Gatlin, Hawthorne, and Mathias are all on my heels as we make our way out of Hawkes House. “Tell them to find the shipment from the British Museum and secure it in a safe place. We’re on our way.”
Gatlin relays the information to the person on the phone.
I look over at Mathias, who moves the phone away from his mouth to tell me, “Jet’s at the airport, flight plan filed.”
Gatlin grunts. “Good thing I restocked it after our last mission.”
The SUV waiting outside drops us off at a private airstrip outside London. When we land two and a half hours later, the gendarmerie, a shifter named Nico, is there to greet us. “You’re too late. They hit us early this morning. In and out. Nothing was taken.” He shakes his head. “We didn’t even know until we received your call and looked at the security footage. Whoever this group is, they’re good, and their tech is extremely advanced. We’ll be upgrading our systems after this incident.” A hard look of determination rests on his face.
I’m sure he got raked over the coals for this one. I pat him on the back. “We’ll let you know what we find out. Thanks, Nico.”
We file back onto the plane. “They’re at least a day ahead of us and moving fast. My guess is they’ve already hit Paris. Mathias, can you check with your contacts there?” I pause, remembering what Nico had mentioned. “Have them check the security footage first. We’re after ghosts.”
5
PHAEDRA
Aisles filled with crate after crate go on forever in the massive warehouse, but I’m not deterred. This isn’t my first visit here. I pull up an app on my phone. A small, blinking white dot shows my location, and a solid red dot indicates the crate’s location. It’s to my left and up a couple of rows. I step forward, and the white dot moves accordingly.
A good fifteen minutes later, I reach my destination. Now comes the hard part. The locator only gives a general location. I have to physically find the exact crate. My eyes skip over the ones different from mine and settle on the remaining three. Not too many, but they’re on the second, fourth, and fifth shelves. I search for a nearby ladder, but don’t see one, which means I’m doing this the hard way.
Gripping the first shelf, I pull myself up until my toes are resting on the edge of the second shelf and shine the light on the top. An unfamiliar address shines back. Not mine. I look up. The next crate is over five feet and up on the fourth shelf. I slide tothe right and climb. When I get closer, I see it’s not mine either and barely suppress the groan at the edge of my tongue. The one on the top shelf is mine.
I contemplate the location and decide to go up before I go left. If I’m correct, it should put me right beside the panel I need to access. It’s not until I’m stretching for the next shelf that I realize it’s a foot higher than the previous ones. I shine the light on the crates next to me, but there’s nothing to step on. If I try to use the crates themselves, I might accidentally kick one off. I dart a glance at the floor far below. That would be disastrous.
After taking a deep breath, I slip the light into my pocket, squat down, and spring up. My fingers miss the top of the shelf but find the holes along the side of the metal lip. Dangling by the literal tips of my fingers, I swing lightly back and forth. Damn it. There’s very little room to maneuver and nothing to push off of to get higher.
Options. My eyes dart to the crates next to me. I might be high enough now to lift my foot on top of one and use it for leverage. It’s risky, though. I glance to my left and see the support for the shelving unit. Better. I can shimmy my way up the pole to the top.
Ten sweaty and agonizing minutes later, I reach the corner. Immediately wrapping my legs around the pole, I peel my fingers away from the sharp metal holes and throw my arms around it. Stable now, I take a precious minute to massage my fingers and get the blood flowing in them again.
After wiping the sweat away, I carefully use my arms and legs to climb the pole to the top shelf. Thankfully, this shelf is wider than the others, and I’m able to walk along the edge by placing one foot in front of the other. I get to the crate, and the Duke University address label makes me quietly sigh in relief.
With deft movements, I pull off my knapsack and get to work opening the outside panel. Using a manual screwdriver sucks,but anything else would be heard. I carefully unscrew and pull off the outer side panel, putting it on top of the crate. Then I take out a large magnet. Placing it against the wood, I slide it up and to the left. I do this three more times to unlock the secret secondary panel, then remove it, too.
Customs uses imaging and x-ray machines to examine the contents. The only way to get it through was to build a hidden compartment in the crate that was solid and impervious to their scans. It only works for small items, because the dimensions need to be the same on all sides of the crate, so it doesn’t arouse suspicion.
I carefully pull out the five items hidden in the crate and put them in my knapsack, then grab the five items of equal weight I brought with me and put them into the crate’s hidden compartment. The gross weight needs to stay the same between entry and exit. Reversing the entire process, I board up the crate and secure it.
While I could have brought these home on my private jet, I didn’t want to risk it. Transporting them in a crate directly from the museum allows me to easily add the items to the university’s shipment without anyone being the wiser.
The slight squeak of a boot against the floor alerts me. I look down and see a dark figure moving down the aisle. Frozen, I watch as they stride toward me. My lips compress. Something’s wrong. No flashlight or uniform. Whoever this person is… they’re not a guard or customs officer. Another thief? Then, I see the faint green glow around their eyes. Night goggles. Thankfully, the fabric of my full-body suit is designed to match the temperature of my environment at all times, rendering me completely invisible to infrared technology—a sweet little invention I picked up that’s come in handy so many times.
They’re moving quickly. I slip the knapsack on and start walking along the top shelf in the opposite direction. There’s askylight at the rear of the building. It’s farther away from where I entered, but it offers roof access.
I peer over the edge and see the person has stopped close to where I was earlier. My heart rate kicks up. Coincidence? Maybe. But I don’t like coincidences. I pick up the pace and get to the skylight. Scaling the nearest crate until I’m on top, I look down the row and see the figure reach the top shelf and my crate. Definitely not a coincidence. Curbing my curiosity, I reach up, grab the edge of the skylight, and slowly lift myself off the crate and onto the roof.
Feeling a sense of urgency, I jump to my feet and run across the roof until I reach the rope I left coiled earlier. With a quick flick of my wrist, I send the rope down the side of the building and follow its smooth descent to the ground. Once I land, I press a button on my belt, and the rope cuts away from the hook at the top and falls silently to my feet.
My fingers deftly pluck it up from the ground and coil it back into a loop to hang on my belt while I listen intently for the slightest of sounds. My eyes dart from one corner of the alley to the other. I’m alone. Sliding the black nylon knapsack from my back to my chest, I press against the shadowed walls of the warehouse and make my way to the bike I left tucked behind the dumpster. Matte black paint renders it almost invisible. I roll it into the alleyway.
After taking one last look around to see if I have any unwanted company, from either the person inside or nearby customs officers, I slide on the helmet, take a deep breath, and start the engine. Even with the exhaust modifications I made to the bike, the rumbling of the engine is noticeable in the night air. It can’t be helped. When you need speed and maneuvering, there’s nothing like the Kawasaki Ninja H2R. Not wanting to attract attention, I keep the speed at a steady throttle as I leave the alley and enter the parking lot.
Movement on my right catches my peripheral, and I swing my head around to watch the figure on the roof raise his arms in a silent signal to someone on the ground.
That’s my cue.
With the slightest of touches, the motorcycle picks up speed. I dart into a line of stacked containers and carefully make my way through the maze I mapped out earlier in case I needed a less exposed escape. Blood rushes through my veins, making my heart pound. Colorful boxes surround me, hiding me from view, but that doesn’t mean much. Depending on their technology, they might have eyes on me right now.
