Page 83 of Twisted Enemy
Of course. Nilsson makes most things happen.
Cole signals as he turns out of the motel lot. Traffic is sparse on the highway. I wonder where all the truckers have gone to sleep.
We go a couple of miles before Cole shoots me a quick glance. “So? How much did Megan take you for?”
I’m ashamed, but I tell the truth. “Three hundred.”
He laughs. “That’s a bargain. The last time she conned me, I paid for three nights at the Four Seasons, all the room service she could eat, and a new wardrobe.”
“I guess I’m just better at sniffing out a con that you are.”
Managing the steering wheel with one hand, he reaches over and laces his fingers between mine. “I guess you are.”
34
COLE
Over at the freeport, Nilsson has arranged everything. A small moving van waits outside the fence with two men sitting in the cab. After an extensive check of the movers’ credentials, the van is allowed to roll past the gate. A thorough search of the vehicle then ensues, conducted by four men, one of whom handles a ferocious German shepherd.
I don’t know if they’re searching for contraband or explosives, but the van finally passes the test. With strict instructions not to leave the path and one armed guard joining them in the cab, the movers make their way to the gallery building.
Trap Prince is nowhere in sight, but we’re met by a platoon of six more guards. Two have clearly been instructed to stay with me at all times; the other four take up posts between the entrance to the building and my individual storage space.
As I open the biometric locks, I’m fully aware this will be the last time I ever set foot on freeport property. I’m surprised by the rush of emotion that tightens my gut. Or maybe that’s just deep bruising setting in, from Trap’s fists.
Nilsson walks the two men through the gallery, indicating everything that needs to be transported. After a thorough review, the movers hold their own whispered conversation. Plan finally set, they ferry a number of supplies from the truck—wooden crates for the paintings, plastic boxes for everything else, an entire forest’s worth of packing paper, and several armfuls of heavy, quilted blankets.
It takes them less than an hour to pack. I don’t know where Nilsson found the crew—maybe they work for a museum, or an auction house, or some shipping company that caters to the world’s elite. They clearly have experience, and not a single item in my extensive collection raises even a flicker of surprise.
As the movers work, a skeletal young man trails behind them, taking notes on a laptop. Occasionally, he apologizes profusely and interrupts the flow of movement, stepping in to take photographs with his phone. He’s been sent by Trap’s legal department, and his inventory will trigger the tax tsunami that will drown me.
The movers fill the van with the same efficiency they used to pack my goods. The paintings go first, taking most of the space. The plastic crates are stacked with precision. Everything is protected by quilted mats before it’s tied down. The last thing the movers load is the black velvet curtain that hung at the front of my gallery. The hardware is in a heavy-duty paper bag.
The cadaver from Legal approaches with his computer. Refusing to look me in the eye, he offers the machine, saying, “We just need you to review the inventory and confirm that it matches your own records.”
It’s a reasonable request, but I’m not inclined to load a single bullet into the gun Prince has pointed at my head. I refuse to take the computer.
The unfortunate messenger turns to Nilsson. “Sir?” he asks, extending the machine.
Nilsson eyes him as if he’s the scum around a particularly disgusting drain. “I would prefer not,” he finally says.
“I… Gentlemen…” The hapless clerk looks toward the guards, but he’s clearly not authorized to launch a war.
Kate shoulders past me. “All right, then. Give it here.”
I could stop her, but the endgame would be Prince emerging from his office or his home or wherever he’s waiting on the freeport grounds. And given the fact that I have absolutely no legal or socially acceptable argument to fall back on, I have zero desire to see Trap Prince.
Kate moves through the document quickly. She finds one discrepancy—a Rolex Sea-Dweller recorded as a Submariner. The representative from Legal quickly makes the change, and Kate signs off on the document.
“We’ll want an electronic copy now. And you can follow up with paper in the post.”
Prince’s minion agrees readily, clearly eager to escape to his cubicle in the office tower. As he eases his way past the phalanx of guards, Kate catches me giving her a studious look.
“What?” she asks.
“I didn’t realize you were paying such close attention.”
“I’m Barry Lynch’s daughter. I know a thousand different ways to cook the books.”
