He shook his head in disgust. Fucking pigs.
Lowering the neck of his shirt, he did his best to breathe through his mouth as he riffled through a few cupboards and drawers, then spied under the couch.
Nothing but papers, dust bunnies, and bottle caps.
Where could it be? He turned in a tight circle, hunting for nooks, crannies, and hiding places, when he noticed a small bureau in the corner. Clothes were piled high on top of it. Something about the bureau called out to him. Whispered what it might hold inside. His fingertips tingled. He kneeled down, cracked open its doors, and nearly pumped a fist in victory when he spotted the prize.
A gorgeous, glorious Stradivarius.
With a new, long, and unsightly scratch down the body. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Bastards didn’t even treat something this precious with care.
Reaching for it from amid a mountain of dirty clothes, he gently grasped the neck of the instrument in one hand. Unzipping his backpack, he removed the violin case he’d brought with him, because a goddamn Strad needed to be carried in a padded home. He tucked the rare instrument inside, closed the case, and slid it inside the large backpack. The violin was safe and shielded, and only if you looked closely could you make out the shape of the case pressing against the nylon of the pack, the end of the neck stretching the top.
So be it. No one would get that close to him. That’s how he rolled.
Then he heard the sound of voices floating through the window from the courtyard below. Speaking French, but with an Irish accent.
His pulse spiked.
Yup. Don’t trust easy. Someone was always lurking around a corner.
Adrenaline surged in him, his veins pumping with the thrill of getting the hell out of Dodge with the prize. He closed the door on the bureau, crossed the five feet in the tiny apartment to the front door, and exited, shutting the door behind him. He adjusted the straps of his pack so the bag hung low on his back. As he headed down the stairs, he grabbed a pair of shades from the front pocket and covered his eyes. Just an average guy, visiting friends in this building. Nothing more, nothing less. When he reached the entryway, he strolled straight past the two men as if it were business as usual.
“Nothing but bills,” one of them muttered with disdain, grabbing some envelopes from the mailboxes. Their backs were to him.
Hell of a time to be checking the mail. Some might call that a lucky break. Jake certainly did.
He reined in a grin as he made it to the courtyard without them noticing, or seemingly caring about the unknown American in their building, who was walking at an angle to shield the outline of the million-dollar instrument’s home. He exhaled, his breath leaving a faint imprint on the chilly air. The men were in his rearview mirror now, probably trudging their way upstairs, where it would take them a few minutes to realize what was missing from their mess.
Served ’em right.
A few minutes was all he needed. A few minutes gave him plenty of time and space and distance. He hoofed it across the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the street ahead, when his boot hit a wet stone.
Squeak.
Like a goddamn burglar alarm.
He winced in frustration from the louder-than-hell sound the sole of his shoe had made. Damn rain.
So much for those minutes he’d been betting on.
The men spun around. One peered at him, narrowed his eyes, then pointed at his back, speaking French in an Irish brogue.
Ah, hell. Guy must have spotted the shape of the instrument.
Jake understood enough French, thanks to having lived overseas. But he didn’t need a dictionary to decipher bloody bastard. That translated in any language, and those guys wanted the violin on his back.
There was no way in hell he’d let them near it.
He’d been on the trail of the Strad for nearly a month, and had been tracking it here in Paris for a full week. He was prepped and ready to go. He’d paid a taxi driver to wait for him by the curb, so he’d be peeling away from Pigalle any second. Jake didn’t need much time to make it to the street, then to his getaway vehicle, then out of the country.
Bon fucking voyage.
He took off, hightailing it around the corner of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, narrowly sidestepping a trio of already inebriated twentysomethings, who stumbled out of a club with red neon lights that were blinking faintly in the March afternoon. Stopping in his tracks, he scanned for the idling car.
A garbage truck was parked in the spot the cab had nabbed minutes ago, and men were dumping cans of trash in the rear of the vehicle. The cab was gone. Naturally. He’d opted for a taxi rather than a car service so there’d be no trail, no name attached. Just his luck that today of all days the garbage strike ended.
Improvise.
He raced nimbly around the drunks, hoping their wobbliness would serve as a roadblock for the guys on his trail. The sound of footsteps intensified, but he continued his assault on the sidewalk, running quickly. Outpacing enemies was second nature. He sped around the corner, darting down a quiet side street that cut across at an odd angle on the way to the edge of Montmartre. Should be easy to grab a taxi there. Slip into a cab, glide into traffic, make the getaway. No need to worry about the first cab; he’d find another, no problem.
But as he curved past a lingerie shop at the end of the block, he stopped short, coming face-to-face with the two men. Mere feet away. Of course. They knew this neighborhood better than he did.
The taller of the pair glared at Jake and bared yellowed teeth. “Give back the Strad, and you won’t get hurt,” he hissed, rolling his Rs in a way that almost made his threat sound classy, as he brandished a gleaming silver knife.