Zander cut a look over his shoulder. The one who’d spoken was Nick Dunlap. And he’d drawn a gun.
Instantly, Zander stopped. Britt ran a few more paces before pausing to assess the situation. Her eyes met his and a wordless conversation passed between them.
Go, he pled. She wasn’t carrying the painting. He was. So they were unlikely to shoot her. If she continued forward, she might be able to get away.Go!
She gave a minuscule shake of her head.I’m not leaving you.
God, Zander prayed.God.
These men knew his name. If they knew that, then they knew what he held.
They’d come for the Renoir.
They hadn’t come to hurt Britt. She was unarmed. If he cooperated with them and handed over the painting, then they’d have what they wanted and they’d let Britt go.
Nick holstered the weapon as he and the other three men neared. Zander placed himself between them and Britt. They were all wearing slim, custom-made suits. All looked like Nick did, with weathered faces and muscular frames.
One appeared to be in his mid-fifties. The others were younger. Nick. Then one with recessed eyes. One with thick, black hair.
“Out for a stroll on this pleasant day?” the oldest one asked Zander and Britt in an amused Scottish accent. Wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. He wore his graying hair short and a gold signet ring on one of his fingers.
Neither Zander nor Britt answered.
Tension had overtaken Zander’s entire body.
“Tom,” Nick said to the older man, nodding as a sedan pulled around the corner of the building in their direction.
Tom. This was the Tom connected to Nick and Emerson.
“It’s all right,” Tom said to Nick. “Zander and Britt here are too intelligent to try to signal the driver. They know they’d just end up putting him or her in jeopardy and that really wouldn’t be fair, seeing as how the driver isn’t involved in this at all.”
The sedan drew even with them. The old woman behind the wheel gave them a benign scan and continued on.
Tom flicked his fingers toward the covered painting. “That looks heavy. We’d be glad to carry it for you—”
“Who are you?” Zander asked.
“We’re the ones who’ve gone to a lot of time and expense to locate that painting,” Tom answered.
Zander held eye contact with Tom. “Both the Pascal Museum and the FBI are offering a reward for this painting. If you’ll let us return it, we’ll let you pocket the reward money.”
In response to Zander’s offer, Tom’s attention roved to Britt. He aimed a smile at her—both tender and cold—that turned Zander’s blood to ice. “Interesting proposition. Except that the reward money is just a drop in the bucket compared to what I can get for the painting.”
“Turning it in is fast and easy,” Britt said. “No risk.”
“There’s always risk, love.”
“But not the kind of risk that could land you in jail,” she said.
Tom chuckled. “I’ve dealt with the risk of jail for close to forty years now. I’ve even been an inmate a time or two.”
“We’ll hand the painting over to you,” Zander said. “And you’ll let us go.”
“You’ll hand the painting over,” Tom agreed. “I’m not so sure about that last part.”
“You’ll have what you want, and you’ll let us go,” Zander stated.
“But you see, I want two things.” Casually, Tom resettled and smoothed his suit jacket. “I want the painting, and I want to get out of the country with it safely. If I let you go, you’ll run inside that building,” he inclined his head toward The Residences, “call the police, and make it more difficult for me to get out of the country.”
