back hallway. It’s ironic because this was exactly how I planned on swiping the statue, taking advantage of the post-auction hubbub to slip right in and do the deed.
JP knocks on a door I know well because I’ve already been on the other side of it. I glance up at the camera as we pass through it, noting that the light showing it’s recording is dark. In the room beyond, I see the familiar tables and shelves full of treasures. It should be crawling with people in here, ready to carry out the items for auction, return them for safe storage, and tracking each item precisely. But there’s no one here except for one man.
“Mr. Big, I presume?”
He dips his chin one time, one time only. “Connor Bradley.”
He’s smaller and younger than I predicted, looking suave and flashy in a designer suit. For a man who’s been the king of the art theft world and the region for almost two decades, he’s exceptionally ordinary looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, and not particularly intimidating in appearance. You could pass him on the street and think him one of thousands of businessmen and then instantly forget what he looked like.
I take a closer look at his face, studying and memorizing the details I need to know, and it’s only then that I recognize him. He’s not a face known to all the public, but when you’re part of the ownership group of our local minor league baseball team, you do occasionally make the papers.
It seems Mr. Big is a well-rounded scoundrel, deep in both art and sports.
And now I know his real name. Mr. Big is Shane Harris, but I’ll smartly keep that info to myself. For now.
Mr. Big turns and runs his hand along the edge of a table, nodding to himself as he scans the pieces there. I keep my silence. Whatever he has to say, I’m not going to tip my hand to him yet. “Seems I owe you a debt of appreciation for the work you’ve done for me.”
I shrug casually. “You’ve compensated me well. Paid in full after each job.”
His face tightens, as if he’s got a little bit of gas, and he turns back to me, looking stony. “If only that were true,” he says sadly from between pursed lips. “If only.”
“Excuse me?” I reply, alarm bells going off in my head. Something’s not right here. Why the hell have me case the place to steal a statue, only to show up when he knows I’m doing the job?
Unless . . .
Oh, shit.
“Betrayal is a funny thing,” Mr. Big says when he sees something change in my eyes. “You expect it to come from enemies, but it so rarely does.”
I freeze. I don’t know how he knows, or what he knows, but he does.
Mentally, my brain goes ten different directions at once . . . how to get out of here, how to make sure Poppy is safe, how Mr. Big could’ve found out, what JP’s role in this is.
Before I can decipher anything, Mr. Big pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket. I fully expect a sharp crack and the impact of a round hitting me in the gut. I’m bracing for it already. But instead, he aims at JP.
“The fuck?” I exclaim, trying to keep my hands loose at my side.
JP throws his hands up high, rambling in Spanish. I catch something that I think is a prayer before he switches to English. “Boss—”
“I considered you trustworthy, Juan Pablo. I was very disappointed to find out you’ve been talking to the police.”
I look at JP in surprise, but he’s shaking his head wildly. “No, Boss, no, no.”
“Wait, hold on. There must be some misunderstanding here. Why would JP talk to the police? He loves his work.” I’m trying to diffuse the situation because I’m missing some major pieces of information.
“Why doesn’t matter,” Mr. Big answers me. To JP, he snarls, “It only matters that you did.”
Mr. Big points the gun again, emphasizing his anger to a now-quiet JP.
Something behind Mr. Big catches my attention, and only experience keeps me from reacting to the flash of red I see duck behind a crate on one of the shelves.
Motherfucking shit! That’s Poppy.
What is she doing? I told her to stay in her seat and let me do what I need to. Now I’ve got two people to save, JP and Poppy.
“Connor, you’ve done excellent work for me, and this is your chance to step up