Free A Magnificent Crime by Kim Foster Page B

head.
    Death. That was what this was all about, wasn’t it?
    I remembered when I was a kid and first beginning to grapple with the issue of my own mortality. I would lie in bed late at night, thinking about the fact that I was going to die someday. It scared the hell out of me. It almost made me wish I’d never been born. Because if I’d never been born, I would never have to die. It was like I was on a horrible runaway train, heading inexorably in one direction and totally powerless to stop it.
    There was nothing I could do. One day I was going to die. For a little while, I attempted to convince myself that I was special—that I was the one person in the world who wasn’t actually going to die. People would study me and write about me and wonder how I’d done it . . . but I was going to be the girl who lived. The one who would never have to face that threshold. The one who would never have to cross over and feel terrified, not knowing what was on the other side.
    But although I wanted to believe that fantasy, I never fully did, of course. I knew I wasn’t special. I wasn’t immortal. I was going to die. And there was nothing I could do.
    I became terrified then of dying. Every day I’d wonder if this was my last day. My last day had to be someday, so why not today?
    I think it was becoming a thief, ultimately, that helped me get over my fear of dying. When I discovered and honed my skills, I began feeling special. And powerful. And . . . perhaps just a little bit invincible.
    So what was I going to do now? Now that the full terror of death had returned to me, stopping me from doing the one thing that made me feel indestructible.

Chapter 9
    Jack walked into the office at FBI headquarters with a feeling of dread. The office was buzzing, phones were ringing, and file cabinets were clanging. It smelled of stale coffee and printer toner. Fluorescent lighting glowed reluctantly against the dull white walls and industrial-grade blinds and carpets.
    He was not looking forward to having to admit to his boss he’d lost the guy from last night. Special Agent Victoria Sullivan was a real ball breaker.
    Somehow Jack needed to convince her that he was still worthy of being out on field duty. But he also wanted to know what the hell was going on with this case and why Interpol was involved.
    Jack hated office work. He much preferred to be out in the field. He shuddered, thinking of his recent jailbreak from the world of paper and computers and watercoolers. He couldn’t go back to that.
    Jack walked into Victoria Sullivan’s office. He pressed his mouth into a line and closed the door behind him, shutting out the chaos of the outer offices.
    Her office was quiet and very still, as if the very air was afraid to disturb her.
    â€œBarlow. They tell me you lost him,” she said.
    Jack cleared his throat and shifted. “I did.” He lifted his chin. There was no point denying it. “But the main reason was because of Ludolf Hendrickx.”
    â€œWho?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t know that name.”
    â€œHe works for Interpol and he was following Snyder, my mark. I think there’s something more going on.”
    â€œI doubt that. Snyder is just a small-time criminal. Part of a larger network, sure, but not worth the attention of Interpol. You must be mistaken. What’s your source for that intel, anyway?”
    He couldn’t tell her. That was because he’d used a less than strictly licit source. And Victoria Sullivan was a stickler for doing things by the book. But Jack knew the best information often came from the underworld itself. And the number he’d sent the photograph of Hendrickx to was a source of Cat’s.
    He shrugged and tried to change the subject. He writhed inside under the familiar conflict of interest that’s part of the territory when you’re dating a career criminal.
    Even to him, it sounded ridiculous.