“Recon?” I laugh.
She shrugs. “I read a lot of books. Mostly romances, but some of them have tons of danger.”
“What sort of danger?”
“Well, one of my favorites is about this hitman who lives next door to his crush, or–wait–I also love this one other hitman who thinks he’s competing with this girl who sells stuffed animals–or, oh, the one where the mafia boss kills his rival and steals his bride. Gosh, I love that one.”
“So you like the dangerous stuff, then, I take it?”
“In books.” She nods. “It’s wonderful. But in real life…” She reaches down and runs her fingers across the Band-Aid on her knee. “In real life, I’m not so fond of it.”
I pull her into my arms. “In real life, I’m going to keep you well away from danger. If anyone tries to take you again, they’ll have to get through me first.”
“No one’s going to get through you.” She runs her fingers down my chest.
“Believe it, treasure. You’re safe with me.”
My phone buzzes again.
“Is that Mrs. Verne?” She peeks over my shoulder at the phone.
“Doubtful. I think it’s the client I’m working for.”
“What do they want?”
“Do you remember the night I found you? I had a vase that–”
“I broke into a zillion pieces,” she finishes.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly.
“You’re fine.” I kiss her forehead. “I’m getting a replacement for it. Tonight. Then we’ll head back home. I’ll need you to get ready, then I’ll drop you and Scarab at the airport hangar where our crew is waiting. We may have to tear out of here fast.”
Her eyes widen.
“Don’t worry. I’ve done jobs like this before, but that doesn’t mean this one is going to be easy.”
“Will you be safe?” Her voice is quiet. “Do you promise you’ll come back?”
“Always.” I cup her cheek. “I will always come back for you.”
She nods.
“So I’ll do this job, then we’ll fly home. Sound good?”
“Home.” She smiles. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Yes it does.” I kiss her again, savoring every last bit of her.
The Mesopotamian section of the Louvre is quiet, the guards probably off playing cards or staring at their phones. Good. I don’t need company for this job.
I open the window and pause to make sure my alarm bypass is working correctly. When I don’t hear anything, I slip the rest of the way in and close the window behind me.
I ease along the corridor then turn into the room with the vase. It sits undisturbed, the overhead light no longer shining on it. It looks like nothing more than a piece of pottery, just an item that could be out at a yard sale or maybe in someone’s aunt’s collection of knick-knacks from her travels. Funny how we value things, when what we should really value is people. People like Milly who have pure intentions and a unique way of looking at the world.
Shaking my head, I try to focus. I’m here to do a job. In the end, I’m doing this for Milly, too. For both of us. I have to get the target off my back.
The glass case is the usual Louvre piece of tempered glass with two sensors along the bottom where it meets the wooden stand. I kneel and pull out my small electronics kit. With a few rewires and bypasses, I’m pretty sure I have it disarmed. But when I grab the case, I catch the glint of another tiny piece of wire. A third sensor slyly placed under the back edge–the curators are getting clever.
I move around and work that sensor free, hacking into it to make it bypass the alarm signal, then go the for the case again. Lifting slowly, I hold my breath as I remove it.
Nothing happens, so I gently ease the case to the floor, out of the way.
The vase is right in front of me. Easy. Nothing stopping me from just picking it up. Nothing except the pressure plate beneath it. Seriously, the curator who did this must have a thing for Indiana Jones movies, because this is some epic bullshit.
I pull a replica of the vase from my pack. It’s made of different clay–apparently they just don’t make things the way they used to–so the weight is off. But I added some sand inside to get the weight as close as possible to the original. It should be right. Should be.
There’s nothing for it. I have to get this damn vase. I take a deep, calming breath, then peer at the pressure mechanism that’s hidden below the edge of the wooden display case. No hints there.
I crouch close, then put one hand near the vase, hovering there. “On three,” I whisper to myself.
“One, two, three.” I snatch the vase and replace it with the fake. Then I freeze. Nothing happens.
I let out my held breath, and that’s when the deafening alarms start up.