The Last Noel. Heather Graham

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      With much love and best wishes for some wonderful people

       who are like Christmas gifts all year long:

      Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, Adam Wilson, Dianne Moggy,

       Margaret Marbury, Loriana Sacilotto, Donna Hayes, Craig Swinwood, Alex Osuszek, K.O., Marleah and all the folks in PR and art, and very especially for an incredible woman who can also spell—Leslie Wainger.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      “But…this is Christmas Eve!”

      The old man, frail and almost skeletally thin, stared at them in disbelief. His voice was tremulous, and he seemed to shake like a delicate, wind-blown leaf.

      “You’re right. It is Christmas Eve, old-timer, and you’re not supposed to be here,” Scooter said.

      Craig found that he couldn’t speak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There shouldn’t have been anyone here. When he’d hooked up with Scooter Blane, the man had been all but invisible. He and his partner, Quintin Lark, were becoming heroes in a certain stratum of underworld society for their long string of extremely profitable robberies. But no one had ever gotten hurt. Ever.

      But they only hit places that were empty.

      Like this place should have been today.

      There had been rumors, though. Rumors that the pair could be ruthless when they chose. But rumors were just rumors. Crooks needed them, went out of their way to create them, because they lived and died for them.

      Killed for them?

      But the real word on the street was that the pair were experts at slipping in and slipping out. Hitting fast, disappearing.

      As far as Craig had been aware, they had never hurt anyone or even, thanks to careful planning, come across anyone still working during one of their heists.

      He had discovered when he threw in with them that Scooter was frighteningly savvy with electronics. He’d seen that demonstrated when they arrived tonight and Scooter had broken the alarm code in a matter of seconds, unlocking the door as if they were being invited right in by an invisible host.

      And now…

      Now he was discovering that Scooter was equally adept with firearms.

      Like the Smith & Wesson .48 special he suddenly pulled.

      “But I am here. And I’m not letting you destroy my livelihood,” the old man said now, despite the gun in Scooter’s hand.

      Craig was pretty sure that the octogenarian’s name had to be Hudson. The sign on the small shop in the valley advertised it as Hudson & Son, Fine Art, Antiques, Memorabilia and Jewelry.

      It was the jewelry and antiques they’d come for. Scooter and Quintin were becoming infamous all through the Northeast for knocking off a long string of jewelry and antique stores. They went for family establishments—the type not found in malls. The kind in small towns, where the biggest crimes tended to be speeding or graffiti. They struck, then disappeared, and the insurance agencies were the ones to pay. Easy in, easy out, and no one got hurt, except in the wallet.

      Craig had never heard of Scooter or Quintin using a gun.

      Then again, he’d never heard of them ripping off a place where someone had remained behind after hours.

      But there was a first time for everything. Here, in a little hick town in Massachusetts, they had found the place where someone was still around.

      Craig felt ill.

      He knew the pair were successful because of Scooter’s talent with electronics, which ensured that they were never caught on videotape. No witness could ever describe their faces, because there never were any witnesses. In short, they had never been seen.

      Until now.

      “Scooter, it’s Christmas. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Craig said.

      Scooter looked at him, shaking his head as he scooped up jewelry and threw it into a bag. “No, sorry, I don’t think so. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I don’t think Quintin’s ready to go.”

      That was all too obvious, Craig thought, looking over at the other man. Already Craig had figured out that, while Scooter talked as if he called the shots, it was Quintin who really ran the operation. And Quintin wasn’t all that fond of Craig, so he knew he had to be careful.

      “There’s got to be a safe, so open it, pops,” Quintin was saying now.

      “Sir, please,” Craig said politely to Mr. Hudson, silently begging the old man to back down and do as he was told. “Open the safe.”

      “No.”

      “I’ll shoot you, you old fart, and don’t think I won’t,” Scooter told him.

      “Do it,” the old man said.

      “Come on, guys. There’s a storm coming in, and we need to get the hell out of here before it does,” Craig said. “Why don’t we just leave the old guy alone and get out of here?”

      “Told you that the kid was a mistake,” Quintin said disgustedly to Scooter. Quintin was a big man, but not fat. He was pure muscle, with small dark eyes, a bald head and the shoulders of an orangutan. He was oddly fanatic in his dress. He liked to be neat, and he was fond of designer clothing. He was in his forties, and despite his occupation, he was quite capable of speaking and appearing like a gentleman.

      Scooter was just the opposite: thin as a rail. He had a wiry strength, though. Sandy hair worn a little too long, and eyes that were so pale a blue they were almost colorless. СКАЧАТЬ