Drawn in Blood

  Once again, rage knotted his gut. What an idiot he’d been. Missing all the signs. Mistaking Liu’s support of his galleries for compassion. Bartering his investment-banking services for a minority stake in that Italian company, only to learn that the Mafia was involved with the business. Missing Liu’s reasons for introducing Cindy into his life, even after seeing her strong resemblance to Meili. And missing the fact that Xiao Long, that low-class thug, was fronting all along for Johnny Liu.

  Liu blamed Wallace for a negligence that was, in fact, his own.

  Wallace had loved Meili. He’d never intentionally hurt or abandon her. If he’d had even the slightest inkling that she was desperate and, of all things, pregnant with his child, he would have been by her side, taken care of her and the baby.

  To Liu, it would still have been a disgrace he couldn’t abide. He still would have cast Meili aside. And he still would have hated and resented Wallace. But Meili would have been alive today.

  None of that could be undone. But Liu’s retaliation—to maliciously, deliberately rob a five-year-old child of her life? No one short of a monster could do that.

  And the bastard wasn’t finished.

  Wallace might have been blind before, but his eyes were wide open now. He knew Liu’s plans for him were building steam. He’d already stripped him of everything he held dear. The only thing left to bring Wallace to his knees was criminal prosecution. Liu would find a way to alert the authorities to the stolen paintings in Wallace’s private collection. Then, he’d manage to keep his own name out of it and frame Wallace for stealing all those works of art.

  Johnny Liu wasn’t a patient man. Time was of the essence.

  Wallace’s entire collection would have to immediately be disassembled and moved to the rustic little cottage in the Catskills that he’d purchased some fifteen years ago. The cottage was set on twenty acres on top of a rolling hill. He’d originally bought it for investment and recreational purposes. But after 9/11, he’d carved a hidden underground bunker into the beautiful hillside. At the time, he’d been thinking of preservation of life and the salvage of his most precious possessions.

  Now he was fighting for his freedom.

  He’d clear out his collection later tonight, pack up his car, and leave at dawn for the drive to upstate New York.

  He’d be home before any suspicions were raised.

  The three vehicles turned onto Crosby Street and paused.

  No traffic ahead.

  The van and one of the cars proceeded down the narrow street, while the well-worn gray Honda Accord stayed behind, maneuvering itself perpendicularly, blocking all vehicles from passing. The driver shut off the vehicle, yanked out the ignition key, and tossed the key fob belonging to the dead alarm-company employee under the front seat and out of sight.

  The van continued down the block. The leader scanned the area, ensuring that the security provided by the FBI had been neutralized. Satisfied, he gave the driver the go-ahead. The van accelerated rapidly, parking at the end of the block near Prince Street. Its driver and passenger exited and watched while the second car wedged itself sideways, scraping its bumpers against cars parked on either side of the street. With the block inaccessible, the team convened on foot in the middle of the street, carrying their duffel bags.

  The leader nodded.

  Two members of the team responded by pulling out cell phones and dialing two different numbers. They watched as the vehicles at either end of the street exploded, bursting into flames.

  The four well-trained Albanian killers headed for the door of the Jaspar Museum of Art.

  They reached the entrance and pulled on their masks. The leader pointed at his watch. The other men nodded. Then the four Black Eagles stormed the museum, guns drawn.

  With Rich’s car close behind, Derek turned east on Spring Street. As he approached Crosby, he and Sloane spotted a burning vehicle blocking the street.

  “What the hell…?” Derek slammed on the brakes, and he and Sloane jumped out.

  “Derek!” Sloane yelled, pointing. “There’s another car on fire at the other end of the street!”

  “The burning cars are buying them time,” Rich announced, having abandoned his car to run over and join them. “They’re hitting the museum—now.”

  “Not just the museum. Wallace, too.” Sloane grabbed Derek’s arm. “This isn’t just a museum heist. It’s an execution. Liu’s sending them to kill Wallace.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Derek turned. “Rich, call for backup,” he shouted as Rich raced back to his car.

  “Already on it,” Rich called over his shoulder, his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  Derek opened his padlocked trunk, yanking out his enhanced SWAT gear. He had finished suiting up when Rich returned wearing his bulletproof vest and carrying his shotgun.

  “The New York Field Office is sending reinforcements and coordinating tactical operations with the NYPD.”

  With a hard nod, Derek turned to Sloane. He’d already geared himself up for an argument—one she was going to lose. And there was no time for nice-ties.

  “Here’s the deal,” he stated flatly. “You’re not FBI. You have no authorization. You don’t even have protective equipment. You’re a sitting duck. And I’m the lead case agent. So I’m ordering you to stay out here. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  Sloane wanted to argue. It was written all over her face. But she didn’t. Every second counted. Lives were at stake.

  “Fine. I’ll sit this one out.” She gripped his sleeve. “Derek…be careful.”

  He covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a wedding to look forward to.”

  Releasing Sloane’s hand, Derek joined Rich, and they inched their way carefully toward the museum, using parked cars and trucks for cover. They shifted impatiently as they waited for SWAT to arrive.

  Every minute seemed like an eternity.

  The security guard leaped to his feet as the four armed thugs marched into the second-floor reception area. Reflexively, he grasped for a silent alarm beneath the front desk and pressed it. He then raised his quaking arms and informed the intruders that the alarm had been tripped. He half suggested, half begged them to flee before the police arrived.

  They laughed in his face. The leader sent a volley of bullets from his MP5K, killing the guard instantly.

  Somewhere in Long Island City a panic signal appeared on an alarm monitor. Programmed to respond as if the museum were testing its alarm system, the automatic-monitoring system ignored the call for help.

  No alarm-company technicians responded to the problem. Both were lying dead, in rivers of blood, on the building floor.

  The museum and its patrons were at the mercy of the intruders.

  Derek and Rich heard the burst of gunfire and the shattering of glass. A heartbeat later, shards of the large window rained down on the street below.

  Waiting was no longer an option.

  Derek grabbed his M4, and he and Rich tore across the street and into the museum.

  Inside, Derek could hear the screams of hysterical people coming from upstairs. He and Rich carefully made their way up the circular staircase and past the dead security guard. They paused on each floor for a quick search. Nothing. The first two floors of the museum were devoid of people.

  On the third floor, they edged down the narrow hallway. All the gallery areas seemed empty. But on the way back, they passed a small room where the catering company had set up. Hiding beneath the conference table was a terrified server, crouched on the floor in her black-and-white uniform. Derek lowered his weapon and went into the room, bending down and reassuring the sobbing young woman that she’d now be safe.

  “Did you see how many men there were?” he asked.

  In a state of shock and unable to speak, she held up four fingers.

  “Good.” Derek continued to press her. “Do you know where they went?”

  She pointed upward, indicating they were on the top floor, jus
t one flight above.

  “Thank you.” Derek helped her to her feet, and Rich escorted her to the doorway.

  “Just leave now. Quickly and quietly. Don’t even look back.”

  The young woman needed no second invitation. She ran out the door, pausing only long enough to whisper, “Thank you.”

  Then, she was gone.

  Derek and Rich left just as fast, proceeding to the end of the hall and toward the stairway that led to the top floor.

  Upstairs, almost all the patrons had been located and seized. They were crammed into one storage room and ordered to get down on their knees, hands in front of them.

  “Shut up. Cooperate. Then no one dies,” the leader warned them.

  Instantly, their captives did as they’d been commanded, lowering themselves to the floor and flattening their hands in front of them, keeping their heads down.

  Cell phones were confiscated, together with any items that could be used as weapons. The gunmen removed valuable pieces of jewelry from their captives and stuffed them into their duffel bags—Patek Philippe and Rolex watches from the men, and diamond rings, bracelets, and earrings from the women.

  After that, the victims were shoved back against the wall and forced into a sitting position. Flex-Cufs were used to immobilize their hands.

  The gunmen scanned the room. Almost all the patrons were there.

  Wallace Johnson was not.

  Infuriated, they zeroed in on a group of men who were whispering among themselves. The Albanians demanded to be told where Johnson was. Most of the men didn’t know. Their captors didn’t care. They used whatever means necessary to learn Johnson’s whereabouts. One profusely sweating hostage who kept averting his gaze became their target. A punishing blow with the stock of an MP5K to his groin produced the necessary information.

  Johnson was in the central viewing room, admiring Innocence.

  The leader barked out for the other Black Eagles to follow him, pointing toward a concentric circular hall leading to the inner exhibition space.

  In the hallway, the four gunmen spoke rapidly in Albanian. Each team member checked his walkie-talkie. Assured they were picking up one another’s signals, they pocketed the communication devices, locked the storage room door, and split up into groups of two. One group raced off to locate and collect the paintings they’d been ordered to steal. The other group, which included the leader, rushed straight to the central viewing room.

  Sloane was pacing near Derek’s car.

  As soon as she saw the catering employee burst out of the museum and start running down the street, Sloane rushed forward and grabbed her arm.

  The young woman whipped around like a frightened deer.

  “It’s all right. I’m with the FBI.” Sloane wasn’t wasting any time playing semantics. “What’s happening in there? Two of my agents are inside. Did you see them?”

  The young woman glanced fearfully behind her. Then, she blurted out that the security guard was dead, that four armed men had taken everyone hostage, and that the two FBI agents had saved her life and were on their way to capture the killers.

  With deliberate calm, Sloane asked her name, thanked her, and let her go.

  With that same deliberate calm, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands.

  Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out the Glock 27 that was her personal weapon. Slowly, cautiously, she eased her way toward the museum entrance, using the line of parked vehicles as cover.

  Derek and Rich kicked open the storage room door.

  Assault rifle raised, Derek burst inside, his gaze and weapon quickly sweeping the room. “Clear,” he called out to Rich. He turned his attention to the frightened hostages. “FBI. You’re safe now,” he told them as Rich crossed over to begin offering assistance.

  As Rich snipped the Flex-Cufs on the first few victims, Derek spotted the small group of men trying, despite their bound hands, to do what they could for their friend, who was doubled over and vomiting from the trauma he’d endured.

  “We’ll get you medical attention,” Derek assured him, squatting down and cutting his Flex-Cufs to free his wrists. Quickly moving on to free the other four men, Derek asked about the gunmen.

  “They’re after Wallace Johnson,” one man told him. “They went to the central exhibition room to find him.”

  Leaving the freed victims to help the others and make their escape, Derek and Rich moved cautiously toward the center of the museum—until they heard Wallace’s screams of agony. Then they rushed the room, taking cover behind a larger, decorative column.

  Wallace was tied to a chair. One of the gunmen was gripping his hair at the scalp, yanking back his head with punishing force. Wallace’s face had been beaten practically to a pulp. The other gunman was taking photos with a digital camera, purposely documenting the torture for someone’s pleasure. It didn’t take a scholar to figure out that that someone was Johnny Liu.

  Spotting the FBI agents, the leader dropped his grip on Wallace and reached for his gun. “Behind you!” he shouted in Albanian, warning his accomplice.

  In one motion, the second gunman dropped his camera, grabbed the subgun slung across his chest, and pivoted around to the agents.

  Before he’d completed the semicircle, Rich fired a blast from his shotgun at point-blank range, ripping a hole in the assailant’s chest and sending his mangled body flying.

  The leader had squatted down behind Wallace, using him as a human shield while preparing to fire. During those brief seconds, Derek was quickly sizing up the situation to determine how to deliver a lethal shot without hitting Wallace. It was virtually impossible.

  Wallace knew it.

  With a burst of adrenaline, he used his legs to push off, toppling the chair sideways and to the floor. As he went over, he managed to send an elbow into the face of the leader. It was a glancing blow, but it knocked the Albanian off guard for an instant.

  That’s all Derek needed. With the skill of an Army Ranger, honed by years of FBI SWAT training, he fired a burst of ammo from his weapon, striking the leader in the chest, neck, and head.

  In a matter of seconds, two gunmen were dead.

  The two remaining Albanians heard the gunfire. They abandoned their assignment, grabbed their walkie-talkies, and began barking questions into them, demanding to know what had happened.

  There was no response.

  Panicked, they snatched up their partially full duffel bags and headed toward the staircase that would take them down to the museum entrance.

  Derek and Rich rounded the top-floor corner just as the last hooded killer was about to disappear down the stairs. Rich fired his shotgun, the blast taking out a chunk of the wall and shattering the trailing gunman’s leg.

  The wounded man fell to the ground, shouting out in pain, while his colleague raced on, desperate to flee the museum.

  “Rich, secure him,” Derek called, gesturing at the maimed Albanian as he stepped over his body and kicked his subgun out of reach. “I’m going after the last guy.” With that, he raced down the staircase.

  Sloane had inched her way across the first floor of the museum and was at the base of the staircase when she heard the shotgun blast. She halted, waiting for what came next.

  Pounding footsteps, descending the stairs in a frenzy and heading in her direction.

  She retraced her steps at a run, reaching the museum’s entranceway, then crossing over and hiding in an alcove near the door. The staircase was at the far end of the hall, a full length away from the entrance, but Sloane still had a full view of its base.

  A hooded man, dressed in a black turtleneck and tactical pants, rounded the bend and hit the ground floor, turning sharply and racing toward the entranceway. Sloane’s gut clenched when she saw who was flying down the steps in close pursuit.

  Derek.

  The gunman sensed that Derek was closing in on him. He stopped—about thirty feet from where Sloane had taken cover—and pivoted. Derek wouldn’t be able to see hi
m until he reached the ground floor, where he’d be standing like a human target on a shooting range.

  The gunman realized his advantage at the exact time Sloane did. Seizing the opportunity, he wrapped the sling of his subgun around his arm and prepared to open fire.

  No matter how fast Derek’s reflexes were, he could never take the gunman down first.

  Instinct. Training. Muscle memory. They all kicked in, and Sloane edged her way out of the alcove. No time to aim for body mass. If she succeeded only in wounding the SOB, he’d still get off a round of fire that would blast Derek.

  No. This situation required a kill shot.

  She raised her weapon, focusing on the back of the gunman’s head, and aimed at the exact spot that would be her bull’s-eye.

  Then she squeezed the trigger.

  EPILOGUE

  “I’d forgotten how much paperwork has to be done after a big case.”

  It was a week after the thwarted museum heist, and Sloane was perched at the edge of Derek’s desk as he typed up yet another FD-302. “Or maybe I just blocked out the memory.”

  A corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “You mean you don’t find 302s the highlight of being a special agent?”

  “Nope.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’d suffer them if it came with the rest of the package.”

  “So I gathered, Bull’s-Eye Burbank.”

  Sloane’s lips twitched at Derek’s form of address. The story of her dead-on shot that had killed the Albanian gunman at the Jaspar had quickly spread through the New York Field Office. Somewhere along the line, one of the agents had come up with the nickname “Bull’s-Eye Burbank.” And it had stuck.

  “Like I told you, I aim to please.” Sloane’s voice was teasing. “But I also aim to win.”