To Catch a Thief (7 page)

N
ELL BACKED UP
slowly, straining to breathe, straining to make sense of why this man had suddenly reappeared in her life. “How did you find—”

“No time for that. Just keep moving.” He sounded very calm, not remotely surprised to see men with guns following Nell and circling warily.

In one smooth movement, he pulled her toward him and then shot out the halogen light. Behind them, bullets cracked on cement, the noise deafening in the confined alley. Rough fingers gripped Nell's arm and then she was yanked back behind the protective metal walls of the Dumpster, out of range of the gunfire.

Where were the police when you needed them? Hadn't anyone reported the disturbance?

“Three feet behind you, Nell.
Focus.
Reach up and you'll feel the top of a metal fire escape ladder. Pull yourself up and move. Don't look back and don't stop, no matter what happens down here.”

Nell didn't even consider arguing. She was already grabbing for the ladder. “What about you?” she said breathlessly.

“I've got unfinished business here.” His voice was cold.
“Move.”

Nell didn't hesitate. With one jump, her hand closed around the middle rung of the fire escape and she swung her legs up.

But when she reached the third rung, a retaining brace pulled free, dumping her and twelve feet of rusted metal right back in the middle of the alley.

“Go out the alley behind me,” Dakota snapped. “My car is the black Explorer at the crosswalk. Here's the key.”

He shoved something into her hand. “Drive home, lock your door and stay there.”

Footsteps hammered toward the far end of the alley, cutting off that route of escape.

“Forget it.” He sounded irritated. “Stay right behind me, but keep clear of my right hand.”

His shooting hand.

But Nell wasn't about to slow him down against what looked like increasingly bad odds. With both ends of the alley blocked, that left only
up
.

She ran past the fire escape and grabbed a heavy rain gutter. A bullet ripped over her right shoulder. Pain burned through her neck as the round gouged a piece of brick out of the wall.

Ignoring her pain, Nell pulled her way hand over hand up the gutter until she reached the roof. To her right, a limestone wall rose to the neighboring apartment building.

Another bullet tore through the air beneath her, nicking her calf. Certain that he could handle himself better alone, she grabbed the end of a heavy gutter and climbed onto a second-story patio.

She had to get to Dakota's car and call the police.

She heard the first wail of distant sirens as she hit the adjoining wall at a run, channeled her momentum up into a vertical walk, then swung her arm to the wooden flagpole near the roof. Rocking hard, she jammed one ankle into the eaves.

Standard moves for a free climber.

Except for the bullets, she thought grimly. But the rounds appeared to be high, going over her head, and she had the feeling the attack was meant to be a kidnapping, not murder.

The same wasn't true for her homeless friend…

Or for Dakota.

The thought stole her breath, freezing her in place. Her fingers were bleeding, both elbows rubbed raw. Panting, she forced herself to move, pulling herself up over the eaves and onto the roof. Below her the gunfire cleared. When she peered down into the darkness, no one was there. The alley was empty.

Her fingers locked on Dakota's car keys, shoved deep in her pocket. She didn't have a clue who these people were, or how they knew her name, or why they had mentioned her father.

Currently, she had half a dozen art projects in the process of restoration, but none of them was exceptionally valuable. Private dealers all over the city had more valuable art in their back rooms awaiting sale. So she didn't think the attack was for simple theft.

She sprinted down the opposite fire escape to Dakota's black Explorer and jammed in the key, relieved when the big motor growled to life.

They had mentioned her father. This had to involve him.

The thought left her sick at heart. In his criminal career Jordan MacInnes had made dozens of resolute, life-and-death friends. Unfortunately, he'd made just as many enemies, competitors with no scruples and very long memories. Had one of them targeted him now?

Nell checked the street, but there was no sign of Dakota or her attackers. As she drove slowly north, she passed two police cruisers with sirens flashing headed the way she'd just come. She briefly considered pulling over and flagging them down.

And tell them what?
My father, who happens to be an ex-con, may be in some kind of trouble and I may be a target, too.

Yeah, like that would work.

Especially since any hint of contact with other criminals would send her father right back to prison for parole violation.

As a compromise, Nell placed a shaky 911 call to report a wounded homeless man in the alley. After leaving the exact address, she hung up before they could ask for her name or number. They might be able to trace her cell phone, but it was a risk she had to take for her friend's sake.

Driving through the dark streets, Nell fought a wave of exhaustion. She didn't feel safe, even at the door to her apartment, where she stood frozen, listening for any sign of intruders. But there was no sound except the low whir of her refrigerator. Her locks had not been touched.

Was she really safe?

The past hour was a blur, and she gave up trying to process it. Instead she dropped her purse and jacket and headed for the bathroom. The sight of her face in the mirror stopped her cold. She had the beginning of a black eye, cuts on both arms, and a long welt down her right cheek. Her condition would have been far worse if the SEAL hadn't appeared out of the darkness to protect her. Nell still couldn't figure out how he'd found her—or why. Only one person would have that answer.

Her hands were shaking as she dialed her father. After six unsuccessful tries, she tossed the phone down on her bed. Nothing made sense.

Her clock read 3:04 a.m.

Impossible to believe that in sixty-eight minutes her life had collapsed in on itself like a black hole, dropping her straight into a nightmare.

Meanwhile, she had cuts to attend to. Quickly, she bandaged her arms, then washed her face. One of the bullets had grazed her calf, and she cleaned that next. She'd had enough falls while climbing that the shallow wound didn't panic her.

Finally done, she looked around her silent apartment, trying to plan her next move. The logical choice was to find her father and pray that he had a solid explanation. If not, she would have to go to the police.

Cool air drifted across her face. Out of the corner of her eye Nell saw the curtains drift out above her kitchen window. She swung around so fast that she dropped a box of bandages.

A shadow crossed the kitchen.

Dakota was back, and he looked mad as hell.

“Y
OU'RE…SAFE
.” N
ELL
heard her voice crack. She felt cornered as he studied her in taut silence. “Allan, the homeless man on the street—did you see if he was okay?”

“An ambulance picked him up. He was loudly demanding food and a hot bath when they left. I take that for a yes.”

Nell felt a wave of relief, but it didn't last long. Dakota looked hard and distant, like a complete stranger.

An
angry
stranger.

He stalked closer, eyes narrowed on her face. His powerful shoulders were outlined by a black turtleneck, his legs encased in dark jeans. This was definitely a man you didn't want to mess with, Nell thought.

But he owed her some answers, and she was going to get them. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me.”

Nell crossed her arms and fought the urge to back up. “I don't know what you mean.” Why did the man seem to fill her living room?

“I doubt that.”

Nell ignored the challenge in his voice. “You're certain that my friend was conscious when the ambulance came?”

“Positive. Now why don't you stop worrying about him, and start worrying about what just happened to
you
. Those men in the alley weren't playing around, Nell. Neither am I.”

“Did you—are they—alive?”

“One took a round in the chest.” Dakota's voice was clipped. “He's gone. Two others got banged up. They're in custody now, and I'll be interested in what they have to say. The rest ran when the cruisers got close. Why don't you give me your version?”

Nell cradled her bandaged arm. “I don't have a version. You're not making any sense. And how do you know where I live?”

“My question first. What were you doing in that alley?”

She stood rigidly. “Walking home from work. Then
boom
—those men appeared.” Her voice wavered. “And if you hadn't arrived when you did, I probably wouldn't be here.”

The cool look in his eyes told her he agreed. “Nice move on the rain gutter. But if you'd lost your hold, I'd be scraping you off the pavement right now.” Frowning, he lifted one of her bandaged hands. “It was reckless and unnecessary.”

“But I
didn't
lose my hold, and it gave you time to deal with them without me slowing you down. So it was hardly unnecessary.” She pulled away, angry at him and angry that her life was slipping out of control. She needed to think, but she couldn't, not with Dakota studying her as if she was some kind of one-celled lab specimen. “If you won't tell me why you're here, you'd better leave.”

He did some muttering, then stalked toward her kitchen, ignoring her completely.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting some water. It's been a trying night.”

“I said, I want you to leave or I'll—”

“Take one.” A water bottle flew in her direction. Nell caught it by instinct.

“Go get packed.”

“Packed for what? Why should I?”

“We're leaving. Together. In ten minutes.”

Oh, sure she was.

He stared at the luminous dial of his watch and pushed a button that changed one of the sets of numbers.

Nell had never seen a watch do
that
before. The fiber of his turtleneck seemed strange too. Heavier than cotton, it looked smooth and tensile; it also appeared to shed water. Nell stared at the drops that dotted his sleeve.

Dotted, but didn't sink in.

She watched more letters scroll over the face of his watch. “Who
are
you?”

“Someone you'll have to trust,” he said flatly. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I
don't
like it, Navy. And I'm going nowhere with you.” She didn't bother to explain that trust wasn't part of her vocabulary.

But she wanted answers about the thugs who had followed her into the alley and what her father had to do with them. Clearly, this man knew what was going on. It was equally clear that he assumed she knew too. “Look, let's talk.”

“Later.” He walked past her down the hall toward her closet. “Where's your suitcase?”

When he saw that she hadn't moved, he took a long drink from his water bottle and pulled a file from the backpack angled against her antique coffee table. “Okay, I'll spell it out. I need you to do a job.” He spoke curtly, as if he wasn't happy about the prospect. “It's all there in the file. You can read it on the way.”

“This is a joke, right? I barely know you, and I have a full schedule of restoration commissions for the next six months. Even if I didn't, why would I consider—”

“Because you don't have any choice. And because those men in the alley won't be the last ones who come looking for you. Most of all, because this is the only way you can help your father.”

H
E WAS EITHER GOING
to strangle her or pin her against the wall and tear off all her clothes, Dakota thought grimly. Right now the odds were running about fifty-fifty.

He never lost his calm, never broke a sweat. Not during a mission and definitely not with a woman. But for some reason Nell MacInnes punched through his detachment and hit raw nerves he didn't know he possessed. She hadn't fallen apart in the alley, and she'd surprised him when she'd climbed up that rain gutter, all edgy grace and fearlessness.

Her move up on the roof had scared the hell out of him. He knew she was an excellent climber, but the fool could have lost her grip and landed on her head. End of story.

And now he was stuck with her.

Dakota cut off a curse. Things were starting to get complicated and he hated complicated. If he had a choice, he'd let Izzy handle Nell while he took over the backup surveillance, but asking for a reassignment would be admitting failure, which was not a word in his vocabulary.

He could handle one smart woman with a bad attitude.

What he couldn't handle was the way this whole mission was starting to feel wrong. Everyone from the FBI to the head of Foxfire assumed that Nell's father was back at work, orchestrating a complex theft within days of his release from prison. They also believed that his daughter was involved. The local FBI team had made that much crystal clear in their reports.

It just didn't feel right.

He had watched Nell cross an icy ridge in Scotland, showing quick judgment and courage. She had herded the teens and gotten them to safety at considerable risk to herself. No whining, and no backing down. She was many things—prickly, stubborn and a little reckless, but Dakota wasn't convinced that she was a thief.

Not because she wasn't smart enough. Not because she didn't have the skills. It was her personality that didn't fit the pattern. Doing undercover work, you learned to read people fast, and Dakota had pegged Nell for a loner, while a complicated job like the museum theft required a big, well-knit crew, long weeks of coordination and close communication as well as dependence on one another.

Not Nell's style at all, he thought.

But Jordan MacInnes was a different story. The man was smart enough and manipulative enough. According to his file, he had highly placed criminal connections scattered over every continent. The art fraud experts in the FBI were convinced that MacInnes was back at work with a vengeance, and Dakota could buy that. But his stubborn, gutsy daughter?

He watched Nell pace the room, her face wary but intent. She wasn't beautiful, he thought. She didn't have perfect features or the kind of cool sexuality that would make a man turn to watch her in a crowd.

But for all that he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her.

When they'd huddled together inside the tent, with her legs wrapped around his waist, he'd wanted to do a whole lot more than talk. He couldn't get the memory of her body out of his mind. He woke up dreaming of how she'd feel when he drove her over the edge to a blinding climax. Starkly erotic fantasies involving her had already cost him more sleep than he cared to admit.

The SEAL shook his head. He had to forget how her body had felt on that snowy cliff. Sex with Nell MacInnes wasn't happening in this or any other lifetime. She was his target to assess, the key to the location of thirty million dollars worth of missing art.

She was
work
, nothing more.

Since the museum break-in, Dakota had been fully briefed about her habits. He knew her usual route home, the names of all her friends and her favorite foods, along with everything else of importance in her life. He would use all those details to assess her response and ensure that she followed orders. This blood-stirring response to her body would change nothing.

Her cell phone rang on the table, and she reached out to answer it, but Dakota cut her off. His hand circled her wrist. “Let it ring.”

He felt her stiffen, her cell phone dropping to the big leather sofa. “You can't make me—”

“I just did. I will keep on doing it, too. Right up until my mission is complete.”

Her face paled in the glow of the overhead light. “Do you always treat people this way?”

“Only when it's necessary.”

The phone stopped ringing. He saw her glance down, reading the caller ID. Dakota didn't bother checking, because he knew Izzy was already in place nearby, monitoring her phone and e-mails.

She still hadn't opened the file.

“Are you afraid to read it?”

“Tell me instead.”

Dakota crossed his arms. “I'll talk while you pack.”

“No,
now
.” She sat down on the sofa beside her phone, but made no move to reach for it. “Exactly
what
is this urgent job that I need to do?” she said tightly.

Dakota prowled the room, choosing his words carefully. “Last month a newly discovered, unpublished and unrecorded piece of art was brought to the National Gallery for assessment. Two weeks later it was stolen.”

“What period and provenance?” Nell sat up a little straighter, frowning. “And how did they get in?”

He watched her face closely but saw only questions. There was no guilt or calculation. He moved closer, reading the heat spots of her body using his enhanced vision. Normal flow at pulse points. Normal respiration heat patterns. She wasn't trying to block him.

Which proved nothing.

Dakota narrowed his focus. His orders were to see how much she knew. His Foxfire training gave him the ability to assess changes in eye response, pulse rate and skin temperature. All those factors would indicate whether she was involved in the theft or not.

“It was an English landscape painting,” he said. “Very old, very rare.”

As he spoke, he watched Nell's face. There was no sudden flare of heat. No spikes in pulse or pupil dilation at his lie. Not satisfied, he eased into the deeper skills he'd been taught as a Foxfire agent, reading her emotions through thermal shifts and eye response. But Dakota picked up only curiosity and confusion.

She didn't know about a theft at the National Gallery. And that first piece of evidence made him doubt everything else he'd been told by Ryker and their FBI contacts. How much else was wrong with this mission?

“So a painting was stolen. I don't understand why you need me?”

Dakota crossed his arms. “Because we already know who took it and we have to steal it back.”

“I don't
steal
things, Lieutenant.”

“But your father does.”

“Did.”
Nell glared at the unopened file on her table. “Not anymore.”

He sipped some water, watching her face, checking her. It was time for the detail that would hurt her most.

“We know this piece art was stolen from a locked room in one of the most secure institutions in the world.” He waited a heartbeat, watching her face. “The thief or thieves were exceptionally skilled and left nothing behind but a single fingerprint. The print belonged to the president of the United States.”

Nell's hands clenched.

“Obviously, we do not consider the president to be a suspect. Given the thief's m.o.—”

“No,” she whispered. She shot to her feet. “You're wrong.”

“I'm not wrong, Nell. You know what that mark means. Your father always left a single carefully transferred presidential fingerprint behind when he stole a piece of art. It was his signature.”

“My
father
did not do this.” Her voice tightened. “I know that was his pattern, but half of the law enforcement personnel in this country knew it, too. It's hardly a secret now. Any thief could have done this.” Color flared in her face, and Dakota picked up shock and anger. The anger came in waves, registered in a sudden thermal flare at her face and neck, signs that could not be hidden from him. No, Nell definitely hadn't known about this detail of the theft, either. She was fully convinced of her father's innocence.