Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

front of the thief and to his left, a woman in an ankle-length black coat stood with her back turned, facing a credenza. She seemed to wince at the sound of the door closing, and then threw back her head, finishing a drink, and slamming down the glass before she said in a defiant tone, “I’m here as you demanded, Beau, but I won’t do it. Not here. Not with your bitch of a wife and all those people in the house. In fact, I’m telling you we won’t do it ever again. And I don’t care if your lack of support hurts my career. I really don’t—”
    Cassie Knox had turned enough by then to see Monarch. The singer’s hand shot to her mouth, and she stammered, “I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
    â€œThe rich prick that somehow leveraged you into fucking him?” he said.
    Her chin retreated a second, and then shot forward. “Who are you?”
    â€œSomeone else with a beef with Big Beau Arsenault,” he replied, before being wracked with pain so bad he gasped and bent double.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” Knox asked in alarm, taking a step toward him.
    The thief looked up at her, realized the truth was the only way to get her on his side, and gasped, “Louisa shot me while I was stealing a chunk of Beau’s secret, and highly illegal, cash stash so I could give it to orphans in South America.”
    The singer gazed at Monarch, head slightly tilted for several puzzled moments before saying, “What? Like fucking Robin Hood or something?”
    â€œClose enough.”
    Knox smiled. “Serves the bastard right.”
    Realizing he had an unlikely ally, the thief said, “Can you help me get out of here? Just off the estate? To the stables? I’ve got a car there.”
    She hesitated, thought, and said, “You have the money?”
    â€œRight here,” Monarch said, growing weaker. “I’ll give you a million untraceable dollars if you get me off this estate.”
    â€œOh, no, you won’t,” the singer said in a scolding tone. “I’ll help you, but Cassie Knox does not steal from orphans.”
    Monarch managed a smile. “Do you have a car?”
    â€œParked in their carriage house,” she said, and put her arm under his shoulder. “C’mon, I know the way.”
    The pain pulsed through the thief’s stomach with every step, but he drove himself to keep moving. Knox led him out the other door of the library and down a hallway off the kitchen, which was still bustling with caterers and cooks. He kept looking at the floor for blood, but so far the napkins seemed to be absorbing it all. Knox opened a door beside the pantry, revealing a staircase.
    â€œWhere’s that go?” he gasped.
    â€œThe tunnel to the carriage house,” she said. “You don’t think folks like the Arsenaults go outside if they don’t have to, do you?”
    Monarch was light-headed, but managed to stay on his feet as she got him down the stairs to a narrow hallway about two hundred feet long, and decorated with the mogul’s substantial collection of modern art. They exited into a carriage house, which was more like an auto museum with exotic cars stacked on lifts at the rear of the space.
    â€œLeaving so soon, Ms. Knox?” a man’s voice called.
    The singer pivoted toward a security guard in his late twenties, smiled, said, “I have to be back in Manhattan so I can finish shopping in the morning, and my friend, Mr. Harris, isn’t feeling well.”
    Wrapping his arms around his wounded gut, Monarch grunted, “Oysters, they do it to me every time.”
    â€œSnowing hard out there,” he warned. “Nor’easter.”
    â€œThankfully, I’ve got all-wheel drive, great tires, and fog lights,” she said.
    The guard hesitated before gesturing at a black Audi Q5 on the other side of the garage. “Your keys are in it. I’ll get the door raised