Risqué by Elena M. Reyes
25
Ihate lying to him.
It eats at me. Makes me feel like utter crap, but I have no choice. Yet, as I land in Brazil with Giannis in the seat to my right, I wish it were Callum beside me. That I’d been strong enough to tell him what’s going on, the threats and illegal deals I’m forced to be a part of.
“You can always call him,” Giannis leans over and whispers before undoing his seatbelt. Those around us pay no mind, though, too busy opening the overhead compartments and grabbing their carry-on luggage. “He can help you, Ali. Hell, if you don’t want to explain, I will. This is fucked up.”
This is fucked up. I know. I’ve been repeating those same words for the last few years while trying to find an explanation for the way my father treats me. Uses me.
“He has enough on his plate. What they did to his aunt…” my voice trails off, the memory of his face—expression—while he asked me to accept the protection of the man he called Kray, broke my heart. So much pain. His eyes, those beautiful, gem-like eyes, showed me in that moment the kind of man he truly is.
Caring. Passionate. Loyal.
Categories I’d never thought he’d be a part of. Because in my ignorance, I wrote him off the moment he introduced himself, and yet, walking away has been impossible. I can’t.
Callum is everything the men in my family wish they could be, and so much more. His power doesn’t dominate him. His money doesn’t define him.
I’m falling for him. My truth. Undeniably.
“I’m screwed.” Those two words, my tone, they say everything I can’t. And weirdly enough, Giannis understands. He nods, making no move to stand as those around us disembark. And we don’t, not until every person exits and the flight attendants congregate at the front.
He’s first to stand and grab our bags. The two carry-on’s we brought have just the basics while what we’ll need for the job was shipped to the house the governor rented days ago. My father’s been planning this for a while, longer than I suspect, and he’d given me enough freedom to mess with my head.
It doesn’t take long to get off the plane or out of the airport. Giannis handled this part of the arrangements, renting us a fun convertible for our time in the country. Not that we’d get to enjoy any of it; we can’t be seen or draw attention to ourselves, but the drive out to the private property in Rio will be amazing.
Maybe I can come with Callum one day.
“If he’s around that long,” I mutter low, grateful that Giannis is too busy hooking up the Bluetooth system to his phone. The last thing I want right now is another lecture. To be told I’m an idiot.
Because I am. I should’ve told him. Asked for his help.
“Are you hungry, Ali?” Giannis asks, pulling me back from my thoughts. “You haven’t eaten much in the last few days.”
“How would you know that?”
“That’s a dumb question, and you know it.”
“Shut it.” And because I’m not ready to get into that conversation, the implications of him watching me because of Callum, I slap his shoulder with a giggle. “By the way, I can’t believe our fathers bought the whole, I’m trying to make sure she doesn’t fuck up,spiel you gave them. It was almost insulting how easily they gave in to you coming with me.”
“Don’t take it personally. They’re both arseholes.” His butchered British accent at the end makes me miss Callum. Even when cursing, he sounds so proper it’s sexy. “My boyfriend, on the other hand…”
“Is he here?”
“Look behind you.” And sure enough, there he is in a mid-sized SUV just one car behind ours. The tall man looks cramped behind the wheel, his posture stiff and aware, but more importantly, he is here for Giannis. In case anything goes wrong.
Why am I so jealous of that?Why didn’t I just speak up when I had the chance?
I’m quiet and lost inside my head for the rest of the ride. I know my friend means well, that his attempts at pointing out landmarks and the beauty around us is an attempt at distracting me, but nothing works. The closer to the house we get, the gloomier I become.
My mood stinks. My body language is one of sulking.
And when we pull into the huge private beachfront property and Giannis parks, getting out to grab our bags and open the front door, I can’t help but shed a tear. Then another. I’m quick to wipe them away, but the evidence is there for anyone who looks my way.
I shouldn’t be here to steal an artifact for my father. I shouldn’t be here and possibly go to jail if anything goes wrong.
But more importantly, Giannis isn’t who I want with me if things get rough.
He’s not who I trust blindly.
He’s not Callum.
He’s not the man I’ve fallen in love with.
The next day,I feel like a zombie. I’m going through the motions while the world around me moves—it shifts and carries on. Giannis tried to talk to me a few times, to get me out of this funk, but nothing works and after a while, he too gives up until it’s time to go.
Which brings me to the present…
The outside of this building is intimidating and highly secured. There are guards everywhere: walking, posted, and a few snipers on the south end with their eyes on the main entrance. Their job is to not let anyone in or out, much less lose one of the pieces inside.
The official who runs this department is smart; the secretary of state or equivalent of, and his job is to keep certain items under lock and key. This could destroy the country’s wealth, and the hold the government has over its citizens.
What my father’s client wants with the artifact, I don’t know, but its black-market price is exuberant. I’ve done my own research. I’m half tempted to run away with it and make a new life for myself, far from all I know.
No family. No restrictions.
What about Callum?“Focus,” I grit out from between clenching teeth and Giannis looks over, nose scrunched up in question. “We need to focus. No mistakes.”
“Got it.”
The plans provided showed me three possible entry points, and I chose the heavily guarded one. Why? Because no one thinks you’ll attempt a crime under the heavy watch of national police. Where the danger lies. A mistake many make, but I’ve learned over the years that the best way to hide is in plain sight while drawing innocent attention.
That’s why I’m stumbling, giggling while walking by the back entrance with my sandals dangling from a finger and phone in the other hand. They see me but think nothing of the gringa taking pictures—selfies with an exaggerated pout and low-cut top.
Then, there’s the man beside me in full military gear.
Their colors. Their medals on the breast pocket.
Some salute and he returns the gesture, giving two a nod before bending to lay a kiss below my ear. My giggles turn louder, I smack his chest, and I hear the chuckle from the guard closest to us.
To them, I’m just another tourist, drunk and out for a good time.
Like so many, we’re curious and looking to live a little dangerously. Like so many, I’m letting my hair down, and they enjoy the show.
We walk past them after a few more pictures, him dragging me away with an arm tight around my waist until their attention goes back to the front. Straight ahead, where we left a present earlier.
The first small explosive goes off after ten minutes, and the heavy footfalls of soldiers are heard. They shout orders in Portuguese, and the snipers change positions, their scopes looking for the slightest movement in the general vicinity of the first bomb.
Not a real one, but the sound is loud and one I hate from every 4th of July celebration my father makes us attend. It doesn’t have rays of colors light up the sky or the blinking of twinkling starburst. No, this one sounds like a machine gun, but ten times as loud.
The second goes off and someone shoots, a man on the ground talking through a walkie-talkie and demanding to know if those on the roof see anything.
This is when I enter through the unlocked door that three soldiers hovered by a few minutes ago.
Giannis is quiet beside me, his steps matching mine, and we duck behind another small building and keep to the shadows until the office I need comes into view. The keypad outside is the sole illumination after pressing the frequency blocker my father provided, a gift from the buyer to ensure our faces aren’t seen.
Not that I trust it, but I warned him I’d talk if caught. If the equipment he gave fails, I’m not protecting anyone.
“Code?” I ask Giannis without looking over, my eyes on the device as I slip on gloves. “Five and counting.”
He understands what I mean and follows suit, latex now covering his hands. The holiday-themed explosives are spread and the next two go off not far from the first, leaving us a short window before all is confirmed and they return to their post.
“1982.” Voice low, he moves a little closer while I punch in the numbers. It pings green and the door disengages, the audible click loud, yet doesn’t draw attention. “Get in.”
“Hit the next explosive.”
“Two minutes.”
For someone who’s never done this before, Giannis is a great help. I don’t feel alone and breathe a little easier while scrambling the signal again, making sure we have no surprises inside. However, nothing takes the pressure off like seeing the jade statue inside of the glass containment, it’s enclosure small and unprotected.
At least, I think so until a small red dot captures my attention. The minuscule circle glints off a metallic rim at the back, its beacon bouncing off and landing on the artifact’s head.
“Second alarm?” he asks, stopping beside me.
“Yeah.”
“Can you undo it?”
“This one has a remote. We just need to find it.” How do I know? Because I’ve seen it before inside of Dad’s office at the Thompson Center. The door to the left of his desk leads to a small room where they file and keep certain documents, things that the public doesn’t need to see, and I was there the day it was installed.
Same small bead of light bouncing off metal. Same two wires poking out of a small hole, an open conduit, meant to deter if touched. The remote that turns it on or off is never far from the receiver, and as I turn my head and look around, I find a small stack of books that seem out of place.
A young adult series based on a vampiric love story doesn’t seem like something the owner of this office reads. Nothing on his dossier—the fifty-page life story with everything from his breakfast routine, the seedy establishments he visits on the regular, or the three mistresses he keeps—hint at him being an avid romance reader.
Walking closer, I ignore Giannis’s questioning look and stop in front of the books. To an outsider, they seem normal, the outside worn down from use. However, not so much when you’re close. From my vantage point a few feet away, I can tell they’re fake but painted to appear realistic.
“Bingo,” I whisper, looking around to detect a secondary alarm, but after finding none, I pick up the small box and find exactly what I want below. The device is small, no bigger than a candy bar and with two buttons at the center.
“How did you—”
“Later,” I cut him off, pressing the right circle while holding my breath. I’m going off of a memory here, what I overheard the installation company explain to a pompous governor who ignored his child being there, and when nothing goes off, I let out a rough exhale. “Christ, I’m going to need a lot of liquor tonight.”
“You and me both, girl. This shit is heart attack inducing.”
A whirling sound fills the room, a low buzz, before the display goes dark and the glass door unlocks. We look at each other, both smiling before rushing across the room and exchanging the pieces.
One jade, the other cheap ceramic painted green.
Within seconds we’ve made the switch and closed the display, re-engaging the lock. The remote is put back, the room given a quick glance over before we try to exit.
Try, because standing outside the room the moment Giannis peeks out is a man dressed in a soldier’s uniform. He’s tall, way over six feet, and the scowl on his face has me nearly stumbling back. He looks at us and the small backpack on my shoulder before stepping aside.
We don’t move, though. Too scared.
“Leave before you are caught,” he hisses, hand on his gun, and it’s the heavy Spanish accent that makes the air catch in my throat. Not that I’m given much time to ask him anything; Giannis all but drags me from the room before I can ask who he is.
Did my father send him?
Why is he helping?
The man moves past us, his weapon drawn high while there seems to be a war zone not far from us. Many shouts, some gunfire, and all while the stranger walks us to the exit and tilts his head at the door.
“No one will follow you. Get out.” That’s the last thing he says before running back in the direction of the chaos, his large body disappearing behind a building. What the hell was that?
“You heard him. Let’s go!”
I nod, my eyes meeting a scared Giannis. “Run.”