To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Nine: Definitely European

"The Scream" by Edvard Munch (1893), stolen 1994 and 2004, recovered 1994 and 2006 - value $120 million

Chapter Nine

Simon Gatz was tall, loud, and intimidating. He was everything I needed him to be in that moment.

When I'd pitched myself forward, hoping to break through the ranks of reporters to the other side, I hadn't been sure I'd make it. I could only just see the crowd of security that gathered outside the back door of the museum, pushing back the reporters and dispelling their ranks with fierce precision and trained certainty. It was Simon and his men, all dressed to the nines.

In that moment, I wondered if this was how the president felt with Secret Service. Surrounded by those willing to protect; eager to return to the comfort of clustered suits and ties, to the men those trim garments covered. But unlike the president, my attempts at getting through a crowd weren't met with embedded caution. Instead, I was only making sluggish headway to the door, too meek to barrel through and feeling increasingly frustrated.

Maybe a few toes did need to be stepped on.

There was confusion in the lot, as reporters scrambled to make way for angry security men and hastened off the property they trespassed on. Cameras still resolutely caught the scene as masses of people bumbled and jostled; the fear of being identified and prosecuted was weighed against the desire for a story as they hurriedly tripped over themselves. Even now, media teams fought for every snippet of footage they could as they fled, knowing it was a gold mine and they had the tools to excavate.

In truth, it would be a good news story, with headlines trumpeting reports of chaos and describing addled museum officials who ran from questions when confronted. The tapestry the media was seeking to weave of the theft and the events that'd followed would soon take a clearer form in the eyes of the public, and the story they liked to tell would soon grasp an even stronger hold on history. It was needless to say it wouldn't look good for us. It'd be another perceived fumble by the museum, another indication of our splintered organization and disrupted cohesion, the illnesses that'd allowed cracks wide enough for others to slip through.

Like the night of the theft, the same night I'd bid farewell to my quiet, guilt and nausea swirled in tempestuous tendrils. The media had already decided the theft was a symptom of the rich's folly. A socialite overwhelmed by media attention and hard-hitting accusations would only prove the point they sought to make.

Through the chaos, through the guilt, I heard the tall CEO of Riverwide Security lobbing orders with firm direction and certainty. With steel expertise, with wrought-iron order. The kind I hadn't seen from him yet, but the kind that proved why he bore the title he did; and the kind that encouraged the gratefulness blooming in my chest.

Simon's eyes found mine, connected in the commotion. Even with the distance I saw his narrowed gaze and untamable might. He didn't look away; the moment stretched and threatened the shifting sands I already felt rippling beneath my feet. I wasn't sure he even blinked, refusing to look at the reporters that scurried away from his threatening presence, or perhaps he didn't spare them any mind. With every passing moment, his eyes grew harder, more intense, more...

Just more.

Then he finally reached me, having made much easier headway than I could, and his hand outstretched and wrapped around my arm. His grip wasn't painful. It was unrelenting and strong as he guided me closer to him; close enough to be in his space, his protection, his shadow. I was close enough for his cologne to delicately trace my nose, only a fleeting soft wave before dispelled in the air of chaos. It was subtle, definitely European, and complexly alluring. It was Simon. Simon with his head on a swivel, his mouth firmly set, and his eyes the dark, deceiving shade I recognized. Eyes that seemed even brighter now, alit with adrenaline and anger, but eyes that fell partly hidden beneath brows crinkled in furious solemnity.