Wicked Intentions

42

It’s silent and black as a crypt, except for the hazy yellow beam from the pen-size Maglite clenched between my teeth.

From my entry point, I navigate slowly through the heating ducts into the southeast wing on the second floor of the Natural History Museum. At this time of night, the security staff is at its thinnest, but I’m careful to make as little noise as possible. Contrary to how it looks in the movies, breaking into buildings through HVAC vents can be extraordinarily loud if one isn’t careful.

And extraordinarily dangerous if one isn’t light. Aluminum ducting isn’t made to hold the weight of a grown man. A two-hundred-pound male would crash right through the ceiling.

And judging by the dent my left knee just made, I should probably cut back on the carbs.

After what feels like forever, I reach the Gems and Minerals Hall, where the Hope is displayed. I pop the grating off an access panel and peer down into the museum. It’s dark, quiet, eerily still. The only sound is the wild thrumming of my heart.

Since the floor is a dozen feet below me, I’ve brought a rope knotted with footholds. I tie it off around a metal connector fitting, then slither down, leaving the Maglite on the lip of the duct for the trip back.

I land on the floor in a soundless crouch on one hand and one knee. Then I’m up in a whip-crack movement, headed toward my next target, the museum’s computer system, only a short jog away from where I’ve entered. The lock on the door is a biometric fingerprint scanner, but it’s a simple pattern-matching sensor unit, easily fooled.

Inside the room is a large computer terminal that runs the museum’s custom software. It’s secured by a username and password, but I already have those, too. I log into the system and navigate to the security portal. Then I alter the museum’s hours of operation, setting opening time to one minute ago.

Before I hit save changes, I scrawl my signature dragonfly icon on the screen with magic marker and take a deep breath.

The interior of the museum is about to light up like a football stadium. Once that happens, I only have sixty seconds at most to get the diamond and get back into the ducts before guards swarm the entire wing and I’m trapped.

I exhale, say a silent prayer, and press the button.

The room floods with light.

As fast as I can, I run out of the computer office and through a door that leads into the Geology Hall. Almost instantly, I spot the Hope Diamond’s display case. Because I’ve set the museum to open, the case has erected itself from the floor as it does automatically during public viewing hours.

And because every light in the museum has turned on and all the perimeter doors have unlocked, all the guards in the vicinity of the west wing are now aware that something is wrong.

Forty seconds.

The illuminated pedestal of marble and security glass that holds the Hope stands alone in the middle of the room. The glass is too thick to break with ordinary means like a hammer, and it would take far too long to cut through with a UV laser or dental bur, so I’m manipulating sound frequencies instead. I take a battery-operated ultrasound shock wave generator from the backpack, press the focus tubes against the glass, turn the dial to the highest decibel setting, and switch it on.

Alarms blare overhead. The noise is deafening. I can’t even hear the sound of the safety glass as it splinters into a spiderweb of cracks.

Thirty seconds.

Because the glass is laminated, it stays in a single sheet instead of exploding. I have to punch out a hole with a rubber mallet to get to the diamond, which—because the excessive vibration has triggered an internal sensor—is rapidly descending into the base. I snatch it from its velvet perch just before the vault closes over it.

The Hope is as big as my fist, dark as a sapphire, glittering like it’s alive. I stuff it into my backpack and sprint back to my rope, still dangling from the ceiling. Using the footholds, I climb up to the ducts, pull the rope in, then crawl like mad, listening to the sirens and men’s frantic shouts. Boots pound against the floor below as guards flood Geology Hall.

I make it out with seconds to spare. Now I don’t have to be quiet, I only have to be swift.

When I finally see the square opening I entered through, the night sky sparkling with stars beyond, elation floods me like wildfire.

My skin is electric. Every sense is sharpened. Every nerve is a firecracker.

I’m invincible. Euphoric.

Alive.

Grinning like mad, I tumble out of the duct and sprint through the butterfly garden. The Mini is still parked right where I left it. I gun it and fly down a side street toward my safe house, cold wind whipping through my hair from the open window, a hot pulse of victory burning through my veins.

I did it! I did it! I actually pulled it off!

I take a corner at top speed, but am immediately forced to come to a screeching, tire-smoking halt, because the street in front of me is blocked by a line of police cars.

My heart stops. My stomach drops. My mind wipes blank, except for a name, played on repeat.

Reynard.

My capture equals his death warrant.

In front of the line of black-and-whites stands a large man with his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest. I can’t see who it is because all the police vehicles have their headlamps on and emergency lights running, but then he steps forward, and his face clears from the shadows.

All I can focus on is his grin.

His perfect, s**t-eating, American grin.

Rage erupts inside me like a supernova exploding into space. “SON OF A—”

“Peach farmer, actually.” Ryan leans down to look at me, his blue eyes shining with mirth. “But you probably already knew that, didn’t you, Angel?”

He reaches through the open window and wraps his hand firmly around my wrist.