“I don’t know what you are looking for,” he went on, “but there is nothing, I tell you, nothing here.”

Yes, there was. He hadn’t hauled his butt to Denver empty-handed. He’d come to make a deal, expecting to walk away with five hundred thousand dollars for a painting worth two million, if it could have been sold at a legitimate auction.

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, she quickly quartered the room, looking for an art case, or a mailing tube, or something, anything, that might hold the Meinhard.

Four years of following the painting. Six months of following Otto, including the four weeks since she’d gotten involved, the four weeks needed to set up a “sale” in Denver, and about five minutes in a hotel room to put seven decades of loss right-not to mention saving her dad’s butt. Again.

If she could find the painting.

Dammit. Esme let out a short sigh and closed the knife, her gaze searching the room again, more slowly. All Otto had brought with him, that she could see, was the suitcase and the clothes on his back.

She dropped a glance at the mostly-naked man trussed at her feet. Without the black leather thong he’d strapped on with all its buckles and snaps, he’d be completely naked.

She was so grateful for the thong.

The rest of his clothes were in a neatly folded stack on a chair next to the bed-except for his suit jacket.

She looked to the open armoire near the door leading out into the hall. Sure enough, he’d hung up his jacket, and it was looking very tidy. Very tidy, indeed, and rather stiff.

Pushing off the bed, she walked over to the armoire and reopened the knife in a single smooth move.

“No,” Otto said from the floor, panic rising in his voice, his understanding of the situation finally dawning. “No. No. No, you… you crazy whore. Nein.”

Oh, yes, she thought.

“Y-you can’t. You don’t know. You can’t… no, no. Not the Meinhard.”

Yes, the Meinhard. She came to a stop in front of the armoire.

“Sí, policía.”The man outside the door was talking again, the guy with no towels.

Policía?Hell, it was possible, she guessed, and the last damn thing she needed was to get busted for vice.

“Puedes abrir la puerta? Es muy importante-por favor,” he said.

Puerta was door, and even she knew importante meant important. Por favor was another no-brainer- please.

Without a doubt, her time was running out fast. He was obviously speaking to somebody with a key, and given his choice of language, she was guessing one of the maids. Everybody manning the front desk spoke English.

Without rushing, she didn’t waste a second, taking hold of Otto’s suit jacket and neatly slicing open the side seam. Her hand went in between the silk lining and the English tweed, and her smile came out-voilà! Success.

On the floor, Otto was apoplectic, twisting and turning, struggling against his bonds.

“No,” he insisted. “You cannot… cannotleave me like this. Cut me loose… goddamn you.”

She slipped the painting free from its hiding place and closed her knife. Bold strokes of red, orange, gray, and green on copper were visible beneath a protective sheath inside a narrow frame, a blue dress, a woman’s face smudged in pink-she’d done it, recovered the Meinhard.

Pocketing her knife first, she began unsnapping the latches on the thin case she’d brought with her in the white vinyl tote. She was heading toward the window that opened onto the alley even as she was sliding the painting into the case.

“Du verstehst nichts!” the old man all but growled in frustration.

Whatever.

She met his eyes for a brief moment as she passed him, then wished she hadn’t. Otto was so hung up in his leashes, he’d had to twist himself to an unnatural angle to pin her with his gaze-and he was melting in fear, the sweat running off him, following the fatty folds of his body.

“Sie kommt… lass mich lohs, du Hündin!”He pulled against the leash tied to the bed. “Sie kommt sofort!”

He was afraid. She understood that much, if not his actual words, and yeah, she would have been afraid in his situation, too.

The Oxford was an old historical hotel, and the windows did open. In room 215, where fifty bucks to the reservation clerk had guaranteed Otto would be put, the window not only opened, it opened onto an old fire escape which she’d personally checked out two nights ago. It had held her then, and it held her tonight.

By the time she heard the commotion of the notowel-guy and the maid discovering a dog-collared, thong-clad foreigner short-leashed to the bed, she was in the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

Sonuvabitch, Johnny thought when the maid finally opened the door. He took the room in with a glance: one mostly naked guy wearing a dog collar leashed to the bed; one destroyed suitcase sliced open every which way; absolutely zero size-four hookers; and one open window. His gaze slid over the suit jacket hanging in the closet and the neatly split seam, and he guessed Easy Alex had gotten whatever she’d come for-and she’d gotten it quick.

Behind him, the maid let out a small scream and ran back down the hall. He understood perfectly.

He also understood the next thing he heard, spoken by a woman the maid must have run into on her headlong flight.

“Entschuldigung,” the woman said in a high, light voice with a singsong accent not normally associated with the German language. Excuse me.

Johnny crossed the room in five long strides, heading for the open window and reminding himself never to buy a black leather thong. Dudes did not look good in black leather thongs. All the proof he needed was squirming around on the floor, swearing in German, handcuffed and hog-tied.

Geezus,and he’d thought he’d seen it all. Fifteen years of running wild on the streets of Denver, four years of busting his butt in the Steele Street garages, and another five working hard in Uncle Sam’s army, most of it spent fighting in the world’s hottest spots, and yeah, he’d seen some pretty disturbing shit, the kind that stuck with a guy.

And now this poor slob on the floor wearing a spiked dog collar-fuck-Johnny figured he was going to be stuck with that damn image until he drew his last breath.

A small grin curved the corner of his mouth. Geezus. People. They never failed to amaze him. And Esme, good God, she’d frickin’ hog-tied this guy in damn near record time. He could have used her in Afghanistan.

He got to the window and checked the alley.

Sure enough, the little size-four hooker was hoofing it toward Sixteenth, still limping, her two-inch black patent-leather platform heels snap-snapping on the alley asphalt.

Johnny didn’t hesitate. He was through the window and heading down the fire escape before she could get away from him. Dog-boy was the hotel’s problem, not his, and if they wanted to track down the hooker, they could start with the valet, a fact of street life they knew as well as any vice cop on the force. He just wanted to get to her first.

At Sixteenth, Esme turned northwest and went half a block to Wynkoop before turning southwest again. There were plenty of people on the streets in LoDo on a Friday night in August. It was easy to blend in, keep his distance, and still keep her in sight. When she turned into an alcove on the east side of Wynkoop, he closed in.

She wasn’t going to be glad to see him. He didn’t have any illusions about that. She’d hit the skids, turning sadistic tricks and stealing from her johns for a living, and he’d become one of the most elite and highly skilled soldiers in the world. It was the only reason he’d been tagged for SDF, not because he’d grown up in Denver and knew the guys. The personal association was a bonus, not a prerequisite. Johnny knew who and what he was, and so did Dylan Hart. Dylan knew how he’d been trained, where he’d been, what he’d done, and how he’d survived. It was more than enough to earn him a slot on the team-and Dylan knew that, too.