Operation: Heist (Super Agent #8)

Chapter 12

TWELVE

“ G ot it,” Dolan said.

Truman snapped awake—he’d drifted off in the extra chair across from the desk hub. He shifted forward, wincing as his side pulled. “Got what?”

Dolan peered over at him. “You should let me look at that, you know.”

“Why so you can poke me again?”

The bastard gave a wolfish grin, then returned to his screen. “Your thief is old school; she hangs out on bulletin boards and uses leet and algospeak.”

“The Queen’s English, please.”

"You have a king now, ijit.”

Truman rubbed the back of his neck where it ached from the weird angle he’d slept in. “The Monarchy’s English, then. Happy? I’ve covered all the bases.”

“Leet is a system of modified spellings to get around filters so users can then discuss forbidden topics on message boards. The lexicon has developed over the years, but it consistently replaces letters with numbers and symbols.” When Truman didn’t respond, he stopped typing and lowered his readers, glancing at him again. “For instance, Dr. Kent and I want to discuss you on a message board. I might type, Bulldog is an a-$-$ . That’s basic and most everyone would understand its meaning, but you get the drift. Communications using leet and algospeak are much more complicated. Their primary purpose is to circumvent censure and avoid law enforcement. It's perfect for criminals if they know how to use it, giving them the freedom to discuss illegal activities.”

"And recruit others to help them with those activities?"

Dolan nodded, slipping his glasses back to their position. "I figured Gani, or someone of her caliber, might decide to put together a team similar to the Red Hearts. Since they’re out of business, a void has been created, and as we all know, criminals love to fill a void.” He pressed a key, and the printer hummed to life. He rolled his chair to it and began collecting the pages shooting out. “The first thing I looked for was someone using any playing card suit: hearts, diamonds, spades, or clubs. I found someone using a black diamond as a substitute for the letter A, three slashes to form the N, the number nine for the G, and an exclamation point for the I. Running a search on several of the message boards generated hundreds of posts from her, the majority showing up in the last two years.”

He handed the papers to Truman. One was a cipher with the various combinations of symbols and numbers that could replace letters. He jumped to the next page with copies of the downloaded messages. It wasn’t difficult to decode, only time consuming. "All of these were posted after the Alice in Wonderland Gang was caught."

"Exactly.” Dolan rolled back to his desk, removing his glasses and tossing them on the top of a keyboard. "If I'm translating those posts correctly, it looks like Gani was recreating the gang. She mentions a Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and a dormouse.”

Truman felt a buzz along his spine—the sign he was onto something. He shuffled through the messages, translating as fast as he could. “Is there any mention of the Bradshaw diamonds in all this gobbledygook?”

“Not specifically, which doesn't surprise me."

He deflated. “Damn.”

Dolan held up a finger. "But her activity on the message boards picked up considerably in the months leading up to the heist. She mentioned a Cheshire Cat.” He put on his glasses and read from the screen in front of him. “‘The Cheshire Cat will clear the way’ it says.”

Emma hadn’t mentioned that character. “Who the hell is that?”

"Someone with evaporating skills, I imagine."

“Smart ass.” Truman knew what he meant, though—someone who was invisible. Behind the scenes. The Mastermind. “Christ on a cracker.” Could it be?

“Another post mentions the White Rabbit,” Dolan continued, “and how she’d be the scapegoat. A guarantee to those who signed up that they would get away free and clear."

White—the color of innocence. His blood ran cold. "Emma."

"She did claim she was framed."

A string of curse words flew from his mouth. He dropped the papers on the seat and paced. “So Gani wanted to recreate her own version of the AIW, steal the diamonds, and pin it on the newly-released-from-prison Emma.”

“It appears she pulled it off. Why take her da, though?”

Had he been kidnapped, or had he played a part in all of it? Truman hoped for Charlie’s sake that he was a victim in this scenario. If he wasn’t, he was going to find Truman’s fist pounding his face. Repeatedly. “Are there any posts from Gani after the Bradshaw heist?”

“None. Radio silence.”

“Do any of the earlier messages mention the Vorpal Sword?”

Dolan cocked a brow. “Nope. Is that important?”

If the Mastermind was also the Cheshire Cat, the use of the term should snag his or her attention. “Can you send Gani a message, encrypted in this leet language?”

Dolan bristled. “You doubt my skills?”

“Never.” He snatched up one of the pages, flipping it to the blank side and snagging a pen from the stash on Dolan’s desk. Composing a brief and to-the-point note, he handed it to the Irishman. “Here.”

“‘Ready for another adventure, Alice?’” Dolan read. “‘I know a party interested in the Vorpal Sword.’” He peered at Truman. “You think she’ll respond? The Cheshire Cat doesn’t use the boards, so she’ll know it’s not from him.”

“Those diamonds are hot, and there will be a lot of interested parties. The more bidders, the higher the price will go. The Vorpal Sword is terminology that Catherine and the Mastermind used. It gives the sender credibility—it makes it seem like they were part of the Red Hearts at some point.”

“Who’s the Mastermind?”

Truman filled him in. Not every detail, but enough for him to get the gist of things.

Dolan scratched at his beard, chewing it over. “The most logical scenario is that Charlie Grant is the Mastermind.”

“Most logical, yes. Easy and simplistic, yes. I think that’s the reason the true Mastermind kidnapped Charles—to make it look like he’s working with Emma, and the two of them stole the diamonds together.”

“Another white rabbit.”

Truman spread his hands. “It worked before, why not do it again? Maybe framing Emma the first time was a practice run.”

“Bastard,” Dolan grumbled. At Truman’s questioning look, he shrugged. “I like her. She’s nice.” He took a pencil and began rewriting the message in leet symbols. When he finished, he tossed the pencil onto the desk and began typing. “Come to daddy,” he crooned softly. “The King of Hearts has a special gift for you, Gani.”

Truman made a face. “Eww, mate. That sounds…lecherous.”

Dolan laughed and kept typing.

Truman had never known his father. His mother had abandoned him at seven.

At nine, Ian Bastian had caught Truman running a con. The man took an interest in him and steered him into a career in counterintelligence for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. Truman owed his career to Ian’s friendship and guidance.

Two international theft rings had stolen the majority of jewels in thirty different countries during the past decade. Ian had hoped to break up both gangs before he retired, but he only managed one.

Thanks to Truman.

When he’d shared so much about his life with Emma, he’d known it was wrong. He’d been truthful about working undercover, even though he hadn’t given her all the facts. That he was on the hunt for a gang of thieves.

Discovering the ring in her bag, he’d thought she was a plant. That Catherine had figured out who he was and sent her daughter to undermine him. Maybe to kill him.

That thought seemed ludicrous now, but then? Dolan would tell you that the most effective hitman or -woman appeared as unthreatening as they came. That’s what made them good at their job—taking their quarry by surprise.

Now he knew Emma was no hitwoman and no thief. But the Mastermind…

Would drawing him out result in taking down the second theft ring?

Because if the asshole had run one major gang while staying in the shadows, why not more?

He fell asleep again in the chair, waiting for Gani to reply. Dolan woke him at six a.m., shoving a cup of steaming coffee into his hands. “I’ve got to run an errand.”

Truman rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Any reply from our gal?”

“Not yet.”

He followed the lug to the back door, sipping the decent enough brew. “Where are you going?”

“Unlike you, I’m still in good standing with our employer.” He shrugged on a lightweight jacket and snugged a ball cap on his head. “I have a dead drop across town.”

Being a spy, Truman was suspicious of everyone. He really hoped Dolan wasn't being an asshole. "You're not bugging out before the SWAT team arrives, eh, sunshine?”

“Hell, if I thought anyone was going to show up to nail your ass, I'd stick around. Take pictures.”

"You haven't gotten orders to take me out?"

Dolan snorted. "Your sense of ego has inflated your head. You're not that important, Gunn. If they wanted you dead, you'd already be floating in the Potomac. By the way, I’m not a hitman anymore. If they sent someone for you, it wouldn’t be me.”

“Good to know." I think . "What if Gani replies to our message while you’re gone?”

Dolan tucked a bulky paper bag under one arm. "I've set it up so that the computer dings if she replies, but don't touch my hardware.” He pointed a finger at Truman's nose. “Just wait until I get back, okay?”

“I have no desire to touch your hardware , mate. How soon will you return?”

The man gave a long-suffering sigh. “Forty minutes, maybe an hour. Depends on traffic.” He pinned Truman with a steely glare. “Behave.”

Truman snapped off a salute and waited until he’d left to head to the kitchen. His wound ached. His entire body felt as if it had been thrown into a trash compactor. Sticking a few slices of bread into the toaster, he lifted his arms and stretched gingerly.

Bugger ! His side burned with renewed pain.

Alone for the first time since his world had turned upside down, he felt the full weight of what had happened press down on him. What he’d done.

Thrown away everything—his life, his job, his training—right in the trash heap of a goatfuck. He’d nuclear bombed his future. Total scorched earth.

Dolan didn’t have butter, only a crappy, heart-healthy imitation. No jam or marmalade, either. Truman would kill for some real food.

Going through the cabinets—which were nearly bare—he found a container of peanut butter. It was better than nothing.

Holding his side, he returned to the office with his meager breakfast. Adjusting until he got comfortable in Dolan’s chair, he skimmed through endless messages on the boards.

Even with the fans, he was too warm, sweat beading on his neck. Shucking the sweatshirt, he examined his bandaged side. He’d ripped at least one or two of the stitches, and blood had soaked the gauze. He’d have to get a fresh one as soon as he was done with his snack.

Footsteps in the hall alerted him right before Emma appeared in the doorway. “It’s been four and a half hours,” she said, leaning on the frame.

She’d always been sexy as hell when she first woke. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks flushed, and her lids lingered at half-mast. She often looked that way after an orgasm, too. His dick twitched thinking about it. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

She entered the room, sliding one of the keyboards over and plunking her sweet curvy ass on the edge of the desk. The bra was gone, and her full breasts were on display under the cotton tank. She plucked the cup from his hand and stole a piece of his toast. "You said a few minutes." She chewed and sipped, and he lost track of the conversation, staring at her lips, her breasts. "You were supposed to wake me up."

He cleared his throat and forced his eyes to meet hers. His dick was going crazy, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “You needed the sleep."

She propped her feet on the chair between his legs, completely blocking his view of the main screen, and his member twitched again, aching for her touch. “You lied. You had no intention of waking me up after a few minutes."

Down boy , he commanded his big and small brains. He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded. "I was only taking care of you. How’s the foot?”

She took another bite. “The foot is fine, but you say you were taking care of me in a tone that suggests I should thank you. Like I should be grateful."

She had crumbs in the corner of her mouth, and he sat forward, wiping them away. He longed to run his hands up her calves and thighs. Such great legs . "Gratitude is always appreciated."

She offered him the cup, but he shook it off. He wanted his hands free to touch her. Testing the waters, he pretended to pick lint from her yoga pants.

She swallowed and took another sip. “Where’s Dolan?”

She hadn’t batted his hand away—a good sign. He traced a finger down her outer thigh. “On an errand. He'll be back in a while.”

She stopped mid-chew, eyes narrowing. "An errand to call the FBI?" Her feet dropped to the floor, and she bolted up, forcing the office chair back. "We should go."

He placed his hands on her waist, holding her in place. "He's not giving us up." At least, Truman hoped to hell he wasn't. In this game, you couldn't trust anyone. Not really. "I'm keeping an eye on the security cameras, as well as the message boards. Your backpack is ready to go, and there are three exits from this crappy hellhole, not including the front and back doors. If we need to make a quick escape, we have options."

"He's a spy like you, isn’t he? That's why he has all these gadgets and multiple escape routes. The pawnshop is a cover."

An accurate guess. “Not exactly like me, but similar.”

"It makes me antsy that he left.”

He eased her back down to the desk. Scooted the chair in. “You've been on the run for twelve hours. A lot has happened in that time, and it's normal for you to feel paranoid. In fact, it's a good thing. Like you said before, better safe than sorry."

She rested her feet on his legs and sighed. He felt the weight of her emotions in his bones. “Why are you watching message boards?”

He filled her in about the posts from Gani and what he thought they meant. “What do you think? Will she’ll bite?”

Emma worried her bottom lip. An endearing habit. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Tell me how the Mastermind got the stolen jewels from your mum.”

She downed the last section of toast. “She would dress up and leave with shopping bags in tow. When she’d return, she’d have cash in them. She’d split it with the others, and they would take off. Everyone would scatter and lay low for a few months, and then they’d regroup. That’s all I remember.”

Absentmindedly, he rubbed her leg while he considered where and how Catherine delivered the stolen goods. “She must have seen the Mastermind. Knew his face. Unless it was some type of dead drop.”

“You think she can identify him?”

“If so, why didn't she give him up when she was arrested? Why take all the blame herself? Why didn't any of the others mention him during their trials? It doesn't make sense. I'd love to question her, but at the moment, I'm persona non grata with law enforcement, so there's no interrogating her, I'm afraid.”

“Do you think the Mastermind was blackmailing the Red Hearts?”

“Always a likelihood. Either they didn't know his true identity and therefore couldn't prove he was behind any of it, or they were too scared of him to give him up."

"He'd have to be pretty powerful, wouldn't he?"

"Not necessarily. All he had to do was threaten their families, a lover, a child…” Truman tapped her thigh. “People will do anything to protect those they love.”

She set the cup aside. Her focus on him intensified, scrutinizing his bloody bandage before meeting his eyes. “Like go on the run with them if they’re being chased by the FBI?”

He held her gaze, his pulse doing a funny skip. “You’ve been wrongly accused. It’s my job to set things straight.”

“The old Truman would have done that by staying on the right side of the law.”

He scooted the chair between her legs, stroking them. “How can you be sure? You only saw who I wanted you to see.”

“There are certain things you can’t fake.”

He grinned. “Is that so?”

“Yes, and love is one of them.”

Love. What did he know about such things?

Hoping to avoid that discussion, he slid her off the edge of the desk and into his lap, bringing his mouth to hers.