Chapter 28: THE INVITATION
The phone rang at seven in the evening, pulling me from the financial analysis I'd been pretending to focus on for the past hour.
Gerard Vance's private number. The call I'd been waiting for.
I let it ring twice—appropriate hesitation for a man of James Thornton's supposed stature—then answered with measured enthusiasm.
"Mr. Vance. I was hoping to hear from you."
"Mr. Thornton." His voice carried controlled excitement, the particular energy of someone about to reveal something significant. "I have something special coming in. Very special. I thought of you immediately."
[MARK ANALYSIS: VANCE — VOICE PATTERNS]
[EXCITEMENT: 87%]
[CAUTION: 72%]
[ASSESSMENT: HIGH-VALUE PROPOSITION INCOMING]
"Special how?"
"Not something to discuss over the phone. Are you available this evening? I'd prefer to show you in person."
The timing was terrible. The Hagen operation was scheduled for next week—twelve days of careful preparation before the raid. Adding a Thornton operation to the same window was risky, potentially compromising.
But opportunities like this didn't repeat.
"I can be there by nine," I said.
"Perfect. Come to the gallery. Use the side entrance—I'll be waiting."
The line went dead. I set down the phone and stared at the wall, calculating angles.
Vance was about to show me something criminal. The "special inventory" he'd mentioned during my gallery visit—pieces that couldn't be sold through legitimate channels. If I declined or delayed, he might never offer again.
But if the FBI operation went sideways, if Vance was connected to Hagen more directly than I suspected, tonight's meeting could blow everything apart.
The long con requires calculated risks.
I stood and opened my closet. James Thornton's wardrobe waited—the navy blazer that cost more than Marcus Webb had earned in a month, the understated accessories that whispered old money without shouting it.
Time to become someone else.
Hartley Gallery's side entrance opened onto a narrow alley, barely visible from the main street. I arrived at nine exactly, the particular punctuality of a man who valued his time and expected others to value theirs.
Vance was waiting just inside the door.
"Mr. Thornton. Thank you for coming on short notice."
"Your call sounded urgent."
"Urgent isn't the word. Exceptional might be better." He gestured down a corridor I hadn't seen during my previous visit—past the public galleries, toward the building's older section. "What I'm about to show you requires... discretion."
"Discretion is my specialty."
We stopped at a door that looked like a service entrance. Vance produced a key card, swiped it through a reader that definitely hadn't come with the original building.
"After you."
The corridor beyond was climate-controlled, the air carrying the particular chill of museum-grade preservation. LED strips along the ceiling cast even, shadowless light.
And at the end of the corridor: a vault.
Vance entered a combination—twelve digits, I counted—and pulled the heavy door open.
The room beyond stole my breath.
Paintings lined every wall, arranged with the careful attention of someone who understood their true value. Not the modest pieces from the public gallery—these were masterworks. A Vermeer that I recognized from photographs of works destroyed in World War Two. A Rembrandt sketch listed as lost to a fire in 1987. A Caravaggio study that had disappeared from a private collection three decades ago.
[APPRAISAL: VAULT INVENTORY]
[AUTHENTICATION: ALL GENUINE]
[ESTIMATED VALUE: $400M+ (TOTAL)]
[NOTE: ALL PIECES REPORTED STOLEN/DESTROYED]
The Vermeer drew me forward without conscious decision. A woman at a window, light falling across her face with the particular luminosity that only Vermeer had captured. The painting shouldn't exist—Allied bombing had supposedly destroyed it in Dresden.
Yet here it was. Real. Perfect. Beautiful beyond words.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Vance's voice came from behind me. "The Dresden Woman. Most experts believe it was lost. They're wrong."
"How?"
"The bombing destroyed the building where it was displayed. But the painting had been moved the night before—someone with foresight recognized what was coming." Vance moved to stand beside me. "It's been in private hands ever since. Three generations of careful preservation."
"And now it's here."
"Now it's available." Vance's voice shifted, becoming more businesslike. "These pieces need appreciative homes. Collectors who understand discretion. Who can provide appropriate care without asking inconvenient questions."
I turned to face him, letting James Thornton's calculated interest show.
"What kind of prices are we discussing?"
Vance named figures. Millions for each piece—astronomical sums that were actually below market value, because these paintings could never be displayed publicly, never be authenticated, never enter the legitimate art world.
The Vermeer: twelve million.
The Rembrandt: eight million.
The Caravaggio: fifteen million.
"These prices reflect the... unique circumstances," Vance said. "Ownership would need to remain private. Permanently."
"I understand." I kept my voice neutral, but my mind was racing.
The concealed recorder in my jacket had been running since I entered the building. The micro-camera disguised as a cufflink had captured images of every painting. I had enough evidence to destroy Gerard Vance and everyone connected to him.
But timing mattered. The Hagen operation was nine days away. If I moved on Vance now, word might reach the larger network. Hagen might accelerate his departure. Everything could collapse.
"I need to think," I said, the hesitation perfectly calibrated. "The investment is significant."
"Of course." Vance didn't seem concerned—he'd probably heard this response before from other wealthy criminals weighing similar decisions. "Take your time. But not too much time. These pieces won't be available forever."
I left the gallery forty minutes later, evidence hidden in my coat, the image of the Vermeer burned into my memory.
Real beauty, I thought. Irreplaceable, perfect, stolen.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent weeks building a criminal identity to infiltrate a criminal network. Now I had enough evidence to bring it down—and I was choosing to wait.
The long con. Always the long con.
My phone buzzed. Sara.
Dinner tomorrow still on? I found a place with amazing seafood.
I typed a quick confirmation and pocketed the phone.
Tomorrow, I'd be Aron Dark again—FBI consultant, careful investigator, the man Sara was beginning to trust. Tonight, I was James Thornton—wealthy collector, potential criminal, walking away from stolen masterpieces with recordings that could change everything.
One week, I told myself. Catch the Dutchman first. Then follow the chain to Vance, to Hartley, to whoever sits at the top.
Everything falls together. Or everything falls apart.
Either way, the waiting was almost over.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!