The Cunning Thief (Stolen Hearts #6)(4)
It wouldn’t matter. She’d probably never see him again. “I don’t understand what he has to do with anything. Don’t you want to find the men who locked me in there?”
“Ms. Grant, I’m sure you understand that you’re in a bit of a predicament here. If I take your statement down, you’re basically admitting to breaking a whole bunch of laws. So, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m gonna let you go, and not charge you with anything. Sound good?”
No, it didn’t sound good. It sounded as if he was doing anything possible to keep her from making her statement. This Detective Perlman was obviously embedded with Blackthorne, and he wasn’t even bothering to try to hide it from her. She didn’t know why she was surprised. She’d had to deal with the rich thinking they had all the power in the world her entire life.
Shae did the only thing she could do. She nodded wordlessly. She was stupid to think she could take on Blackthorne. She’d be even stupider to think that fighting with this cop right now would be a good idea.
But yet, her hands were still balled into fists where they held the blanket close. Shae wasn’t one to give up easily. And if Damask thought he’d gotten rid of her, he had another think coming.
Tristan wasn’t exactly expecting a happy homecoming as he made his way back to the giant house that Hart Securities had set up in, but the casual “You’re in a load of shit,” from Hunter didn’t help.
“That’s what I get for hanging out with a ginger,” mumbled Tristan as he walked through the recently empty house.
Hart Securities, his new employer, was run by two people: Scott Hart, a former cop who was too disillusioned to stay with the job and decided he could do better for people on his own, and his hacker girlfriend, Toni Murray. Tristan had no idea why the two weren’t married, considering they seemed practically joined at the hip these days. He liked them both well enough, but he and Toni seemed to have more in common. She was like him. Used to being on the wrong side of right. Used to running from the police, not working with them.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t like Hart. The man was smart, and Tristan respected brains more than just about anything. If he was honest with himself, he did like the whole mission statement thing. It was almost the best of both worlds. He got to do what he did best and help people who needed it. It was a pretty good gig, not that he’d ever admit that to Hart.
And the paycheck didn’t hurt either. Toni and Hart had gotten their money through somewhat nefarious ways. Kind of Robin Hood-y: because they stole from the rich, they were using their massive fortunes to give back. But judging from the state-of-the-art computer system Toni had set up in the living room, and Hart’s vintage Corvette that seemed to have a completely rebuilt engine, they were using some of the funds for themselves. And that was why Tristan liked Hart. He wasn’t just a goody-two-shoes. He also knew how to have fun. Had Tristan ever seen him have fun? No. But Toni convinced him that it did happen every once in a while.
The large McMansion was an empty foreclosure. Toni had scoped it out for them. The tycoon who used to own the place had gone bankrupt after one of his many mistresses had cleared out his accounts and run off to a non-extradition country. Before he could clear up all his dirty deeds, the police had come after him and got him for—what else?—tax fraud. So he was sitting in jail while this house was set to go to auction, the funds going right to the government. For now, it was a perfect base for them. Because it was a foreclosure, there was no paper trail Blackthorne could use to come after them. Also, it was big enough to let all the people involved have space so they didn’t end up killing one another. Tristan desperately wanted space right now, but Hunter was following him around like a lost puppy.
“What the hell, man? I thought you were just supposed to be scoping things out?”
Tristan took a deep breath to keep himself from blurting out the truth to Hunter. “Shit happens,” he said evasively.
“Hart’s not going to be happy.”
“Hart’s never happy,” muttered Tristan.
“I’m not happy either,” said Toni from behind them.
Tristan and Hunter both stopped before they turned to face their tiny boss. Toni wasn’t actually that short. Considering every guy here was well over six feet, she tended to look dwarfed next to all of them. But that didn’t stop her bossy attitude. A well-deserved bossy attitude, considering she technically was the boss. And she didn’t like them to forget that. “Emergency meeting now.” Before waiting for them to respond, she turned and walked away.
Hunter gave Tristan a knowing glance. “I tried to warn you.”
It had been a really fucking hard night, and the last thing Tristan wanted was an army of I told you sos. Toni hadn’t said where her emergency meeting would be, but Tristan and Hunter both knew it would be at her computer room. Now, a normal person might have a computer room in an office or bedroom, but Toni wasn’t normal. She had her setup in the main living room. There was a wall full of monitors, about four or five different desktop stands, an entire stack of laptops, and a few bins’ worth of random electronics. Organization wasn’t her strong suit, but that never seemed to stop her from getting the job done. There wasn’t exactly a lot of seating in the room, so Tristan and Hunter were forced to stand. Toni sat down at her main computer chair, and Hart leaned against the desk next to her. Also in the room was Gage, the other field member of their team. Hunter was the bulkiest of all of them, a fact he never let them forget because his weights were clanging constantly as he did his continuous workouts. Gage and Tristan had a simpler workout routine, focused more on running and less on weights. Tristan liked to consider himself brave, but in ninety percent of cases, running was preferable to physical fighting. In their line of business, the people they fought usually had guns. He didn’t need to bench-press 300 pounds in order to fight a bullet, but running fast sure as hell made a person harder to hit.