to-thirty-foot-long boats backed up under the covered docks.

  A copper-tanned young man dressed only in a pair of cutoffs scrubbed a boat named Wet Dream moored in slip seventeen.

  A snow-white, center-console fishing boat, outfitted with impressive tackle, floated silently in slip nineteen.

  Two seagulls paddled through the middle of slip eighteen.

  No boat. Really?

  Now what? Turning to the guy still laboring on Wet Dream she called
over, “Excuse me.”

  He dropped the scrub brush and ambled to the rear of the boat. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you know who owns the boat that stays in slip eighteen?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She waited for him to offer more than a charming smile, but he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. This was a little too laid back.

  “Do you know the name of the boat that belongs here?” she asked.

  “Can’t say. That slip’s been empty for three months. Heard someone just rented it, but the boat hasn’t shown up yet.”

  The package had been addressed to the Security Office for the marina, which now made sense. The boat hadn’t arrived.

  “I noticed the Security Office was closed when I passed it on the way in. Have any idea when it will be open?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Soon as I finish cleaning this boat, I’ll be back up there.”

  Going through the tiny office shouldn’t take long.

  She smiled.

  He grinned with apparent satisfaction over having given her the right answer.

  Angel saw the advantage in being female for a change. “Well, you’ll save me some time. My company sent a package of boat curtains marked for Slip 18 in error. I’m supposed to make sure it arrives at the correct boat. Would you mind if I checked to see if you have that package?” She held her breath, waiting on him to ask the obvious questions starting with identification, what boat it was intended for, and on and on. She had no idea what she’d say next, but somehow she’d gain access to that office.

  The guy didn’t ask her the first question, just shook his head and said, “I’ll save you a lot of time. We haven’t had a delivery like that all week.”

  Damn. Where was that package?

  A possibility popped into her mind.

  “Do you know where Sunshine Airfield is?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 10

  By late afternoon Thursday, Zane had to accept the obvious no matter how much he tried to avoid it.

  Angel had to be tangled up in something criminal.

  He’d spent another night on the Internet, looking for anything on a missing woman from Raleigh who matched Angel’s description. That meant the men tracking her didn’t need, or want, law enforcement involved.