What the hell was he doing?
Z tried to get a better look inside, but he was still blind, thanks to the walls that obscured his view. Rather than wait for the shit to hit the fan, Z decided to invite himself inside. Crouching low, he eased around to the west side of the house, finding a single window down low.
Interesting. Most houses in Texas didn’t have a room below ground, but it appeared good ol’ Thurston had given Z the perfect opportunity to drop in unannounced.
“What the fuck?” RT declared. “I thought we were workin’ a deal here, Thurston?”
“As long as it goes my way, we can work any deal you want. But first, I want the painting. Then we’ll chat.” Thurston sounded oddly calm. “Oh, and call off your dogs.”
“You don’t wanna do that,” RT growled, sounding as though he was talking to someone within close proximity to himself. Obviously he wasn’t referring to calling off the dogs.
Z’s blood pressure spiked; adrenaline fueled him when he heard the rustling sound that followed. Even without eyes on the situation, he could tell someone had just put his hands on RT.
“Sit!” a deep voice grumbled. Not Thurston, so there must’ve been someone else in charge of this band of merry mercenaries. “And hand over the weapon.”
“Let go of me and I’ll think about it,” RT retorted.
That shit wasn’t going to fly with Z. No sir.
“Round up the guys outside,” the same deep voice ordered.
Rather than wait for someone to give him a personal invite, Z shoved his boot through the window, kicked aside the glass shards, and propelled himself inside.
No alarm, no dogs. He was met with silence. This Thurston guy was kind of an idiot. Then again, he had hired some thugs to protect him, so maybe not.
The room he landed in appeared to be some sort of glorified laundry area. Commercial-grade machines greeted him without sound, along with ugly paintings with even uglier frames lining the walls. With money did not necessarily come taste, clearly.
Rather than find himself cornered, Z didn’t waste time looking around. With his Sig in hand, he twisted the knob and pulled the door open, peering into the hall to find it empty, as well.
He slipped out, keeping to the wall in the darkened hallway. He passed two additional doors on the opposite side before he arrived at a set of stairs that led up to what Z assumed was the main floor.
“All right, bro,” Trace growled deep inside Z’s head via his earpiece. “If you’re gonna feel me up, my wife ain’t gonna be too happy.”
Fuck. They had Trace.
Not that Z was worried just yet. In order to give Thurston what he wanted, they would’ve had to give someone on the outside up.
“Where’s the other one?” Z heard the inquiry from an unknown through someone’s transmitter, but he didn’t know whose.
Either they didn’t know about Z or they didn’t know about Clay. Either way, that helped.
“Right here,” Clay announced. “I’m comin’ willingly, so keep your fuckin’ hands to your goddamn self.”
Clay did not like to be touched.
“Take ’em upstairs with the kid.”
The bad guys might’ve thought they were doing the smart thing, getting everyone in one place so they could keep their eyes on them, but what they didn’t know was that putting Trace and Clay in with Amit only gave them opportunity to get the kid to safety. By now, Z knew they were aware he’d slipped inside.
“Where the fuck is Max?” a female voice sounded in Z’s ear.
Shit. Courtney did not sound happy, but the beep preceding her question meant she was using the transmitter to talk to them, not lurking somewhere inside the house. Yet.
“I want all four of you to check in right now, dammit,” Courtney declared.
Z clicked his transmitter, signaling he was there, as he slowly ascended the stairs, keeping to one side until he could get a visual of the next floor. No one was guarding the area, so Z continued. He peered around another wall but jerked back quickly when he saw two guys dressed in black talking to one another.
Three more clicks sounded in his ear, accounting for RT, Trace, and Clay. At least they still had their earpieces in and were in a position to respond.
“I’m bringin’ backup with me. Be there in two,” Courtney informed them.
Great. Z was all for backup, but he had a feeling Max was going to lose his shit once he realized his wife was walking into this shit storm. So the sooner they got this wrapped up, the better off they’d be.
Before he could peer around the wall once again, a man appeared, surprising Z but not keeping him from hitting the guy hard enough to knock the wind from him. Z grabbed him from behind, putting him in a choke hold long enough to knock him out temporarily.
“Have a good nap,” he whispered, lowering the body to the floor and glancing in the hall once more.
All clear.
Z maneuvered his way through the enormous house, having to duck only twice to avoid being seen by two of the men who’d obviously been called in to protect Thurston. Only one of those men was now incapacitated, along with the first guy Z had encountered—two out of twelve wasn’t bad—but it wouldn’t be long before both would wake up, so Z knew he had to get on with it.
Glancing up the stairs, he weighed his options. With Trace and Clay with Amit, there was no need for Z to go up there just yet. They would be able to handle the situation themselves. If they couldn’t, they would’ve said something.
So Z made a decision.
First, he’d find RT. Then, they’d figure out how to get out of this goat fuck of a mission.
THIS WAS FUCKING BULLSHIT.
Ryan sat in a straight-back chair watching Thurston pace the floor, Max seated to Ryan’s left, looking as calm as he’d ever seen him. They each had one hand cuffed to the chair—their right hands—they were sitting in, and they’d been relieved of their weapons.
“Your wife’s on the way,” Ryan informed Max, muttering beneath his breath so that Thurston couldn’t hear.
Max’s dark eyebrows arched upward, his eyes narrowing on Ryan. Clearly he wasn’t happy about that.
“She’s bringin’ the cavalry.”
“Tell her to sit tight,” Max ground out.
“No can do,” Ryan told him. “Unless you’ve got a better plan. She’s good at what she does and you know it.”
One of the men pacing the room stopped to glare at them. Ryan smiled. All teeth.
“Where’s the painting?” Thurston inquired, coming to stand a few feet away but not too close.
Ryan let his gaze rake over him, taking in every nuance. Thurston McElroy was a stout, well-dressed man in his mid to late fifties, muddy-brown eyes, snow-white hair, and an impressively sized house decorated with too much red and gold for Ryan’s taste. It was clear based on the décor that the man was an art collector, and Ryan had to wonder how much of the stuff had been acquired through channels such as this, rather than legitimately. He had no qualms paying a ridiculous amount of money for art, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up to no good. The fact that he had a team of mercs on his payroll was also telling.
“Sir,” one of the men in black interrupted before Ryan or Max had to answer Thurston’s original question. “We’ve got…a woman at the front door. She’s got the painting with her, or so she claims.”
“Is it in her hands?” Thurston asked, his gaze locked on Ryan and Max.
“No, sir.”
“Have her take you to it,” Thurston demanded.
“Oh, you don’t wanna do that,” Max grumbled softly.
No, he didn’t, Ryan thought with a smile. Courtney was smart. She’d have figured they would want her to take them to the painting. Even if there were two or three of them accompanying her, she’d be able to disable them easily, and that was if she was alone, which he seriously doubted.
“Who’s her backup?” Ryan asked Max, keeping his voice low, his eyes on Thurston as the man retreated toward the door.
“Everyone was at the house,” Max muttered. “My brothers, my sisters, Leyton. So I’d say with their security detail, we’ve got enough.”
“Good.”