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compel my forger to work a little faster,” she said.
    “You don’t think he ratted us out?”
    “No,” she replied. “I’ve been working with him for years. If he’d been the one to talk, those goons could have waited for us at his place rather than paying for random information from Liam or risking a scene at the hotel.”
    “Your guy didn’t know where we were staying. Or maybe he insisted the takedown happen far away from him. His business depends on people trusting that he won’t give them up.”
    “Which is precisely why he would never sell me out,” Brynn argued. “His bank accounts are full of too much of my money. He would not risk losing long-term income for a short-term score.”
    Sean shrugged. “He isn’t young. Maybe he’s not thinking long-term anymore.”
    Brynn filed away his concern, understanding there was a logic to Sean’s line of thinking, but one that was counter to her experience with the man. Still, she couldn’t afford to be too trusting.
    What had started out as a simple rescue operation had turned into a clusterfuck, as her brother would say, of massive proportions. And yet, she still hesitated calling Ian for backup. They’d worked hard to put the company back in the black. If she pissed off the wrong people, her family’s legacy—not to mention all the agents they employed worldwide—would pay the price.
    Unwilling to risk boosting another car, she and Sean started off toward the forger’s residence on foot. The nightclubs were closing. The sidewalks swelled with die-hard partiers forced to trip home to their rented flats by the lack of anything else to do until the sun rose and the beach beckoned. She and Sean blended in to the crowd arm in arm, attempting to look as trashed and tired as the people around them even as they moved with much more stealth and speed.
    “What case you were working the last time you were here?” Sean asked as they headed northwest.
    “I was only here for a couple of hours, picking up a passport for a young woman we were extracting from her abusive boyfriend.”
    “The girl was in Spain?”
    “Madrid,” she replied. “But she was originally from Denmark. The guy was a trust fund baby. He had some reach, which was why her family brought us in, but if the bastard had had any associations with San Sebastían, I never would have used el Creador for the job.”
    When they reached a vacant corner, bright with neon lights from an all-night café, Brynn directed Sean down a side street. In about a mile, they were going to have to cross a bridge. Two people walking across the long, well-lit span was bound to attract attention.
    Brynn could practically hear the mechanisms in Sean’s brain whirling and clicking as he attempted to work out the different scenarios that could have led them to their current situation. Like her, Sean was accustomed to carrying out expertly planned missions that had few unforeseen diversions.
    Now, they were playing entirely off the cuff.
    “We need to get over the bridge,” she said.
    Sean watched the street for a few minutes.
    “Taxi?” he suggested.
    “Not if the word is out on the streets for us. How do you feel about motorcycles?”
    He snorted. “I feel like I have enough danger in my life, thanks.”
    “You?” she asked, genuinely shocked. She could easily visualize Sean in worn denim and black leather. “You’re not a Harley guy?”
    Sean leveled her with a look of exasperation. “I can ride one, but I don’t have a death wish. I prefer my transportation to have four wheels and, if possible, four-wheel drive.”
    “In the short term, we’ll have to settle for something in between,” she said, indicating a line of scooters chained up beside an apartment building.
    Sean groaned but helped her liberate two motorbikes in less than thirty seconds, then they wheeled them around a corner, donned the helmets they’d found in the boots beneath the seats and then took off toward the bridge.
    Before they