Julianne handed the thick, beige cardstock to the security guard standing outside the Chelsea gallery.
The man checked the embossed lettering under a small blue light, nodded, and unhooked the velvet rope.
"Audio link is green," Christian’s voice murmured through the microscopic earpiece hidden beneath her hair. "Mark has a six-man perimeter on the exits. You say the word, we clear the room."
Julianne reached up, pressing her finger to her ear. She pulled the tiny receiver out and dropped it into her leather clutch. She didn't want a tactical team listening in. She wanted a face-to-face conversation.
She stepped through the heavy glass doors.
The gallery was a sprawling, minimalist space, dominated by stark white walls and massive, chaotic abstract canvases. A curated crowd of New Yor
