Aside from talking to Trace on the phone, Z hadn’t said a single word. Ryan now understood what it must have been like to be Z for the last two months. Ryan had done the same thing to him, and he was riddled with guilt, but for now, he promised to keep his focus.
Once they arrived at Courtney’s and got through the ridiculous amount of security the Adorites had, Ryan, Clay, Trace, Z, and Courtney met in Max’s office to put together a plan. While Max, his sister Ashlynn, and the Southern Boy Mafia underboss, Leyton, stood at the back of the room watching them, Dom was on the phone, providing the information he’d learned.
“Guy’s name is Thurston McElroy.”
“Thurston? Seriously?” Clay’s face reflected his amusement. “Who names their kid Thurston?”
Ryan shook his head, quieting Clay for now.
“Anyway,” Dom continued, “after I identified what account the wire had come from, I was able to get all the information we could ever want on this guy. And it looks like Amit’s GPS is still active, because the address I located for Thurston is, in fact, the same location the signal is coming from. Provided Amit is alive, we should be able to get in and get out, no problems.”
“The guy’s expecting the painting,” Ryan explained. “I have no intention of handing over the original unless it comes down to life or death. The plan’ll be to use the second fake as a decoy until we can get Amit out of there.”
“Who’s gonna hand it over?” Trace inquired.
“I am,” Ryan told him, looking at the others in turn.
“Alone?” It was Courtney’s turn to chime in.
“No,” Z inserted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m goin’ in with him. We’ll distract Thurston while the rest of you find a way to get Amit.”
“What if he’s got Amit with him?” Courtney inquired.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “The objective is still the same. We get Amit out unharmed.”
“Hold up a minute,” Trace stated, drawing all eyes to him. “What’s to keep this guy from goin’ after Amit again once this is over? We can’t just hand over a fake painting and expect this guy to shrug it off. He paid Amit two mil up front—half of what he’d been intending to pay. That’s a lotta fuckin’ cash.”
“And he’s cautious,” Dom added. “The reason he hadn’t paid Amit the remaining money was because he was having the painting assessed. I hacked his email and found an email thread between him and some expert. One week after taking possession of the painting, Thurston was informed it was a fake. He’s been hunting Amit ever since.”
“That explains why Amit went to his mother’s house.”
“Regardless,” Ryan inserted, “I’m not handin’ over the original. Four mil ain’t shit compared to what’ll happen if this painting gets in the wrong hands.”
“I’ve got an idea.” Courtney waved her hand to get everyone’s attention. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk?” Clay huffed. “You think that’s gonna make him forget the fact he lost two mil?”
Courtney’s eyes narrowed on Clay, but the voice that sounded did not belong to her.
“He will if I talk to him.”
Max Adorite.
All eyes moved to Max as he came to stand behind his wife. Impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, the guy looked as though he should’ve been in a boardroom.
Unfortunately, Max very well could talk to Thurston and likely get this resolved without injury. Most people feared the Adorites, and Ryan couldn’t exactly blame them. He’d seen firsthand just how ruthless Max could be.
Ryan shook his head. “Your help always comes with a price.”
Max smirked and his sister laughed.
“Thanksgiving dinner,” Courtney inserted.
Ryan frowned. “Huh?”
“Thanksgiving dinner. Here. At our house. That’s the price.”
Max chuckled from behind her. Ryan had no fucking idea what he was supposed to say to that. “You want me to spend Thanksgiving at your place? That’s what it’ll cost me?”
“Not just you. Everyone,” Courtney clarified.
“Fine,” Trace stated. “Done. Can we get on with this?”
“How do you propose we do this then?” Z asked Max directly.
While Max broke it down step by step, Ryan listened, but his attention continued to stray to Z. Part of him was glad to have Max’s interference, because at this rate, Ryan’s distracted state was likely going to get them all killed.
THIRTY-FOUR
IN ORDER TO BE AN effective member of the team, Z took a moment to clear his mind. As with all missions, the end result was all that mattered. Not RT. Not the fact that they were working with the mob to break in some rich fucker’s house and extract an art-stealing asshole.
Nothing.
It all came down to getting Amit out of the house and to safety. The rest would be left up to RT and Max. They’d decided to go in together to confront Thurston, creating a diversion more than anything.
Which was where Z came in.
His one and only responsibility was to work with Trace and Clay to get Amit out.
Standing at the sliding glass door of the enormous fucking mansion, Z waited for a signal as he peered inside, trying to make out what was what. Trace and Clay were on the east side of the house, looking for a way in, as well. This part was child’s play considering what they’d just endured. The first obstacle had been to distract the two Dobermans they’d encountered as soon as they’d stepped on the property.
Granted, Z was all for dogs, but not when they were baring their teeth and ready to rip muscle from bone. No thank you.
That was where Clay came in.
For whatever fucked up reason, RT’s brother had anticipated that issue, and Z had been floored when the guy had pulled dog treats out of his pocket.
Fucking dog treats.
As odd as that was, it had done the trick.
From where Z stood, nose pressed to the glass, he couldn’t see RT and Max inside the house, but he could hear them thanks to the transmitter that RT wore. The drone of conversation sounded in Z’s earpiece, and he listened carefully, waiting for the go-ahead.
He needed some action, something to help burn off some of the excess anger that simmered in his veins. This would certainly accomplish that if they’d stop rattling their lips and give him something to do.
Maybe.
Knowing Max Adorite, the guy would give ol’ Thurston the evil eye, threaten to decapitate him and his family, toss them in the river with a new pair of shoes made of cement, and it would all be over.
Not exactly what Z had in mind, but then again, after his confrontation with RT, Z wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy toward anyone, so if the mob boss wanted to fuck someone up, more power to him.
“Z, you ready?” Trace’s raspy whisper pulled Z from his thoughts.
“Ten four,” he replied, glancing behind him to ensure no one had snuck up on him.
“Looks like Amit’s bein’ held in one of the second-floor bedrooms,” Trace informed him. How he knew, Z didn’t know or care, but he appreciated the heads-up.
Z looked up at the yellow glow coming from one of the second-floor windows, but that proved futile. Apparently he’d left his superpowers in his other jeans, which meant he wasn’t going to be able to scale the wall, and unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could climb even if he wanted to. Not that he was much of a climber, but he was willing to give it a shot if it would get the kid to safety.
“I’ll go in through the back door,” Z said softly.
“Roger.”
“Hold up,” Clay demanded. “We’ve got company.”
Company? What the fuck?
“You got some friends comin’ to help you out?” RT asked Thurston, the information being broadcast through the microphone RT wore.
“Figured you’d have help. Why shouldn’t I?” The man’s tone was snooty, reflecting far too much money and not nearly enough sense.
“Shit, guys. This don’t look good,” Clay said. “We’ve got…I’d say a dozen dudes dressed in black walking right up to the front door like they live here. They don’t move like SWAT, so I’m guessin’ hired guns.”
“Stand down,” RT announced, the words hardly heard in Z’s ear.