“So why is a place dealing in fraudulent antiques selling the real deal?”
She returned the vase to the shelf. “Who’s to say they aren’t trying to sell these as the real deal?”
“I’ll check down here, you check upstairs.”
Sam began his search in the front room. Finding nothing of interest, he moved down the hall to a small office, seeing a scarred mahogany desk covered with papers. Invoices, he realized as he shined his flashlight across them. Apparently, the Roman antiques they were selling out front were made in China.
As he looked them over, he heard a scrape coming from the floor above him. “Remi? Everything okay?”
“Fine. Looks like this is mostly inventory, still boxed up. Guess where all their antiquities come from?”
“China?”
“How’d you know?
“Psychic,” he said, finding a piece of paper tucked in the corner of the desk blotter. He slipped it out, saw what looked like a hand-drawn map of the archeological park with an arrow pointing at the far end.
LaBelle’s site.
He put the map into his pocket and opened the top desk drawer, finding several more invoices clipped together along with a note that said Envoi.
“Sam.” Remi’s soft voice in his earpiece held a note of tension. “There’s someone coming.”
He grabbed the stack, rolled it into a tube, and shoved it into his back pocket, then drew his gun. “On my way.” He moved into the hall, gun at the ready. “I don’t hear anything, Remi. You’re sure?”
“I’m at the balcony. They’re walking this way from the corner,” she said. “Hold on … Definitely coming this way.”
“How many?”
“Two. They’re at the door.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Don’t seek to hurt any man;
but if any man seeks to hurt, you may break his neck.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
Sam heard the sound of keys dropping, then someone fumbling with the lock.
Finally, the door opened.
Sam slipped behind an antique bureau and edged his way around it, keeping it between him and the two men as they entered. One of the men stumbled down the hallway, his words slurring as he said something about using the bathroom. The other stood a few feet away, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He dropped the pack, swore, and leaned down to pick it up. Sam couldn’t be positive, but he looked like the sa
me man who tried to steal Renee’s purse at the ruins.
“Hamida? … That you?” the man said as his unfocused eyes landed on Sam’s shoes. Slowly, he straightened, reaching for his gun. “You’re not Ham—”
Sam, gripping his revolver like a set of iron knuckles, drove his weighted fist into the guy’s jaw. His head snapped back, slamming into the wall, his gun firing into the ceiling as he slumped to the ground.
“Tarek?” Hamida called out as Remi appeared in the stairwell. “What’s going on out there?”
Sam took her hand as Hamida stumbled from the hall.
“Sorry.” Sam guided Remi through the doorway. “Looks like your friend had a bit too much to drink.”
“You …” He tried to draw his gun from his holster.