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“Good thing Dasselaar appears to be an arrogant idiot.”
“Yeah.” But Jack didn’t seem wholly convinced of that fact.
We used a compact electric screwdriver to make quick work of the screws that held the lid on, pocketing them so we could replace them when we were done. “Ready?” Jack nodded, and we lifted the lid off.
I knew the painting was inside the box before we finished lifting the lid, but I was still shocked to see it sitting in the crate surrounded by foam and wrapped in a layer of glassine. “Fuck.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
Then something else caught my eye. “Uh, Jack, what’s that?” I pointed to the corners of the crate, where small metal disks were flashing red.
“Pressure sensors. They link directly to Dasselaar’s phone. Fuck. He’s on his way back. Apparently, he isn’t as stupid as we thought. We need to go. Now.”
We dropped the lid, secured it, and ran back out to the alley. We’d barely made it to the street when Dasselaar’s car whipped around the corner, but we didn’t stay long enough to see what he would do, and I only looked back to make sure Dimitri was no longer with him. The car was empty, and I breathed a sigh of relief as Jack and I raced away from the gallery, sticking to the shadows and moving just fast enough to get out of range but not so fast that we drew suspicion.
Neither of us said a word until we were back in our hotel room.
I flopped down on the end of the bed. “How do we know if that’s the real painting or a fake?”
Jack sat down next to me. “You know the answer to that question already.”
I did, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to make the call I knew I needed to, especially when things were weird between us, especially when doing what needed to be done would put my family in more danger, but I pulled my phone out of my pocket anyway and tapped the screen to connect the call.
My twin answered on the second ring. “Quin, we found the painting. You need to get to Amsterdam.”
