Page 22 of Flash Point

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“Shit,” Neuman said.

“What’s the matter?” Zeke asked.

“It’s not here.”

“What’s not here?”

“My rake.”

Zeke checked his watch again. Fuck. “You have your tension wrench?”

“Yeah.” Neuman held up a three-inch stainless steel pick that had both ends flared at a ninety-degree angle.

Thank goodness for small miracles. “Get out your backup rake and let’s get this door unlocked.”

“My . . . what?”

Zeke grit his teeth. “You don’t have backup equipment?”

Neuman squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry, Zeke.”

Zeke gave his second-in-command a hard sidelong look, while fishing his own picklock set out of his pocket.

Cruz shrugged as if the rookie’s mistake couldn’t have killed the recovery, right then and there.

After enduring months of his brother’s harping, Zeke had finally agreed to bring on Neuman and train him to take Zeke’s place on the team so he could focus on the administrative side of BARS. The twenty-three-year-old showed promise, but his broad learning curve might be the death of his budding career.

Patience at an end, Zeke said, “Move aside, Neuman.”

The recruit scuttled out of the way, and Zeke knelt before the lock. He didn’t have time to train someone to do a job he could accomplish himself in a tenth of the time. As team leader, he had a hundred things jostling in his mind at any given moment. Like the FBI’s job offer and how the hell he’d get his brothers to agree to recovering—scratch that, stealing—an unknown item for the federal government. A government ready to cut the safety rope if they got in a jam.

Discontent was already brewing on the team, and Zeke knew he was at the core of his brothers’ frustration. He was trying to let go of some of his responsibilities, but Neuman’s colossal mistake was a perfect example of why letting go wasn’t always a good thing.

And why hadn’t he heard from Sardoff yet? How many layers of whispers and rumors did the antiquities dealer have to sift through before uncovering the sword’s location? Evidently a lot, because his friend was a man of action. Once he had a scent, he didn’t stop until he had the thing cornered.

Zeke inserted his tension wrench in the bottom of the keyhole plug and his rake in the top. Two seconds later, the bolt slid free. The second lock took even less time.

Shaking his head at the primitiveness of the target’s security, he moved to enter, his finger resting on the trigger guard of his pistol.

“Stay put,” he ordered Neuman, when the rookie made to follow.

“But—”

“No buts. You’re here to perfect your breaching craft. The rest will come later.”

“Stay by the door,” Cruz said, sending Zeke a you’re-an-ass look. “You can follow what’s going on inside while keeping an eye on the hallway.”

Zeke pushed his way into the vault’s antechamber. Cruz on his six.

Two eighteenth-century chairs huddled around a small round table against the wall. A decanter of amber liquid and two squat glasses sat on a mirrored tray in the center of the table. The out-of-place ensemble faced a six-by-six gold-plated door.

Cruz released a long, slow whistle. “Wealth protecting wealth.”

“Phin,” Zeke said into his mic. “We’re at the vault.”

“Let me know when you’re ready for the code.”

Zeke checked his watch.


Tags: Tracey Devlyn Paranormal