When the Shadows Fall (Blackwood Security #14) - Elise Noble Page 0,1
they’d shelter in a barn, but when they crossed the threshold, one of them stumbled over a tripwire and got blasted by a shotgun.”
“Marshall booby-trapped the place? What were the consequences?”
“Legally? None. The kids were trespassing, and Marshall claimed he was only taking precautions because he’d disturbed an intruder late one night when he went out to check on the horses. The alleged intruder ran off, and of course, the incident wasn’t reported. Marshall paid the kid’s medical bills, the sheriff made it clear he wouldn’t take any action, and the mother of the injured boy actually said she was grateful for Marshall’s help and his understanding in the aftermath.”
“Wow. He really brainwashed her, huh?”
“Sure did. But I’ll bet anyone else thought twice about sneaking onto the property.”
“Time could’ve made him complacent, but if he rigged the place in the past, he might’ve carried on doing so. Look at Black—once a security fanatic, always a security fanatic.”
“Black doesn’t rig up tripwires, does he?” I whispered to Emmy.
I’d been merrily traipsing around the whole fucking estate. Had I been in danger of losing my head? Would’ve been nice if someone bothered to mention it.
“Nah, we have sensors and cameras. If he spots an intruder, he’ll go out and shoot them personally.”
Was that supposed to be comforting?
“So if a team goes in, they’ll need to take extra care,” Mack said. “I’ll keep digging, but I haven’t managed to find a personal email address for Marshall, let alone get access to his computer. His PA seems to deal with all his work-related communications. And if he has a second cell phone, it isn’t registered in his name.”
“Thanks, Mack.” Emmy tossed her phone back onto a weight bench. “I hate this fucking job. Alaric’s right. Emerald’s jinxed.”
The emerald in question wasn’t a gem but a stolen painting—The Girl with the Emerald Ring—and Alaric had been trying to retrieve her since his days as an FBI agent. Along with Blackwood, he’d recently recovered another painting stolen from the Becker Museum in the same heist—a rescue operation that had left four people dead and two more traumatised—but Emerald herself remained elusive, a malevolent presence hiding in the shadows. I’d seen a photo of her. A half-naked siren reclining on a bed of roses as her enigmatic smile lured men to their doom. I could understand her destructive attitude. The artist who painted her had been male, and if I’d had to lie there for all eternity with thorns stuck up my arse, then I’d want revenge on mankind too.
So far, she’d been responsible for Alaric and Emmy facing a hail of bullets when they tried to buy her from the thieves eight years ago, for Alaric losing his job when the pay-off vanished along with the painting, and for Emmy and Black’s current marital problems. Why? Because I very much suspected Black was the one who’d disappeared the pay-off.
And where did Marshall come in? Well, he’d been the artnapper who showed up to collect the booty. Ten million bucks in cash and untraceable diamonds.
Which led us to our current predicament.
With the possibility of more booby traps plus Emerald’s curse hanging over our heads, nobody wanted to chance a raid on the property. Besides, we’d set up cameras to watch the place. Marshall had two armed guards stationed there at all times, twenty-three security lights, a plethora of motion sensors, and a groom who came morning, noon, and night to take care of his horses. He sponsored the sheriff’s department’s summer barbecue, which meant deputies did regular drive-bys. Oh, and he was an insomniac.
The conclusion? We’d have to target him away from the property, but that presented its own challenges because when he did venture out, he favoured events with crowds of people present. Nobody wanted to involve innocent bystanders in a shoot-out. A couple of weeks ago, we’d gathered in one of Riverley’s conference rooms and brainstormed ideas to capture Marshall safely, but they were few and far between.
“Doesn’t he eat at restaurants?” Black asked.
Dan, Black’s number two in Blackwood’s investigations division, shook her head. “He orders takeout, and one of his men collects it.”
“What about visiting the mall? Where does he buy clothes?”
“Online, I guess. He gets a lot of packages delivered.”
“So can’t someone pose as a FedEx guy?”
“Nobody’s allowed through the gates. A goon walks down the driveway to collect everything.”
“Paranoid little fucker, isn’t he?”
“Hardly surprising—the FBI’s been after him for years.”
“You give the FBI too much credit.” Black glanced sideways at Alaric. “Sorry.”