Code Name: Aries by Janie Crouch

17

Wavy

I’d made my way through the art dealers and agents in Reddington City, all three of them, years ago. Wyoming wasn’t a huge hub for the art world. Mr. Noeya was only here temporarily, and I was more than happy to take advantage of it.

My red polka dot dress had never let me down. I didn’t know if it was a very professional choice, but it was my lucky dress with cute little red heels so I wore it.

I had ten selections of paintings in my portfolio. A couple of them were realistic still lifes, one was a portrait of a little girl from town, but the rest were my rainbow paintings. I was going to follow my gut and show this agent where I thought my career, if there was ever going to be one, was heading.

I could hear Ian’s voice in my head about my work: passionate, inspiring, stimulating. All the things art should be.

Mr. Noeya’s temporary office wasn’t downtown like I’d been expecting. It was out closer to the warehouse district near the airport. But rent was much cheaper out here, so it was understandable. The man had made it clear he wasn’t big in the art world.

But I didn’t need a big income. If he would agree to represent me, to get a few of my pieces out and see if we could get any traction, that’s all I wanted.

I made it to the office, rehearsing in my head what I would say, how I would explain my work. Of course, it ultimately was going to come down to his opinion, not anything I said.

I parked in front of the studio, close to a small, simple sign: Reddington City Artist Studio and Representation. I got out and smoothed down my dress, reaching into my pocket to touch the tiny painting I’d put there. It made me feel like Ian was closer.

I could do this. My paintings were good, especially the work I’d been doing the past few weeks. It was like the more emotion I had inside my system, the more they came out onto the canvas. I grabbed my portfolio from the back seat. Lifting my arm slightly to keep the large, thin briefcase from dragging on the ground, I fairly floated up to the building and opened the door.

The inside was almost as generic as the sign. Completely white walls, but at least there were quite a few paintings hanging up everywhere. If it weren’t for them and the sign out front, I would’ve sworn I was in the wrong place.

Mr. Noeya walked out of a side door. “Miss Bollinger, I’m so happy that you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

He was once again dressed in slim chinos, a classic stone color. His leather loafers matched the brown of his belt. A lavender shirt was tucked in at his trim waist.

He approached a large, conference-sized table. “Shall we go ahead and get started? If you don’t mind, could you lay out whatever pieces you’ve brought, so I can take a look at them?”

I sucked in a breath, then let it out. This was it. I took my pieces out of the portfolio and laid them out one by one, the different sizes taking up almost all of the conference room table. He strode around the table, studying them, stopping every few seconds to lean in closer, probably to judge my brushwork.

He studied the still lifes as long as he did the rainbow paintings, which worried me a little bit. Maybe I should have brought more of them since that was the only direction I really wanted to go.

Watching him was making me crazy, so I turned away to study the artwork on the walls. I needed to let him do his job.

“You really are quite good,” he said a few minutes later. I didn’t turn from the wall, but why did he sound surprised? If he didn’t think I was any good, why would he have invited me here at all?

“Thank you.”

The painting closest to the desk caught my attention. It was small. Smaller than a lot of the others. But as soon as I honed in on it, I recognized it. It was a Peter Paul Rubens—one of his landscapes. I rushed toward it. I’d studied the Baroque period in art school.

“Oh my God,” I said, “Is that actually a Peter Paul Rubens original?” Why in the world would Mr. Noeya have this mundane office if he had a Rubens original? Hell, he could sell that and live the rest of his life very comfortably.

“Yes, it is an original.”

I looked back at the other paintings. “And is that an Edmond Aman-Jean?” I couldn’t believe it. That wasn’t worth as much as the Rubens, but still worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“I’m actually surprised you recognize it. It’s not like he’s as famous as some of the others.”

I rushed to another. “And that’s an Isaac Levitan, right? How do you have all these?”

“I brought them from my personal collection.”

Why would somebody who had millions of dollars in a personal art collection be inviting me, a complete unknown, into an office on the airport side of town?

I spun around to find Mr. Noeya looking at me with a smile. “Okay, you caught me. I’ll admit it. I brought you here because I thought you would be more comfortable.”

“More comfortable with what?”

“I actually have multiple offices all over the world.”

I racked my brain. I had never heard of a Louis Noeya in the art world. Surely I would have heard of him if he had offices all over the world.

Should I be worried? The man wasn’t very big, didn’t look like he would do anything that might cause a wrinkle in his chinos.

“I can see I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Come over here and let me show you something in your own work. It’s what brought you to my attention and why I had you come out here today.”

He stared at me patiently, and I finally walked over. Maybe he was just some rich guy who also dabbled in representing artists.

“You really do have some talent,” he said, pointing to my landscapes. “Your abstract expressionist paintings aren’t to my taste, but admittedly that’s not my style. Feels too sloppy.”

I shrugged. It was time to stand up for myself. “To be honest, if you’re not interested in those, then we don’t have much to talk about. That’s the way my creative mind is taking me. And I don’t have much choice but to follow.”

He nodded. “I understand.” He squeezed me on the shoulder as if in consolation. I felt a little pinch but he moved his hand away before I could shrug him off.

“I like some of your art, Wavy. I’m sorry I won’t be able to see more of it for a while.”

“Yeah. I don’t think this is going to work out.” I stuck my hands in my pockets, grabbing the tiny painting for support. I wanted to get out of here. Ian wouldn’t want me to stay.

“I think it might work out better than you expect.”

Why did his voice sound funny? Why did all my art look blurry to me? What was going on? I grabbed the table to keep myself upright as the room began to spin around me. “I don’t feel so good.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but that will pass.”

I tried to focus on his face, on anything, but the room was spinning faster. I took a step toward the door.

“What did you do to me?” My voice sounded funny to my own ears. I dropped to my knees, still trying to move toward the door. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He crouched down beside me. “My real name is Erick Huen, and you’re my ticket to destroying Ian DeRose.”

* * *

Ian

I’d known true panic in my lifetime.

You didn’t asphyxiate inside a coffin, doing everything you humanly could to get out, without experiencing panic. I knew what it was to scratch and punch at something until I was bleeding and broken. I knew panic intimately—the taste of it in my throat, the coating of it on my skin.

But what I’d gone through in that coffin was nothing compared to my terror knowing that Erick Huen had Wavy in his clutches.

This was personal for Erick. There was no other tactical reason to bring Wavy in at all. She had no advantage in terms of money or connections or anything of that nature.

That made it worse. Knowing that keeping her alive or deciding to hurt or kill her was based on the whims of a man who felt like he had every reason to hate me struck terror into my soul.

Erick figured hurting Wavy would hurt me. He was right.

I broke every traffic law known to man driving from Oak Creek to the address on the business card in Reddington City. Callum already had local police on the way to the building.

Erick obviously had no problem with us knowing where she’d gone—he’d printed fucking business cards for Christ’s sake—which I knew meant he no longer had her there. Landon warned it could be a trap, but I didn’t care. I could get there quickest. If there was any hope at all that I could get her back right away, I was going to take that chance.

Landon already had the tech team combing traffic footage and cameras around that area, as well as tracking Wavy back from when she’d left Oak Creek. We would follow the timeline with her. Hopefully, it would lead us somewhere. Lead us to her.

I found the makeshift art studio without any problem. The local police had already been inside and confirmed what we’d expected: there was nobody here. The cops had done as Callum had told them and left the scene alone as soon as they’d determined no one was on the premises.

I took a moment in my car before I got out. I needed to lock down my emotions. Neither fear nor fury would get Wavy back. A cool head and doing my fucking job would get her back.

I got out of the car and moved inside the building. None of the cops stopped me, so they must’ve been warned to let me in.

I could see why Wavy would’ve been excited to meet with an art representative at this place. I wanted to kick my own ass for not having used my contacts long before now to help her touch base with an agent, but I forced that down with the fear. Regrets weren’t going to get her back either.

I would only have a little bit of time alone inside the room before anybody else arrived. I didn’t touch anything, not wanting to mark anything with my own fingerprints in case forensics could help us. Landon and Isaac were on their way. I needed as many eyes here as I could get.

Zac and Finn were the first to make it through the door. I was surprised I’d had twenty minutes in the office by myself. Finn didn’t bother hiding his fury. Within seconds, the big man had me slammed up against the wall, fisting my shirt.

“Mosaic has Wavy because of you.”

There was no way around that point. If he wanted to beat the shit out of me, I couldn’t blame him. “Yes.”

“What the fuck are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to get her back. That’s what the fuck I’m going to do about it.” And that was the damned truth. “Why don’t you let me go so we can make that happen.”

“Why did they take her?” Zac asked as Finn reluctantly let go of my shirt and stepped back. I didn’t blame Finn for his anger. If the roles were reversed, I’d be pissed too. But as mad as he was, it was nothing compared to the anger I felt at myself for allowing this to happen.

“This is personal,” I told them. “They didn’t take Wavy because she has any advantage for them as an organization. One specific person took her in order to get to me.”

“Who?” Finn asked.

“His name is Erick Huen. He’s high up in the organization. He has reason to want revenge from the first time I took Mosaic down.”

“Business or personal?” Zac asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” I responded.

“It fucking well does matter,” Finn snarled. “Everything started to matter the moment they took my sister.”

“Fine. It’s personal. I killed his best friend when I took down Mosaic the first time.”

Both men nodded. That had appeased them for now, but it wouldn’t be long before they pressed for more details. My secrets were about to come out. Both men looked around the room.

“Don’t touch anything,” I said. “I’ve got a forensic team on the way.”

“You’re not calling in law enforcement?” Zac asked.

“Not locals. I’ve got a federal agent who’ll want to be in on this, but my team will be here first.”

I wondered if they were going to argue with me. They didn’t.

“Good,” Finn said. “Going through law enforcement channels will slow everything down, and I am not playing by the rules when it comes to getting Wavy back.”

I nodded. “Then we’re in agreement.”

Zac and I continued examining the room. Finn couldn’t get past the conference table, where Wavy’s paintings were spread out.

“These are hers? Wavy’s?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was a good representation of her work. The landscapes were technically solid but not as demonstrative of her true talent and passion as her rainbow works.

I’d seen all the paintings on the table before except one. It was new. And goddamn, it was breathtaking in its vibrancy.

Like the woman herself.

“I had no idea,” Finn said. “I had no idea she was this talented. These are amazing.”

“You’ve never seen her paintings?” I asked. “How is that possible? It’s such a huge part of her.”

Finn shrugged one big shoulder. “She doesn’t show it. I mean, we’ve seen some stuff. She’s painted stuff for my mom that’s hanging at my parents’ house, and she’s always done some sort of art ever since she was a kid. But I had no idea she’d progressed to this level. Some of these are . . .” He trailed off.

“Amazing?” I asked. “Breathtaking, mesmerizing, should be hanging in a museum somewhere?”

Finn scrubbed a hand down his face. “When she came back from art school and didn’t really have any contacts, we all assumed she wasn’t talented enough to make a living with art. We all encouraged her to keep waitressing, that it was fine, that we loved her, that we wanted her here. But . . .”

But they’d all been complicit in holding her back. Home was sometimes the place that didn’t allow you to change.

Finn didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. I knew what he meant. I knew what it was to have a family that kept you from the life you were supposed to lead. At least Wavy’s family had good intentions and were trying to protect her.

My family hadn’t had good intentions when they’d tried to keep me in the mold I’d always been in. That was why I had walked away and joined the navy at eighteen. It had changed the very course of my life.

I clapped Finn on the shoulder.

“We’ll get her back, and then you’ll let her know that it’s time for her to pursue her passion.”

We were going to get her back. We had to.