Chapter Thirteen

Laila stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying herself. Trace had taken his clothing and headed for the other bedroom, giving her some privacy.

She’d decided to wear black tonight, not wanting to stand out too much. The dress was cut just above her knees, giving her more flexibility than the red one, something she wanted tonight.

She stretched out her leg, the gentle kick enough to satisfy. The black stilettos hugged her feet tight, the leather straps winding around her ankles. Not the best for a fight, but they’d serve in a pinch if it came down to it. If there was going to be a raid, there was a chance of confrontation.

And if the opportunity arose for her to grab the cane and flee…she’d take it.

Her long black hair went up into a tight bun, as if she were preparing for a mission.

“Can you take it off?” Trace asked from the doorway. “The bracelet, I mean.”

She started, caught up in her own thoughts.

Hands raised, he stepped forward. “Whoa. You look marvelous.” He wore a tuxedo tonight, the white dress shirt and black jacket a perfect fit. The bow tie was perfectly tied, leaving no room for error. “Just wondering how you’re going to return that at the end of all this.”

She looked at the silver band, pressing her lips into a tight line as she pondered the answer. “I expect, when we’re done and it feels the need to go home to her, it’ll go home.”

He crossed his arms and moved forward, looking down. “And you? When do you go back?”

“When my job here is done.” Her stomach roiled at the half-truth.

Trace nodded, lifting his head to stare at her. “Putting the walking stick back into the Valkyrie’s Tomb.” One eyebrow rose, almost lost under the loose dark hair. “It’s always been a mystery to me, why she needed one. If she was a Valkyrie, flying everywhere, why have it?”

Laila shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t look away, searching her eyes with a deep, scathing glare that seemed to look into her very soul. A second later, he broke the link, shuffling his shoes. “The private car’s going to be waiting for us downstairs. Be careful what you say in the car—I suspect they’ve got listening devices set inside. Keep it light, maybe talk about what you’re looking to buy.”

“And what about the raid?” Her body vibrated with relief at the change of topic.

“We can’t call them in until the auction starts. The team will secure the perimeter, wait for my signal. Let’s get going.”

…

The car windows were tinted, adding to her nervousness. The driver said nothing as they approached, listening to the numbers Trace read off the black business card. He opened the car door to let them in, then went around to get in the front seat. A few minutes later, they were heading away from the hotel in total silence.

Trace put his hand on her knee. “Don’t worry. This is his usual routine.” He showed her the black business card before tucking it into his pocket. “Now he’ll take us to the location.”

Warmth seeped into her skin, the soothing sensation calming her nerves. “Not what I’m used to,” she answered.

“Good. Hate to think you make a habit out of getting into unmarked black cars with unknown destinations.” He put one finger to his lips, reminding her of their previous conversation. “I’ve been to plenty of these—Jerry’s going to dazzle you with the items up for sale. You’re going to want to buy everything you see.”

“I hope so,” she said, working into her cover identity. “There’s this one room lying empty at the back of the villa, facing out into the garden. I can’t wait to find something for the centerpiece display, go right there on the table. Or maybe something to hang on the wall at the front of the house, right where Denis welcomes the visitors and takes their coats.” She kept her words light, her tone chatty and cheerful. “Something that will grab everyone’s attention when they walk into the room.”

“Just like you do,” Trace replied.

The honesty in his tone caught her unaware, and she stared at him for a long, silent moment.

The car went over a bump, and his hand came away, leaving an invisible palmprint on her skin.

Her cheeks burned as she turned to look out the darkened windows. There was no way she could consider a relationship with Trace. Her time here was limited—as soon as she laid hands on the cane, Laila would flee to Valhalla, to give Freyja the spear and retreat to the safety of her quarters.

Her prison.

Laila closed her eyes, her stomach churning. She couldn’t face going out to collect more souls for Valhalla, but the idea of locking herself away had little appeal.

Maybe if she asked, Freyja would let her teach…

The car slowed, then stopped.

“We’re here,” Trace announced. “Time to see what Jerry’s got on the block tonight.”

…

He sensed the tension in the way she sat, the way she spoke. It was like watching a coiled spring tied to a firecracker, about to shoot off at any second if something went wrong. The shadows, the subterfuge—this was alien territory to her, and she didn’t like it at all.

He, on the other hand, thrived in the darkness, the undercover scheming and dealing almost second nature to him.

The warehouse was surrounded by unlit, silent buildings, the city lights far in the distance. He gave Laila’s hand a comforting squeeze, noting her eyebrows drawing together in concern. She relaxed, turning her attention back to the outside darkness.

It was Jerry’s style to drag clients to places they’d be unlikely to visit on their own—driving to an industrial park out in the middle of nowhere suited his purposes.

Of course, the police knew exactly where they were. Undercover operatives had followed them since leaving the hotel, peeling off and switching out to make sure there wasn’t even a hint that Trace and Laila were being tracked. Jerry and his people were experts—if they’d been made, the driver would have likely pulled off and tossed the two of them out on the side of the road before speeding away in the opposite direction. But he didn’t, and by the time they pulled up to the warehouse, the SWAT team was safely ensconced nearby, waiting for his signal to move in.

The driver came around and opened the door. Trace got out and extended a hand back to Laila. She smiled and followed, sliding with a dancer’s grace onto the asphalt.

The doorman nodded politely, dressed in a red and blue outfit that wouldn’t have seemed out of place at the Tower of London. “Security is this way, please.” He waved them inside where a metal detector sat, a handful of people already lined up.

“What’s this?” Laila asked.

“Standard routine. They’re collecting cell phones, checking for wires, bugs—anything that could compromise the auction and lead the authorities here.” He smiled. “Don’t worry; we’ll be fine.”

She cocked her head to one side, and he imagined the unasked question.

How was he going to call the police down on the site if they were about to be searched?

He smiled and tugged at the edges of his sleeves, the bright cuff links catching some of the overhead lights. If he touched them together, it’d signal the team to start the raid on their location. Trace had used them a number of times, and they never failed to pass scrutiny and allow him to subtly call for help.

Laila frowned as the security guard approached her.

“I need to search your purse, madam.” The thick-necked man gestured at the silver purse.

Trace put his hand on the small of her back, feeling heat simmer under the black fabric. “It’s okay. He’s just doing his job.” He gave the man a nod. “It’s her first time to one of these places. Just a bit nervous.”

The guard grunted and put his hand out.

She placed the purse in his grip, biting her bottom lip.

Trace fought not to smile. Laila was playing her part to perfection, her haughty attitude exactly what would be expected of a rich client on her first trip.

“All you got in here is a wallet.” The man handed it back to her, shaking his head.

“A wallet full of money. Don’t forget that.” She strolled toward the metal detector with a swish of her hips that left devastation in her wake.

The guard glanced at Trace, giving a shake of his head.

He laughed and followed behind, already slipping off his tuxedo jacket to go through the checkpoint.

A lot of the regulars were here—Josef, Henry, Linda… Trace cataloged them even as they exchanged smiles and nods, the barest of communications.

There’d be time for chit chat after the auction, when they met at the nightclub later—days or weeks after the fact, when they could safely brag about their acquisitions.

Here and now, there were only the items on offer and the people waiting.

Laila kept close. Her hand tightened in his grip as they met on the other side of the security station.

“Is it always like this?” She glanced around at the tall black curtains hung everywhere, keeping out all of the natural light. Standing lamps placed at intervals lit the gathering area.

“Yes.” He looked up at the low-level white lights. “Those offer an excellent way to show off the auction pieces in safety. A lot of antiquities are sensitive to light, and this minimizes the possible damage to them.” He led her to the entrance, the curtains creating false walls. “Here’s the gallery. Don’t try to touch the case. The guards won’t have any problem dragging us away.”

“More guards? Isn’t there enough security here already?”

“There’s never enough to satisfy Jerry and his clients. It’s a way of keeping the antiques secure and out of reach of any greedy fingers looking to try either a smash and grab or blatant destruction.”

“Someone would try to destroy one of these relics?”

“Yep. If they wanted it bad enough but couldn’t afford it, someone might make sure no one else could own it. You can’t discount the passion some people have for these artifacts.” He looked around, noting the nearby security guards. “They’re calling the shots here.”

“Who? Jerry and…” She kept her voice down as they strolled around the displays, stopping at random exhibits.

“His friends. Associates. People who are liquidating family estates and don’t want to worry about provenance, where they came from. Some are honest sellers who need the money now and are not interested in going through the procedures to get their piece listed at one of the big auction houses. Some…” He paused, stopping before a display. “Not so much.”

The flat stone waiting to be auctioned had been pried up and away from something larger, the painted images cut off at the edges.

“Early Egyptian,” she murmured. “The renewal of the Nile.” She lifted her hand and paused, holding back.

“Before your time,” he joked.

“A bit.” She smiled. “But still beautiful.” Laila gestured at the jagged ends. “And stolen.”

“Yes.” He couldn’t keep the sadness out of his voice. “Torn from the original display.”

“You’d take it home,” She whispered.

“I would. And I will.” He moved on, forcing himself to look away.

They sauntered from one display to the other, spending approximately the same amount of time at each.

He saw it in the corner. It was the hardest fight of his life not to race over, but he managed.

“Oh, look,” Trace said casually. “Check this out.” He led her over to the exhibit.

She gasped, seeing the cane. Her fingers, entwined with his, trembled.

A fist gripped Trace’s heart, squeezing it tight.

The three-foot walking stick would have been easy to pass by if you didn’t know what it was—the dark wooden cane was perfectly straight, with no sign of warping. A flash of silver here and there gave hints of something under the wood, but since he’d never seen the original item, he couldn’t even begin to consider what it could be. Metal embossing, perhaps, decorating the plain wooden cane. Runes cut into the wood had gone darker during the years, standing out against the bare wood. He couldn’t make them out but suspected prayers to Odin and Freyja, offering love for the gods and their sacred messenger.

He fought the urge to reach out, touch the framed glass. It wouldn’t get them any closer to the cane, and it’d send a signal out to the other bidders that they were very interested in this item.

Still, just to hold it for a moment…

Laila’s hand twitched in his, showing they shared the same thought.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak in a low, calm voice despite his racing thoughts. “Some scholars think it’s actually a sword, placed into an elaborate wooden case. Just the blade, however—there’s no room for a hilt there, as you can see. Others think the bits of metal might be just ornamental.” He pointed at the image, keeping his gesture as neutral as possible. “If we could x-ray it, the results would be amazing.”

“Yes.” The soft reply at his ear sent his heart racing.

She got it.

She got him.

“Now?” Laila asked.

He knew what she was asking.

“No,” he murmured. “We need to keep this as safe as possible, not put anyone in danger.”

Her forehead furrowed with unanswered questions.

“I’ll explain later. We better move on, gawk at some of the other exhibits.”

Laila nodded, and they walked away.

Andrea was there, dragging some older man with her—his scowling response to every art piece told Trace she’d brought him only for his money, likely a relative. The debutante made a point of turning her back on Trace and Laila, making him smile as they headed for the auction room.

The plush, soft brown leather chairs were out of place on the bare cement floor, but it was a familiar setting. He led Laila to the end of one row, settling into the cushions.

“Now what?” she asked, eying the stage.

His palms itched, the eagerness starting to affect him. “Keep your hands in plain sight—make it easier when things start happening.” He continued, answering her previously unspoken question. “Not long after the auction starts. Best way to make sure everyone’s together in groups. Guards in the back, clients up front, items in the waiting area. Easier to deal with.”

She met his gaze and gave a slow nod—picking up on what he hadn’t said. A raid, executed properly, would snag everyone and everything safely and with a minimum of drama.

Done wrong…it could be catastrophic. He had faith in the LAPD but wanted to give them the best chance to secure the scene with little or no issue. The last thing he needed was injured or dead people who had simply come to buy an illegal antique and ended up at the wrong end of a gun because someone panicked or decided to fight their way out.

A soft ding announced the end of the viewing, and the other participants took their place, about two dozen men and women.

Trace saw some old friends, old enemies he’d bid against. A few of them nodded in his direction, eyes wandering over Laila with undisguised hunger.

He took hold of her hand, startling her.

“What…” Her attention went to the people around them. Her cheeks pinked as she took in the unabashed smiles directed her way.

“Don’t encourage them,” he murmured. “They’ll jump at any chance to draw you away from me.”

“In a professional way or a personal way?”

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, thrilling to the goose bumps rising at his touch. “Both.”

The lights dimmed, and they both fell silent, waiting for the show to begin.

A bald-headed man came to the podium on the raised platform to start the auction.

Trace glanced down at the cufflinks, metal squares neatly clipped to his shirt sleeves. All he needed to do was click them together, and it’d be over.

Decades of searching, done and done.

A line of sweat ran down his back, under the expensive shirt now clinging to his skin.

I got this, Dad. Grandpa.

You’ll finally be able to rest in peace, both of you.

The speaker started with a general welcome as the men brought out a large case, covered with a purple cloth. They placed it on the center table and, at the auctioneer’s cue, whipped it off to show the first item up for sale.

Trace’s pulse hammered in his ears as he stared at the wooden stick, his family’s Holy Grail.

It took the last of his self-control as he prepared to start the raid, every nerve in his body screaming for him to charge the platform and claim the cane for his own.

Laila grabbed at Trace’s hand even as someone else made a bid.

He leaned in, keeping a stoic face as she put her lips to his ear.

“It’s not real.”