Maximus (Guardian Security Shadow World #15)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

M ax’s mind shifted into overdrive as Elena worked. The painting he’d put into the storage room … The specifications of the painting, approximate weight, canvas dimensions, and the frame ripped through his mind. The weight was off, and the frame was too thick, as were all the frames on the art that sat in that room. Whatever Abrasha was shipping into Russia was hidden in the frames or protected by the large frames … He’d read cases of artwork being covered with newer paintings. It was necessary in the early ages when canvas for work was costly, and artists were among the poorest of the population.

“Max?”

He snapped his attention to Elena. “Yes?”

“Are you ready? I’ve finished what I can do today and sent emails to all parties pushing the showing back. I’ll make calls to follow up with the guests who haven’t RSVP’d to the date change, but it wasn’t difficult to make the modifications. I think a lot of that cooperation has to do with Abrasha. Knowing what I know now, I can see why people bend for him.”

Max nodded as he stood. “Does Sokolov have access to the office?”

“Yes, and the delivery area, but Abrasha and I are the only ones with access to the vault. If he showed up when you were away, I was going to hide in here.” Elena moved toward the vault entrance. He picked up his computer and brought it with him. No sense in tempting fate.

He watched as she opened the small packet holding the alcohol wrap and went through the process of entering the vault and wiping the screen.

They walked through the hall of priceless art, art that should have been exhibited in a museum but was instead locked behind three-foot-thick concrete and biometric locks. He waited for her to open the storage room and headed straight for the frame in the corner without a painting. “What are you looking for?” Elena came over and watched as he kneeled on the floor and examined the back of the frame.

“Remember what you said about hiding something priceless under something ugly?” He glanced up at her.

“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “You think something is hidden in the frame?”

He nodded. “Either the frame or under the painting of the canvas.”

“An overpaint?” She dropped to her knees with him. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because until this morning, you assumed your boss wasn’t a murderous bastard,” Max said as he ran his fingertips around the outside of the frame.

“Well, there is that.” She sighed. “What are you looking for?”

“Irregularities, dips, dents, color change.”

She pointed to the right-hand corner. “There.”

He zeroed in on the divot she’d pointed out. He ran his finger over the small indention. The texture was different from the rest of the frame. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the composition of the frame. “This would need to open.”

She nodded, sat on her butt, and crossed her legs. She took the frame from him and lifted it to the light. “There, a seam. You can see the color change in the wood finish.” She handed the frame back to him. He lifted it in the same fashion she had and could detect the smallest change in color that ran in a straight line at the joint. He spun the frame to the opposite side and searched for the same tell-tale sign. “There,” he said, and she pressed her face against his arm as he held the frame, squinting to see what he indicated.

“I see it, but what do we do now? If we open it, Abrasha will know.”

“Not necessarily.” He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. He could get a replica of the frame in a day, maybe two. The weight, he’d have to take a wild-ass guess on unless … “Do you have a scale?”

“Scale? Yes, in the delivery area. When I have workers construct shipping boxes, I have to know how much they weigh to notify the company shipping the art its dimensions.”

“Is it portable?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade knife.

She backed away from the knife, her eyes wide. “I can roll it in here. What if he comes back?”

“I’ll have a replacement built. He won’t be able to tell the difference unless he looks for the lines and the divot.” Max turned the frame over and then looked at the rest of the frames, leaning on easels. They were all different sizes and thicknesses, and some were an awkward fit for the canvas, overpowering the small paintings with height and girth.

He put the frame down. “Do you want help getting the scale?”

She glanced back in the direction of the vault door. “Would you mind? I can manage the scale, but …”

“Not at all.” He stood up and offered her his hand. She was holding up pretty damn well, considering what she’d been through the night before. He left the frame and his computer in the vaulted area as he held her hand as they strolled back through the priceless treasures.

She drew a deep breath and let it out. “All of these were bought with blood money.”

“Not necessarily. Abrasha’s father was made rich by seizing an aluminum company in the early voucher campaign sponsored by the Russian government. From there, the man worked damn hard, and when he died, Abrasha took over. From what we determined, his father was a businessman and mostly worked within the confines of legalities. Abrasha took the businesses into the digital age and has gone for the easy money, backed the wrong people, and become a monster. Absolute power, in Molchalin’s case, has corrupted absolutely.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiled, looking forward. She knew he was trying to make her feel better. He squeezed her hand and looked over at her. Not many people would have understood what he was trying to do. “For what?”

She chuckled. “You were trying to make me feel better about working for a murdering pig by telling me some of these paintings could have been purchased by his father. Yet you know I know the provenance of all these paintings. Only a handful have been owned that long.”

They stopped at the vault door. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Before lowering it, he asked, “Has anyone told you how beautiful your mind is?”

She laughed. “Never.”

“Then they were fools who never looked past the beautiful wrapping.” He saw a blush race to her cheeks.

She stared at him. “You do realize if you keep talking to me like that, I’ll start believing you care for me.”

“I do care for you. I’ve told you that. I want to take you back to the States when I leave. I want to find out where this connection goes, and I’ll repeat that statement as many times as you need to hear it to believe me.”

She stared at him for a long moment before opening the vault door. Then she put her hand on his arm as he opened the heavy door. “I do, too, Max. I care.”

He took her hand after she locked the vault and walked to the delivery area. A warm sense of well-being boiled through him. He pulled her into him before she could turn on the lights in the delivery area. His lips found hers, and she gasped, stealing his air. She could take every molecule of oxygen from his body, and he wouldn’t care. The taste of her was beyond any five-star experience he’d ever had. She formed into his body in a perfect meld of softness and curves. It was illogical and the result of a physical response to dopamine, but logic and chemicals aside, he’d never had a connection like this with any other woman. She was his. He deepened the kiss at that possessive and archaic thought. Fuck it, he didn’t care. And that was yet another point that led him to believe the nexus between them couldn’t be anything but serious. He never said fuck it. He never declined to investigate. When a logical reason existed, he delved deeper and verified the facts behind each decision. Yet, with this woman in his arms, he did not care . She was an anomaly, and for once in his life, he didn’t care to dig, know why, or require an explanation. The answer to the equation did not matter, the parts were more important than the sum. Whatever it was, whatever the reason for his bliss was, he just hoped it would never fade.

He felt her push against his steel-hard cock and groaned under the contact. He pulled away from the kiss. “If you don’t stop that, I may go insane.”

She panted and breathlessly laughed. “You’ve already driven me over the edge of sanity.”

“Tonight was supposed to be our night together.” He dropped his forehead to hers as he spoke.

She nodded a bit. “It still can be.”

“I’m not pressuring you.” He pulled her in for a hug. “I won’t ever do that. Take your time, and I’ll respect any answer you give me. You’re in control of our relationship. You’re the only one who can move us to the next level.”

She looked up at him. Not that he could see her in the almost complete darkness, but he could feel her movements. “Thank you.”

He sighed. “You never have to thank me for being a decent human.”

She laughed. “When you aren’t used to dealing with decent humans, having that privilege is worthy of gratitude. Maybe we should get the scale and find out what we’re dealing with?”

He groaned and dropped his hands to her hips. “I’ve never been one to deviate from the job … for any reason. You’re my exception.”

She reached over, and he heard her patting the wall. The lights flickered on, and she looked up at him. “I like being your exception.” She glanced at the clock. “We have two hours before the delivery is due from Abrasha’s residence.”

“Then we should go find out what is in those frames.” He grabbed the handle of the wheeled platform where she weighed the created artwork and followed her back to the vault. They weighed the frame, and he sent the pictures and dimensions to Con via his computer.

She frowned. “How can you get internet in here?” She lifted her hands and looked around her.

“I don’t, but that email will be sent as soon as we leave. Economy of actions.” He wouldn’t tell her his ugly computer system could bore through the thickest bunker known to man. He’d developed the capability for POTUS. Guardian was also the recipient of the system due to his loyalties. The mountain they were operating under didn’t have cable access; it didn’t need it. They were on solar energy provided by Doctor Jillian Marshall and an untraceable internet system that worked from under a mile of granite.

“Oh,” Elena said. “Well, are you ready?”

“Let’s do it.” He picked up the switchblade he’d left in the storage room and depressed the indentation with the tip. The area sunk in, and the seam where the paint was slightly different popped open.

“A canvas,” she whispered, and he nodded as he reached for the material. “No, don’t touch it with your hands. Look how old it is. Let me get some gloves to protect the fabric from the oils on our hands.”

He cocked his head to the left. Her brain was exceptional, and he loved how she was occasionally faster than he was in her area of expertise. He watched her jog out of the room before turning his attention to the canvas rolled loosely and placed in the padded compartment in the frame. If the other frames also had a painting … why smuggle art into Russia? Unless …

Elena came back in, handed him a set of gloves, and put her gloves on. She also placed a felt padded board on the floor. “Use this to unroll the canvas on, and please be careful.” Her tone was hushed, and he could tell she wanted to be the one to unfurl the painting.

“You do it,” he said, and she glanced up at him.

“Really?”

“You’re trained in this.”

“Okay.” She licked her lips and used her fingertips to touch the very edges of the canvas. She carefully slid the painting out of the container and placed it on the felt. Carefully she loosened the roll. “Oh, God.” Her hands shook. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a Chagall.” He recognized the signature on the work but not the painting itself.

“I don’t recognize the painting.” She leaned back and looked at him. “There were so many paintings stolen during World War II. We’ll have to search the provenance of this painting.”

“That’s logical. If these are stolen artworks, he’d keep them here and wouldn’t let you see them. You’d report them once you figured out the provenance.”

“I would. Max, some paintings have been rolled in these frames for over two or three years. The damage it could be doing is insane. We have to get them all out.” She stared at the other frames.

“No.” He shook his head. “We have evidence of what these are, and he’ll pay for these crimes, too. We’ll get them out in two weeks. Any damage that occurs in that time will be minimal, if at all, right?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Can you shut that frame?”

He inspected the mechanism and pushed the flap down. It fit seamlessly, and there was no determinable damage. “It doesn’t even look like it’s been opened.”

She put her hand on his chest and pleaded, “We can retrieve all the paintings. I’m not an expert at restoration. These canvases must be stretched carefully and reattached to a frame in the proper humidity and under careful supervision. Max, these paintings are history and could have been stolen almost a hundred years ago. Those families deserve closure, they deserve to know that the paintings still exist and have a say as to what happens to them.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please, can you get these out of Russia and to someone who can care for them properly? Someone who will return them to the people they were stolen from?”

In his mind, the risks of moving the paintings and drawing attention to what Guardian was doing in Russia weighed against the historical and sentimental value of the paintings. He could get them out if Guardian were willing to save them. “If we can determine they were stolen, I can contact my agency for help.”

“Then let’s get started.” She looked at the Chagall. “I have a small area at the back of the vault where I keep a few items. We can take this canvas there and obscure it from view, just in case Abrasha makes a surprise visit.”

“Then let’s do it.” He was ready to get to work. “What would we need?”

“A climate-controlled container. The canvases will probably return to their rolled position, especially those stored in these frames for years, so it doesn’t need to be very big. We can cushion them with foam crating. I have that for shipment of Abrasha’s paintings to and from his residences.”

Max cocked his head. “Residences, as in plural?”

She stared at the painting in front of her but said to him, “Yes, he has several outside of Russia. I routinely refresh his collections and send out different paintings. Then, I go to the residences, change the art, ensure it is displayed correctly, and ship the replaced canvases or statues back here.”

“I’ll need those addresses.”

She swung her gaze to him. “To get the art back after he’s arrested.” She nodded. “That makes sense. I have all of them on my computer.”

Max smiled, not saying a word. That wasn’t the only reason he needed the addresses. They had no known residences on record for Molchalin outside of Russia, and the address they had in Russia was guarded like Fort Knox. That was why they were taking him at the showing—his weakest link. The other residences could hold a treasure trove of information that could forward worldwide investigations.

“Are you ready?” She carefully picked up the felted board, giving it the excessive care the painting deserved. He stood and took the board from her until she stood, and then he gave it back to her. He followed her to a small corner with a shelving unit. He moved the items she indicated, and they set the now curling canvas on the shelf. Elena used smaller boxes lined toward the front of the shelving unit to mask the canvas. “The entire vault is environmentally controlled, so it should be fine until we can get it to a safer place.”

He faced Elena and put his finger under her chin. She was glowing and radiant even with the burst blood vessels in her eyes. She loved art. It wasn’t an act or a job for her. It was a conviction that flowed through her entire being. “The thought of saving these works of art is special to you, isn’t it?”

She drew a deep breath and smiled at him. “This could be the reason I was put on the earth at this point in time. Saving these paintings could be the reason I exist .”

He stared down at her. She was beautiful inside and out. “I can think of another reason you were placed here at this point in time.”

She swallowed hard. “You can?”

“I can.” He lowered his lips to hers and brushed them softly. “Perhaps the paintings were a secondary reason.” He dipped down and kissed her again, that time parting her willing lips. The taste of her was something he’d never get enough of, and that was a fact he knew despite objective reasoning.

A jangling trill ripped through the vault. Elena jerked away from him. “The delivery is early. That’s the loading dock bell.” She grabbed his hand. “Come with me?”

“Always.” And he meant that, too—screw objective reasoning. For the first time in his life, he would go with what his emotions told him. It wasn’t liberating for him because that prickly, itchy feeling was too close to the surface. The hatred and anger for Sokolov and the mission to eliminate Abrasha were never far away. The first would be a pleasure to eliminate, and the second, a requirement. He needed to talk to the other Shadows on the case. Elena was to be protected from the situation at all costs. She couldn’t see him kill either man. He had to have a future with her, and killing those two bastards could eliminate any chance he had at one with her.