The Devil's Triangle (Volume 4) (A Brit in the FBI) - Hardcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Catherine Coulter is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eighty-four novels, including the FBI Thriller series and The Brit in the FBI international thriller series, cowritten with J.T. Ellison. Coulter lives in Sausalito, California, with her Übermensch husband and their two noble cats, Peyton and Eli. You can reach her at ReadMoi@Gmail.com or visit Facebook.com/CatherineCoulterBooks.

New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison writes dark psychological thrillers and pens the Brit in the FBI series with #1 New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim, prestigious awards, and has been published in twenty-seven countries. She is also the Emmy Award–winning cohost of the premier literary television show A Word on Words. Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens. Visit JTEllison.com for more information, and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @ThrillerChick or Facebook.com/JTEllison14.

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The Devil’s Triangle

CHAPTER ONE

Venice, Italy

Mid-June

One Week Ago

Kitsune stood on the Rialto Bridge and watched the sun flash against the waves of the lagoon. She enjoyed the early mornings in Venice, before the summer crowds flooded into the city. She watched pigeons peck the ground for yesterday’s crumbs, watched a row of tethered gondolas bob in the heavy sea swell. There would be a storm soon—she tasted it in the air. She looked at her watch. It was time to go. Her client had instructed her to take a water taxi to the San Zaccaria dock, then walk to the house.

She should have been on her way before now, but she’d waited there on the bridge to see who was following her. Even though she hadn’t seen anyone yet, she’d felt eyes on her, felt them since her plane had landed an hour earlier. At the airport’s dock she’d caught a glimpse of one of them: a man—dark sunglasses, a slouchy work jacket. There were probably others, but where were they? She hated being in the open like this—a target—and the large tube in her hand a target as well. She still didn’t see anyone.

She bent down to adjust the strap of her sandal. From the corner of her eye she saw him. She was sure it was the same man she’d seen at the Marco Polo airport, still wearing sunglasses and a jacket. He wasn’t very good at his job, since she’d spotted him, standing in the alley to the left of the Hotel Danieli, chewing on a toothpick like he didn’t have a care in the world. But where were the others? She knew she hadn’t been followed to Venice, she was sure of that, so why now? For some reason, her client didn’t trust her. She felt a lick of anger. It was an insult to her reputation. Or perhaps someone knew what was inside the large tube and wanted it?

Ah, there he was, the second man, hovering near the dock, a cap pulled low on his head, wearing wrinkled jeans and scuffed boots. Both men were in their thirties, muscled, garbed in everyday working clothes. Thugs. One was tall, the other short. Mutt and Jeff. She saw no one else. Only two of them? Another insult. She took note of the small sign above Mr. Short’s head—Calle de la Rasse.

Kitsune had learned the complicated layout of the Venetian streets, an integral part of her preparation, since she could run much faster than she could swim.

She checked the men out again. Both cocky, sure of themselves, but she could take them. Easily.

Not yet, though. The time wasn’t right.

Their presence bothered her. Why the sudden distrust from her client? Her reputation was built on absolute discretion, always delivering what was commissioned and never asking questions. She had no false modesty. She could steal anything, anywhere—even the Koh-i-Noor diamond, that magnificent bloody stone that had nearly gotten her killed. A pity she’d had to give it up.

This client was paying her a small fortune, and half of it, five million euros, was already deposited in four different accounts in four different banks, as was her custom. She would receive the other five million upon delivery. All of it was straightforward, so why the two thugs following her?

Kitsune had been a thief for too long to ignore the prickle of unease that went down her neck. The tube was heavy, and she hugged it closer.

The breeze picked up between the Venetian buildings, blowing gently down the narrow canal. She continued forward, over the small bridge, up the walkway, past the arriving gondoliers, who watched her and wondered. Grant told her she moved differently, with singular grace and arrogance, and she looked like what she was—strong and dangerous—and then he’d held her close, stroked her long hair, and whispered against her temple that only the very stupid, or the very desperate, would mess with her. She felt a warm punch to her heart thinking of her husband of ten months, how the green of his eyes turned nearly black when he was kissing her. Soon, she would be with him again. She would give the prize to the client, and be gone.

She’d fulfilled the first part of the job three days earlier, when she’d pulled off one of the most fun heists of her career. She’d dyed her hair the deepest black, worn brown contacts, and used a semipermanent stain to make her skin appear two shades deeper, a process she didn’t relish, but it helped her blend in beautifully with the population of Istanbul. With her forged credentials, which included a signature from Turkish military leader Hulusi Akar, the palace authorities had followed orders and assigned her to work security at the Topkapi Palace. It had taken her more than three months to work her way out of the harem complex and into special security in the Holy Relics exhibit, where Moses’s staff was displayed.

Her arms had gotten tired carrying the H&K MP5 machine gun all day. Even with the strap around her neck and shoulder, the carbine got heavy, and being on alert for twelve hours at a time was exhausting. Despite the heat and grit and the hordes of tourists trooping in and out of the treasure-filled rooms in the palace, her assigned areas gave her a lovely view of the Bosphorus. The sun shined on the water, sprinkling diamonds, the sea breezes cooled her, and the tourists gathered nearby to take photos. She was careful, very careful, never to get in the shots. It wouldn’t do to have someone post a photo of her on Facebook accidentally, have some government drone monitoring the Internet run the photos through facial recognition, and blow her cover.

She wondered again: did her unknown client really believe that what she carried in her hands was the very embodiment of power? That what she carried wasn’t simply an ancient knob of wood but the actual staff of Moses? Or, as some called it, Aaron’s rod? No matter what it was called, this staff was one of the most sought-after and priceless artifacts in the world, and she’d managed to break into the Holy Relics exhibit after hours and take the staff out of its lighted case after cutting the wires to the security alarm, and disappeared. And that brought a smile of satisfaction.

No more inky-black hair, no more dark brown eyes, the stain washed away. She was back to her blue eyes, her white skin, and her own dark hair.

Yes, it had been a clean, perfectly executed job. One of her best, and she, the Fox, had a string of risky, daring jobs behind her.

The international news channels were still leading with the theft. No way was she going to take a chance of being caught in the crosshairs. She’d make the delivery, get her other five million, go home to Capri, and talk Grant into visiting Australia or America, anywhere away from Europe. He was due for a vacation, having spent the last three months in Afghanistan guarding a high-ranking British officer.

The house she was going to was only a drop site. She’d used this protocol many times—empty house, the owners probably on vacation. Clients rarely wanted the Fox to know where they lived. She wondered who would be there to receive the stolen staff.

A winding alleyway took her deeper into the neighborhoods, along the canals. And there it was, a simple, classic Venetian home—red brick, the second and third floors balconied, set between a narrow street and a small canal.

She went up the steps, knocked on the dark green door. Waited a moment before the thick, old wood swung open. An older man in a dark suit and silver tie told her to come in.
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