To Catch a Thief (9 page)

N
ELL WAS A BLOCK
from the school crossing when the first police car two-wheeled around the corner, spitting gravel. Two more black-and-whites raced by at the next intersection.

Looking for her?

Hunched beneath the long plastic poncho she'd stuffed in her travel bag, she sprinted between a row of SUVs with parents waiting to drop off their kids at school.

She heard the screech of horns behind her and figured it was Dakota, trying to find a place to stop in the middle of the road, but she didn't look back, twisting north toward an alley that led away from the main streets.

She had to talk to Nicholas Draycott, her father's English friend. Then she needed a place to vanish.

She panted as she ran, brushing rain from her face. Once she knew who was behind the theft, she'd contact Dakota and pass on the information. But that would take place only after she had a written guarantee of her father's protection in exchange for her cooperation.

The scream of sirens two blocks away warned Nell that she couldn't underestimate Dakota Smith and the people he worked with. She glanced at her watch, sprinted through a row of backyards, down a smaller alley and headed toward the closest Bart stop.

“W
HERE IS SHE NOW
?”
Lloyd Ryker felt sweat slip under his collar.

“Sutter near Kearny, sir. I let her go as you instructed if she ran.” Judging by the background noise, Dakota was on foot, phone to his ear.

“What about the chip?” Ryker snapped.

“In place and operational. Izzy is monitoring her now. I've got her in sight.”

“Keep me up to date. I want to know every word she says—to her father, to her priest, and to everyone else.” Ryker slammed down his phone and sat back in the chair.

Damn the da Vinci and damn the museum's inept security. If the staff had done their job properly, this nightmare wouldn't have landed in his lap.

Because of the terrorist connection, his unit had been brought in to check out any security flags. Given the suspicion of insider involvement, Teague had been running museum staff dossiers for a week, but so far they had no clear suspects. Meanwhile, every passing second brought the stolen art closer to the network of illegal art dealers working hand in glove with a well-financed terrorist group whose activities had sharply escalated in the past year.

And now Ryker had been forced to involve a civilian.

A
female
civilian.

In three prior Foxfire ops, females had been pulled in. When the dust had settled, each woman had managed to snare one of his top operatives, men he couldn't replace. Why couldn't people see the cold, hard truth the way he did? Marriage and espionage were a no-match. No matter how careful you were, emotions slowed you down and got you killed.

His Foxfire unit had been founded around that rule.

But Dakota was different, Ryker thought. Dakota was too professional to lower his guard, hormones or not.

At least he hoped so.

Scowling, Ryker picked up his office phone and punched in a number. “Ryker here,” he growled. “Get me ten-minute updates on Teague and Smith. I want to know every step they take.”

N
ELL DUCKED
down an alley behind a rusting Dumpster and closed her eyes, breathing hard. Only twenty-four hours ago she'd been safe in her quiet workshop cleaning the last corner of
Saint George and the Dragon
, worrying about nothing more important than refilling her pigments and meeting the increase in her next commercial lease. Her life hadn't lacked challenges, but they had been manageable and contained.

Until now
.

Now she was huddled beneath a torn plastic poncho, her hair a wreck and her life in shreds.

She heard a sound across the alley. Silently she wedged her body back into the space behind the Dumpster, trying not to think about the rats or the layers of unnamed garbage surrounding her.

But she couldn't stay here for long. She had to keep moving. Dakota wouldn't be far behind.

A
CROSS THE STREET
in a dusty white van, Izzy Teague slid his headphones into place and touched a sleek metal track pad.

A red light flashed on the street map that came up on his laptop screen. The surveillance op had been ordered at the highest levels, and Ryker and his superiors were taking no chances on a screwup.

Right on Market.

She was on the move again. Probably headed to the Bart stop at Montgomery Street.

He zoomed in on the screen and checked every possible form of transportation in and out of the area. Nell MacInnes didn't have a car nearby, so her choices were limited unless she hailed a cab.

He frowned at her sudden change in direction. She'd stopped at a bookstore near Market that had just opened. She was going inside.

A small digital clock clicked out passing seconds at the bottom of his laptop screen. The missing art had to be located and recovered before it vanished into the shadow world where international crime merged with political terrorism. That wasn't going to happen on Izzy's watch.

He tapped a button. “Smith, you have her?”

“I'm headed around to the back. Is she still inside?”

“I'm picking up conversations and the sound of a phone ringing. She's in there somewhere.”

“Stay on the front door. I'll give her two minutes to make contact with her father again. Then I'm going in.”

“Copy.” Izzy listened to the sound of muffled conversations and laughter. He heard the creak of a chair sliding out. The bookshop had a café, according to his quick online research.

A blue button lit up his screen.

Call in progress.

The phone number belonged to her father, but no one answered. Seconds later a new call was initiated, but the number wasn't one that Izzy recognized.

He tapped in a query and frowned.

Sussex, England?

Izzy knew that Nell made frequent trips to England to meet clients and acquire pigments and paper. During those trips, she used a GSM cell phone, which was enabled for European calls. Quickly he tapped the phone number into his commercial database.

No luck.

Frowning, he keyed into the huge, secure system that was housed in Maryland. As the cursor blinked, he drummed his fingers impatiently, glancing up to monitor the bookstore's front door. Who in the hell was Nell MacInness calling in Sussex, England?

A voice came over the line, cool and polite and decidedly aristocratic. “May I help you?”

The hell of it was, something about the voice was familiar. Izzy waited, suddenly uneasy. Where had he heard that aristocratic pronunciation before?

“Thank God. It's Nell.” She sounded tired and at the edge of panic, breathing hard. “I've got to see you.”

D
AKOTA STOOD
to the left of the bookstore's rear entrance, watching a tired employee toss trash and empty book boxes into the garbage.

He didn't think about Nell's face when she'd learned of her father's illness. He shoved the thought of her despair out of his mind.

Not your problem, pal. Do the job. Nail her contacts and haul her gorgeous ass out to the airport, as ordered.

Then forget her.

At least try to forget her, he thought grimly.

Dakota fingered his ear wire. “Teague, what's happening?”

“She's inside. She's making a call. Hold on….”

N
ELL SAT STIFFLY
in a worn leather armchair at the back of the small café. Wet and frightened, she tried to remember the time difference between the West Coast and England.

Nicholas Draycott was one of her father's oldest friends. The two had loved to argue about pigment and painting styles and brushwork. Nell had listened to their conversations for hours whenever Nicholas visited her father, and it was during one of those heated, rambling arguments that she had decided to make restoration her career.

Then her world had shattered when her father had gone to prison. Even then the Englishman had called Nell with encouragement and advice, cheering her on through her studies and her final art internships in Europe. After that, Nell had occasionally advised him on the care and preservation of the vast collection of art at his magnificent estate in Sussex. She had never visited Draycott Abbey, but from photos and her father's descriptions she almost felt she knew the great old house.

Nell prayed the viscount could help. She gripped the phone, keeping her voice low. “It's about my father. I have to talk to you.”

The phone shifted and Nell heard a chair scrape back. “Can you hold on for a moment?”

She heard footsteps and then the sound of a door closing. “Nell, is this about the gas chromatography tests you wanted for the Constable landscapes? If so, they—”

“It's about my father, Nicholas. It's a mess—he's in some kind of trouble. Things are crazy here, and I—I need your help. He told me to contact you immediately.”

“Jordan told you this? When?”

“Twenty minutes ago. There are people following me. My father told me I was in danger and I should leave everything to go someplace safe. But where is safe? I—I don't know who to trust, Nicholas.” She caught a breath and forced herself to stay calm. “Some people from the FBI came to my apartment tonight and the government has a man following me. I need to know what my father is caught up in.”

Silence stretched out. “Nicholas?”

No answer.

Outside the store, cars crawled past, swallowed up by the rain. Nell wondered if her life had turned into one of those cars, crawling through rain and wind, barely staying ahead of a storm that was about to swallow her completely.

She pushed away the rest of a dry croissant, her appetite gone. “Nicholas, are you still there?”

“I'm here, Nell. Look, I'm in San Francisco right now, finishing some business. I was heading to the airport, but I'll swing by. Tell me where you are.”

Nell felt the hairs stir at the back of her neck. A coincidence? Who could she trust? Was even this man an enemy?

“I…when did you arrive in San Francisco?”

“Sorry I didn't call you. It was an unexpected trip with a tight turnaround. Nell, listen to me. I'm sure there's a simple answer to your problem. We can go see your father and sort all this out together. How would that be?”

Like a miracle, she thought. Except her father wasn't answering his phone. “Can you come soon, Nicholas? These people are following me.”

“Where are you now?”

Nell gave him the address, watching every customer who passed by her table. So far there had been no sign of the SEAL or anyone who looked like police, but she was certain her luck wouldn't last.

“Fine. I'll be there within twenty minutes. Stay put, Nell. Do not go outside and speak to no one.” The politeness had shifted into something steely. “Between us, we will find our way to the bottom of this, I promise.”

The line went dead.

S
HE ORDERED
another cup of tea, thumbed blindly through two glossy art magazines and called her father four times.

No answer.

Sliding down in her chair, she watched the clock, expecting Dakota to loom down one of the aisles at any moment, but no one bothered her.

Exactly eighteen minutes after Nicholas Draycott had ended her call, she looked up to see his lean, handsome features. He had an old Burberry trench coat folded over his arm, and water glinted in his dark hair.

“Thank heavens, I was afraid you'd left.” Nicholas looked at her in concern as he slid into the chair beside her. “Are you okay, Nell? Your arm is bandaged.” He leaned forward, frowning. “Is that a cut on your face?”

“Nothing serious. Just…climbing stuff. But I'm tired and confused. Have you heard from my father lately? There's something going on, but he isn't making any sense.”

“What has he told you?”

Nell shrugged. “Something about numbers and promises.” She frowned at an employee carrying a tray with pastries for a nearby customer.

The twelfth viscount Draycott drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Nell realized several people in the café were studying him discreetly, wondering if he was someone important. “Your father gave you a number? Did he say why, Nell?”

A movement to her left, down an aisle with children's books, caught her eye. She flinched.

Dakota Smith walked silently down the aisle and sank into the seat beside her. Another man, the mirror image of Denzel Washington, emerged from the opposite aisle.