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important, on you and Mom.”
    “And you?”
    “I can take care of myself. Besides, I doubt any criminal would mess with me. Your murderer’s research must have revealed my credentials—and my connection to the FBI. The last thing he’d want is to open that door. Things might get ugly.”
    “You’re tough, Sloane, but you have your vulnerabilities,” Matthew reminded her quietly.
    Automatical y, Sloane glanced down at her right hand. The sight wasn’t pretty. The scars from the knife assault, and the three successive surgeries performed to save her life and her hand, were stil prominent.
    Her injury was her Achil es’ heel. Everyone who knew her knew that.
    “The murderer doesn’t have me in his sights,” she told her father. “He has you. As for Mom, the good news is that she didn’t see your kil er’s hired hands. So I’m less worried about her—unless they decide to use her as leverage against you. That’s why I want bodyguards on you both.” Sloane flipped open her cel phone. “I’l make arrangements right away.
    After that, I want to go inside and see Mom. Oh, and I’l spend the next few days in the city, so I can be close by and keep an eye on you.”
    “What are you going to tel Derek?” Her father asked the mil ion-dol ar question.
    A heartbeat of a pause. “Whatever the cops tel me. Nothing more.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    BILBAO, SPAIN
    Dressed in white coveral s, the team of Albanian gunmen kept their heads lowered as they pushed the maintenance carts across the plaza. They looked like custodial workers—
    nondescript, virtual y invisible to the patrons exiting the museum. Their caps were pul ed down low, concealing their faces. No one noticed the stocking masks they’d yanked on moments earlier—masks that now completely distorted their facial features and hid their Mediterranean coloring.
    The choice of museums had been deliberate.
    The nearby Guggenheim Museum got al the attention. A prominent landmark, it had been targeted by the ETA, a Basque separatist group with a propensity for violence. In October 1997, just before the museum’s grand opening, a guard had been kil ed there. As a result, the Guggenheim was packed with armed guards, making it too risky.
    In contrast, security at the Museo de Arte Moderno was light. Just a few guards with batons, a couple of docents, and a curator. Very peaceful and serene—especial y near closing time, which was only minutes away.
    The gunmen reached the entrance. They grabbed their MP5Ks from inside the canvas utility carts where they’d been hidden. Bursting through the doors, they instantly overpowered the startled security guard, seized his baton, and ordered the frightened attendant to remain silent. In complete control, they forced their captives away from the entrance and shoved them through the museum at gunpoint. With speed, purpose, and an extensive knowledge of the floor plan, they made their way to the second level.
    A minute and a half later, they were there.
    Footsteps. Another security guard turned the corner. Using the just-confiscated baton, one muscular gunman dealt a punishing blow to his head. The guard’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, unconscious.
    Right on schedule, the wel -trained team entered the display of nineteenth-and twentieth-century paintings. They headed first for the Cassatt. The tal est gunman pul ed out a pair of wire cutters and snipped the wires that suspended the painting from the ceiling. He then turned to the adjacent wal and repeated the process, releasing the Bacon from its mounting wires. With both paintings safely in their possession, they headed to the other room and the works of those artists who inspired great national pride: Miró and Picasso.
    An unexpected guard appeared on the scene and spotted them. He pul ed his baton from its holster, lunging at the thieves and shouting, “¡Ustedes! ¡Para!” They had no intention of stopping.
    The team leader turned, releasing an explosive spray of