Chapter Fifteen

Laila woke with a start, flailing around on the couch for a second until she remembered where she was. With one palm pressed to her sweaty forehead, she recalled the dream detail by detail.

She had to take possession of the lance, and with all due speed. There was no room for failure, no room for any more mistakes.

She could not fail again.

The hotel door opened, and Trace walked in. His warm smile vanished, seeing her face.

“What’s wrong?” He came to her side, kneeling as she drew a deep, gulping breath.

“The cane.” She fought to calm her racing heart. “We need to find that cane.”

“Agreed.” Trace said. “And I think I know how.” He settled beside her. “The cane that went up for auction is a fake.”

“I told you that.” She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice and failed.

“Yeah, well…we needed to be sure. The techs took some time to inspect the item before agreeing with us, did some fast lab work to verify their preliminary results. The relic was an excellent copy—but still a copy. The wood had been aged with chemicals to recreate the deterioration and aging, the…” He paused and shook his head. “This doesn’t interest you at all, does it?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “But it’s nice to know my instincts were right.”

“We’re putting some pressure on Jerry’s assistants and staff—offering plea deals if they cough up information about the rod. Someone took it out of that case, switched it out for the fake, and handed the real thing off to our mystery man.”

“What did Jerry say?”

“He claims not to know anything about the switch. I want to believe him—it’s bad for his reputation if people start worrying about the artifacts being replaced with a fake before bidding starts. But if he doesn’t talk, someone else will. I’m putting pressure on the police to up the charges, make them more serious. Maybe threatening the staff with some real jail time will make them talk.”

“What if they lie?” she asked. “Say what they want you to hear in order to take advantage of your deal.”

He nodded. “There’s always that possibility. But the detectives know how to pick the truth out of the lies. This is what they do, and they’re damned good at it.” Trace put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find the cane. I promise.”

Laila turned, finding his face startlingly close to hers. A light stubble ran along his jawline, tempting her to brush against it, burn her skin with the pleasure and pain.

He looked at her, the intensity in his gaze setting her skin tingling. His hand moved to the back of her neck.

She moved in, unable to deny the inevitable.

The kiss was gentle, tentative at first—a replay of the one shared in the fitness room not so long ago.

It deepened as he moved in, his natural male scent catching her up again and setting her imagination afire.

On or off the battlefield, he was a warrior.

He could be hers…

His tongue tangled with hers, fought for dominance as much as they had during their workout. She let out a sigh, pressing against him as the desire built inside her, pushing down and away all worries and inhibitions.

She wanted this. She needed this. And judging by the way he pressed against her, so did he.

The cell phone rang, startling them both.

Eyes half-closed, he pulled back.

“Hold that thought.” He picked up the cell phone, drawing his finger across the screen before putting it to his ear.

Laila winced as the angry voice rang out, spilling into the air around them.

“Emile. Emile.” Trace stood and began pacing back and forth. “It was a clean bust. We scooped up three statues that I’m sure came from the museum in Iraq, not to mention the ancient coins from that theft in Rome back in 2015. A little pressure applied on the right person and we might have a lead on the thieves who pulled that job off.” He held the phone away from his ear as the French words shot out like machine-gun fire.

He put his hand over the speaker and looked at Laila, a sheepish look on his face. “Might be a few minutes here. Excuse me.”

She relaxed into the cushions as he went out onto the balcony, interjecting phrases when he got a chance between Emile’s rants.

Trace’s earlier suggestion, back at the police station, crept into her mind.

The folded map of the United States lay in her luggage, nearly forgotten in the rush to prepare for the auction.

She went to the living room table and spread the map out, patting down the creases.

Trace walked by, frowning as he switched to French in an attempt to keep up with Emile’s quick patter.

Laila laid her left palm on the map, much as she had back in New York City, with the edge of the bracelet touching the paper.

The tingling shocked her, the return of the bracelet’s ability sending her pulse skyward. The surge of power was faint but unmistakable. It drew her hand to Los Angeles, as it’d done before.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We’re here. Now tell us where the cane is. Before the Wolf senses your presence and interferes again. He thinks he’s won—let’s prove him wrong. Show me the lance’s true location, please.”

Trace slowed his steps, stopped in front of her as the metal band led her hand down, down the coastline…

… then off the map with a swift flick of her wrist.

“What…” Trace frowned, ignoring his supervisor. “What does that mean?”

“I have an idea.” She hesitated, trying to put her thoughts together.

A beep came from the phone he was holding, and he moved off, swiveling away from the table. “Emile, I’ll have to call you back. Got a call coming in from the LAPD. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure all the paperwork’s done.” Without waiting for an answer, he tapped the screen, switching lines.

“Out of the frying pan…” he muttered. “Dyson here. What’s up?”

Laila stared at her left hand, wondering if she’d missed something. The trace of power was gone, faded away. The bracelet was nothing now but a thin piece of metal on her wrist, still an antique, but nothing more.

Her sister had done all she could to help in the hunt for her lost weapon. Hopefully, it’d be enough.

Trace let out a shout, startling her. “Yes! I’m on the way.” He put the phone down and gave her a wide grin. “Someone wants to make a deal.”

She rose from the table. “I’m coming with you.” Laila held up a hand, stalling any argument. “Don’t even think about leaving me behind. Give me a few minutes to get changed, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Trace tugged at his shirt collar. “I’m with you there. Get into something comfortable—this might take some time.”

…

Within the hour, they were back at the police station, going in the side door.

James Carroll was an elderly man, a trace of red hair brushed over the top of his head in a vain attempt to cover his baldness. He sat in the interrogation room in silence, tapping his fingers on the metal tabletop. Every few seconds, he’d turn and stare at the one-way glass, his eyes wide and pleading like a puppy in a pet shop window.

“He’s the one who bought the cane,” Laila said as she pressed one palm to the window in the adjoining room. “Who bought the fake cane,” she corrected herself.

“Yes. And now he wants to cut a deal. He was the first to turn—guess he wanted to beat the rush.” Trace nodded.

“What can he offer us?” she asked. “If he’s nothing but the buyer…”

Trace crossed his arms. He now wore his leather jacket over a light blue shirt with the top handful of buttons undone, jeans and boots completing his shift from buyer to Interpol agent. “I’m not sure yet. But he told the detectives he wants Witness Protection for what he gives us. Guy works as an accountant at a large financial firm here in the city. Not sure what he was doing at the auction—last time I checked, it wasn’t the type of job that gave you a lot of excess money to spend on antiques.”

“But Jerry let him in anyway,” she added. “Seems to me he’d have to have some money to get past the front door.”

“True,” Trace agreed. “We’ll add that to the discussion. See what we can offer him to get him to flip.”

“Can you do that? Make a deal, I mean.” She paused, searching for the words. “You’re not LAPD. You’re Interpol—if I recall correctly, you’re limited in what you can do here.”

“Technically, yes. I’ll have to pass it through the others, but I have the authority to do it. But he’s going to have to cough up a hell of a lot to make it worth my while—especially with Emile breathing down my neck.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Stay here, please. I’m not sure if he’ll recognize you, but I don’t want to put you in danger in any way. It’ll be bad enough that he’ll see me, but I can’t trust this to anyone else.”

She nodded, conceding the point.

He walked out the door and entered the interrogation room. In silence, he shrugged off his leather jacket and put it on the back of the chair. He undid his shirt sleeves and rolled them up, not looking at Carroll.

Carroll said nothing as well, looking at Trace from under big, bushy eyebrows.

He gave a snort. “Not surprised. Lady like that, too good-looking to be with you without some reason.”

Trace ignored the insult and sat down. “You say you have information we can use to find the real walking stick, stolen from the Valkyrie’s Tomb during the Second World War.”

“Yes.”

“The one you just tried to buy illegally.” Trace cocked his head to one side and narrowed his gaze. “What can you possibly give us if you’re so easily fooled by a fake?”

The man’s lips curled up into a scowl. “I wasn’t supposed to be buying a fake. I thought it was the real thing.”

Trace leaned back. “I knew the rod was fake. Everyone else did.” He turned his head toward the window. “Pretty obvious to anyone with a bit of knowledge. Why do you think you got it so cheap?”

Laila smiled, letting him craft the web.

Carroll frowned. “I’m no historian.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. “And these old peepers aren’t as good as they used to be. But I thought it was the same one I’d seen at Blanco’s villa in Chile, only last week.”

Trace’s shoulders tensed up, the muscles going tight under the shirt.

Laila stared at him, studying his reaction.

Whoever Blanco was, the mere mention of his name was enough to trigger her man’s fury.

She blinked.

Her man?

Where the hell did that come from?

She turned her attention back to the window, trying to ignore the slow burn sizzling through her core at the concept.

Trace let out a rough laugh. “Blanco. As in Daniel Blanco, the arms dealer?” He stood up. “Don’t waste my time with lies.”

Carroll gripped the ends of the table for support. “I’m not lying to you. I saw the cane there, on his private island.”

“Back up a minute.” Trace pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “How do you know Daniel Blanco? You’re an accountant, midlevel at your company. Been there for over ten years, and you’re headed for a quiet retirement if you play your cards right. How would you know one of the most notorious arms dealers in the world?”

The older man hesitated for a second. “I’ll need protection. I talk, and he’s going to have me killed. New life, new identity—the entire package.”

“Make it worth my while, and we’ll see.” Trace sat down. “Tell me how you know Blanco.”

“I…” Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. “My firm, we do some work for him.”

“Money laundering?”

“Technically, no. I mean, not that it’s illegal. Much.” He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. “We deal with his investments here in the States, transfer funds back and forth to some international accounts. A few hundred thousand, here and there. Peanuts, compared to what the man makes.” The words spilled out. “I received a bonus for keeping my mouth shut, we all did. I decided to put my money into buying antiques, got a referral to Jerry. He heard I was a friend of Blanco’s and let me in.”

“And you met Blanco? In person?” Trace shook his head. “He never leaves that island. You’re lying.”

“No, no.” Carroll wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “We met a few months ago, in Brazil. I went there on a business trip for another client, a totally legal, up-front deal. Got an invitation at my hotel, went to the island as Blanco’s guest. Couldn’t really say no to him. Informed my boss, and he said to go and be polite—good for our business.” He grunted. “Car picked me up at the hotel, drove me to the pier. Private speedboat took me out to the island. Had dinner, chatted about some ideas regarding making more investments. We made some small talk, and he found out I was into antiques. Showed me his private collection. About wet myself when I saw it—the man knows his stuff. Then I fly back here, go to work on Monday. Boss is happy, we’re all happy, you know?“

Trace nodded, urging him on.

“A week ago, I’m at my desk. Phone rings, I pick it up. Blanco’s on the other end. At first, I think the receptionist’s made a mistake, put him through to the wrong guy. He wants my boss, right? But he says no, he’s calling me—a fellow collector. Tells me about the cane going to auction, says he thought I might be interested.” He shook his head. “I collect Norse stuff. Sunstones, that type of thing. An ancient cane, that’d be the highlight of my collection.”

“Could you afford it?”

A smile touched the edges of the man’s lips. “I’d manage.”

“Why did he put it up for auction if he knew you were interested? Why not sell it to you direct?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to see if I was serious about paying top dollar, maybe he wanted to see if he could get more. Hell, I was in no position to ask.” He stabbed a finger at the wall. “I didn’t say anything, although I was pretty pissed—but you don’t bite the hand that feeds you, right? Jerry must have made a copy, switched out the original, and sent the cane back to Blanco.”

“Or he stole it,” Trace offered.

Carroll shook his head. “Hell, no. Jerry knows that’d be a death sentence. I’m willing to bet he made the switch with Blanco’s permission. Look, I don’t know what game Blanco’s playing, but I’m not going to go behind bars for this. You offer me protection, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Trace cleared his throat. “You’re willing to risk your company, your professional reputation, and everything you’ve done for Blanco to get revenge on him for an old stick?”

“I’m not an idiot. Whether I talk or not, make a deal or not, my boss is going to fire me, and Blanco will have me killed to keep me quiet.” He sighed. “It’s all over for me, so why wouldn’t I try to get what I can to survive? You help me, and I help you.” He stared at the window. “You know he’s got the real thing on his island. I’ll tell you the layout of his villa if you cut me loose.”

“You don’t think we have that already?” Trace asked. “Blanco and his family have owned that island for years. Interpol’s got a map of that villa, and we’ve got satellite images.”

“But you don’t know where he keeps his precious relics,” Carroll retorted. “You know he’s a collector, but not what things he has or where he’s keeping them. And you haven’t had a reason to raid the place, between the corrupt local authorities and your own inept leadership.”

Trace slammed his palms down on the metal table, sending the elderly man back to his seat. “Don’t push me.” He eyed the would-be collector. “Why would Blanco send the real thing, then switch it at the last minute? Why would he even need the money?”

“No idea.” Carroll rubbed his chin. “Whatever his reason was, I got screwed, and now I want a way out.”

Trace nodded. “We’ll check your information. If it’s real, we’ll see about a deal. If not…” He leaned in. “I’ll make sure your name goes down in the books as a prime example of what Interpol does to antique thieves and smugglers.”

“But I’m not…” He fell silent at Trace’s upraised hand and nodded, dropping his gaze to the tabletop.

Trace grabbed up his jacket and walked out.

Laila realized with a shock that she’d been holding her breath.

The door opened, and he walked in, rolling down his sleeves. “It’s bullshit. All of it. Son of a bitch is lying to try and cover the fact he got caught buying a fake. We might be able to make something of the money laundering, but that’s not my department. I’ll have to pass him on to the…” He paused, staring at her. “What?”

“Carroll said this Blanco has an island.”

“Yeah. A small one, not too far off of the coast of Chile. His family bought it outright decades ago and pays off the local government to leave them alone.”

She held up her left hand, the metal band catching the fluorescent overhead lighting. “I think the island might be where this was leading us. And I had a dream, a vision…”

“Hold on.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s get back to the hotel. I don’t want to talk about this in the middle of a police station. And I want you someplace safe.” He looked through the window. “I’ll put Carroll on ice until we figure this out. He’s not going anywhere.”