The Intelligence Unit Series

Stealing three hundred thousand dollars in a bank robbery was a rush. Getting away with it for the thirteenth time in a f*****g row? Christ, it was priceless.

Archer sat back in the bedroom of the entirely nondescript house he'd rented with fake credentials (thank you, dark web. Seriously, the internet was a goddamn treasure trove if you had half a brain) and looked at the pile of papers on the tiny desk in front of him. The plan itself was straightforward. Five cities. Three banks each over the course of a month. Just when the heat cranked up and the cops started getting extra vigilant-poof. They disappeared, only to pop up in another city a couple of months later, repeating the cycle until they had enough money to retire on.

Because here was the thing. Archer wasn't an idiot. He knew he couldn't make a career out of robbing banks. Yeah, he did meticulous research and planning, and yeah, when it came to understanding human nature and all the reactions that went with it, he was more intuitive than most. He wasn't about to waste that knowledge on some mindless job he'd have to work his a*s off at for thirty-five years just to scrape by. But the three hundred thousand dollar paydays came with a hefty f*****g risk. Archer knew the odds. Good planning would only get them so far. The more banks they knocked off, the higher the chances they'd get caught-that was just statistics. There was a shitload of strategy at play logistically, too. After all, large cash deposits into regular bank accounts tended to raise eyebrows, not to mention trigger system alerts that ended up in scrutiny. A string of large deposits, all made by a guy with no source of regular income? Archer might as well walk into a police station and surrender.

The plan he'd concocted to have the money laundered and make the funds accessible had gotten him out of that predicament, though, and as much as getting away with robbing banks gave Archer a massive f*****g hard-on, he wasn't about to mess with his plan. He'd always had an end goal, a number in mind that would net him enough to sit on a beach, sipping Mai Tais and earning twenty percent interest for the rest of his life.

And they were finally almost there. All they had to do was rob two more banks without getting caught, and a world where Archer wouldn't have to worry about grinding the rest of his life away in a dead-end job he was far too smart for would be within reach. They'd divide the money, get the hell out of dodge, and maybe part ways, although that didn't bother Archer much. He was going to have the forever he deserved, the happily ever after where he'd used his skills to game the system, not let the system claim him, and Portia would have hers. They'd finally be square.

Provided these last two robberies and the grand finale getaway went off without a hitch.

Archer looked at the detailed sketch he'd made of the lobby of the Maplewood Avenue branch of Prosperity Savings and Loan and smiled. He'd taken a day after the last robbery to lie low as a precaution, then made three visits to the place over the course of four days, each one under a different guise. A business owner looking for investment opportunities. A bank patron who had stood in a long line, only to have "forgotten" the check he'd wanted to cash at home. A misguided food delivery guy with an order none of the bank employees had actually placed.

He'd had to act-and dress-the part each time, but not being recognized as a repeat visitor had been far easier than expected. People were so f*****g gullible. Of course a well-groomed business owner in a suit couldn't possibly be the same guy as the scruffy DoorDasher wearing threadbare jeans, an even more threadbare baseball hat, and three days' worth of unchecked stubble. Since this wasn't his first rodeo-and, also, he wasn't a dumbass-Archer had been sure to snuff out any echoes of familiarity that might've slipped through with changes to both his voice and demeanor. The ruses had allowed him the opportunity to not only memorize the layout of the bank, but to watch the patterns and habits of the guards and bank employees, note the location of every security camera, and get a sense of the number of customers who might be in the lobby at a given time.

These recon missions were never without risk, though. After all, he could only dodge the cameras to a point, and even though ninety-nine percent of people saw what he let them see, there were no guarantees a bank employee wouldn't get hip to his disguises and call attention to his odd behavior. But having the intel meant knowing exactly how to infiltrate the place and empty the vault without complications, and Archer wasn't about to leave anything to chance.

He couldn't. Thorn had gotten too brash on their last job when they'd had to alter the plan, and Archer needed to keep him in line for just a little while longer. True, the guy had gone on a couple of heroin and whiskey-fueled benders since their last robbery, which would normally take a chunk out of the aggressive energy Thorn wore like a second skin. But now more than ever, Archer needed him to cooperate. The best way to do that was to have a plan so solid and well-practiced, the only option would be for them to follow it to success.

No time like the present to share with the class.

Pushing back from his desk, Archer scooped up the sketch of the lobby and a few pages he'd printed out at an internet café, then made his way to the kitchen. Thorn sat at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him, sleep-rumpled and bleary eyed even though it was-Archer checked the clock on the microwave-three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Portia sat across from Thorn, looking equally hungover, and an odd feeling plucked at Archer's chest. What Portia did in her free time wasn't any of Archer's business, and Lord knew neither one of them were saints. Still, he'd need to keep a close eye on the situation. Portia had a long and storied track record of making shitty decisions. If she was partying with Thorn, Archer would need to play that carefully. He didn't care what-or who- she did, as long as her allegiance rested with him over Thorn.

Shelving the thought, he lifted his chin at both of them and smiled. "I've got the plan for the next job."

"Yeah?" Thorn asked, and although his tone was entirely bored, the spark of interest in his eyes gave him away.

Archer nodded and spread the drawing over the kitchen table, turning it toward Thorn but making sure Portia had a good view of it, too. "Yeah. Prosperity Savings and Loan. The layout is perfect-we can get in and out fast, and there are no places for anyone to run or hide. Plus, this branch is their busiest. If we time it right, I'm thinking there could be as much as four hundred grand in that vault."

"Oh, nice," Portia said, perking up, and even Thorn nodded.

"That's a lot of cabbage."

"It is. But we're going to have to earn it." Archer placed a printout from Google maps over the drawing of the bank's interior. "There are three traffic cameras on Maplewood Avenue that we'll need to avoid. We have a couple of options for escape routes, though. I'll map those out today. Thorn, we'll need a vehicle with remote ignition, like usual. We can leave the car right here, in front of the main entrance, while we grab the cash." He tapped the spot he'd marked on the map, then slid the page away to reveal the hand- sketched blueprint again. "But like I said, the layout will make it easy. All told, there's no reason we shouldn't be in and out with plenty of time to get away."

"Unless someone gets shitty, like that bitch in the vault," Thorn said, and okay, guess he was still pissed about what had gone down at the last robbery.

Archer needed to de-escalate this conversation before Thorn gained momentum. "No one's going to get shitty. The manager will comply and I'll keep everyone in the lobby in check, just like always. What happened five days ago was an anomaly, and anyway, you handled it."

"I should've put a f*****g bullet in her face. The goddamn manager's, too," Thorn muttered, but he capped the words with a shrug, and Archer shook his head.

"If you had, every cop in the city would be on high alert. But now, we get to rob this bank for a nice, easy payday that gets us one step closer to daylight. It's all good."

Portia nodded. "Come on, Thorn. Archer's right. You don't want that kind of heat hanging over your head. We got out of that bank completely clean with nothing to worry about. We're invincible, remember?"

"Yeah, we are," Thorn said, a slow, dark smile splitting his stubble. "You're right. We're f*****g invincible."

The word kicked at Archer's nerves, but he'd have to die on that hill another time. They weren't invincible. They had to be strategic. Smart.

Which led him back to business. "Portia, we're going to need intel on the bank managers at this branch."

"Okay," she said, nodding. She'd gotten good at doing online recon for each bank they'd robbed. Not that most financial institutions were too security-conscious when posting their managers' names and headshots on their websites.

"Once I get the escape plan solidified and we get what we need on the managers, we'll run through the whole thing, start to finish, just like always. Then all we'll need is a vehicle and we'll be good to go. I'm thinking Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest." Thorn looked at Archer, his stare unreadable. "Sounds like you've got it all planned out."

This time, it was Portia who intervened to talk Thorn down. "He always does." She paused to smile. "And it always works. Two more robberies, and we'll have enough money to do whatever we want, whenever we want. We can party all the time and nothing else will matter."

Thorn relented with a laugh, the tension in the air disappearing like smoke in the wind. "Now that's what I'm fuckin' talking about. The plan sounds good, Arch. No sense screwing with something that works. Let's go get paid." Archer paused for a split second. But he couldn't get too far up in his own head. He needed to stay steady. They'd robbed thirteen banks without a single hitch. They'd finish the job. Archer would have the life he'd earned. Nothing was going to stand in his way.

He grinned at Thorn. "Yeah, man. Let's go get paid."

***

In hindsight,the most popular bistro in Remington was probably a shitty place to hide, especially during Sunday brunch. But when Camila had finally sucked it up and told her family about the bank robbery the day after it had happened, they'd taken hovering to a whole new level. In the five days that had passed since she'd confessed that maybe, she might have been slightly injured during an active crime, they'd all lost their minds. Her parents had shown up on her doorstep at the speed of light, despite her insistence that she was absolutely fine, her mother fussing over her every move and her father triple-checking all the windows in her fourth-floor apartment to be sure the locks worked, then ordering pepper spray for both her purse and her glove box, "just to be safe". Her siblings-Marianna, Julian, and Gianna, and their respective spouses-had descended like locusts the day after that, filling Camila's refrigerator, then freezer, with enough meals to sink an ocean liner and offering no less than five references to neurology experts even though she'd had no symptoms of worsening head trauma and the cut on her temple was almost fully healed. One of them texted her every twelve hours like clockwork, to the point that she'd swear they'd made a damned schedule.

But last night, when Matteo had used his turn to check in and send her a detailed list of all the online-only banks she could switch her money and investments to, because clearly banking in Remington was far too perilous for her, that had been it. She'd sent a message to her family's text thread telling them that she needed some space-and yes, that included no emails, in-person visits, smoke signals, semaphore, or carrier pigeons-then she'd called Delia and begged for some normalcy, a.k.a., a brunch date. Camila wasn't exactly proud of it, but hiding was her only option if she wanted to preserve her sanity.

Well, that and falling back on the memory of Special Agent Kai Roman reminding her to breathe. But then she lost all the calm that brought her as soon as she remembered the way he'd kissed her like he was dying of thirst and she was the only water in the world. Her cheeks heated, her gaze whipping up from the sketchbook she'd propped on the café table in front of her. Okay, so the kiss had been unbelievably hot, and yes, she'd wanted Roman as badly as he'd seemed to want her. But he needed to move slowly, and she was nothing but a boulder rolling downhill, loaded with chaos and constantly changing her mind.

But that kiss. God, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his mouth on hers. His arms dragging her close. The need on his tongue as he'd parted her lips and-

"Hey! Sorry I'm a little late," came a familiar voice from a handful of paces away, bringing Camila back to the busy restaurant with a startled blink. Delia's smile was as wide as her outstretched arms as she enveloped Camila in a warm hug. Her best friend had never been the type to give those half-assed hugs with one arm, or-just as bad-the kind that lasted for a nanosecond. Like Camila, Delia was a full-bodied hugger, and Camila took advantage of the opportunity to glom as much comfort from the embrace as possible before they parted a few seconds later.

"No worries. I was just doodling," Camila said, flipping her sketchbook closed and tucking it into her purse. No matter how frustrating her family got or how bored she grew with her career du jour, she could always rely on drawing to calm her. So, yeah, she'd been sketching a lot lately.

"Ooooh, anything you want to share?" Delia asked. She'd always expressed a genuine interest in Camila's art, even though it was far more of a hobby than anything else.

"Nah." Camila didn't follow up, mostly because admitting that nearly all she'd drawn this week were heterochromatic eyes would probably make Delia think she'd lost her marbles. The handful of sketches she'd drawn of a certain gorgeous, grumpy FBI agent? Yeah, she couldn't exactly explain those to Delia, either.

Setting her swirling thoughts aside, Camila aimed at a smile. "Thanks for saving me from going crazy in my apartment. You look gorgeous."

It wasn't an understatement. Delia's cheeks glowed pink, her shaggy blond bob framing her face in perfectly tousled layers and her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight streaming in through the large restaurant windows. Camila took in Delia's yellow-and-white striped sweater embroidered with tiny red strawberries and black capri pants with wide, white buttons lining both pockets-her best friend's style had always leaned hard on retro-suddenly feeling self-conscious in her rumpled one-piece jumpsuit and poorly constructed ponytail.

"So do you," Delia said, and Camila couldn't help her smile.

"Spoiler alert. You're still not a good liar. But bonus points for trying to boost my confidence."

Delia shook her head, standing firm. "I think you are gorgeous, therefore you always look gorgeous to me."

Camila knew better than to argue with her. Delia wouldn't hesitate to start spouting high-level philosophical theory to back up her point. "Whatever you say."

They ordered a pair of pomegranate citrus mocktails-after those margaritas with Roman, Camila was done with day drinking for a while, thank you very much-and leafed through their menus for a full twenty seconds before Delia addressed the elephant in the room. "So, how are you holding up?"

"The same as I was a few days ago. I'm fine. Really," Camila said. While they hadn't seen each other face to face, they had shared a few phone calls since the robbery. Although Camila had given Delia the basic rundown on what had happened in the bank, she'd tried to avoid the topic, and all the "are you okays" that went with it, as much as possible.

"We don't have to talk about what happened if you really don't want to," Delia pressed gently. "But being caught in the middle of a bank robbery is traumatic. That can mess with your head, no matter how tough you are."

Camila sighed. "It's not that big a deal. At least, not nearly as big as my family is making it. I swear, my mami was this close to literally rolling me in bubble wrap the other day."

She held her thumb and forefinger up with only a scrap of daylight between them, and Delia laughed.

"Yeah, Matteo did admit they might have gotten just a tiny bit intense. That's got to be pretty frustrating."

Camila paused as their server placed their drinks on the tabletop in front of them and took their brunch orders, thanking him with a smile she had to force. "Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it," she said after the server was out of earshot. "I know I'm the youngest of five, and I haven't always inspired confidence in the responsibility department"-her face heated at the understatement-"but I'm starting to think my family is never going to think of me as a capable adult."

"First of all, you are a very responsible person," Delia said, ignoring Camila's scoff in response. Her parents had made it crystal clear that five careers in twelve years did not equate stable adulthood. Her terminally single status? Didn't help, either, especially now that even her grumpy-a's older brother was getting hitched in a few months. She was truly the last woman standing.

Delia continued. "Secondly, I know your family can be a little overwhelming, and I'm not disputing how annoying that is. But, in this case, is it possible that at least some of their fussing is warranted?"

Camila's jaw unhinged. "You're siding with them?"

"No." Delia reached across the table to squeeze Camila's hand, the move reminding Camila that Delia was and always had been the captain of Team Camila. "In this case, I don't think there are any sides. I'm worried about you. They're worried about you. We all love you. I'm not saying their methods are fabulous, but I do get the sentiment."

"You don't need to worry about me," Camila said.

"Mmm. And when I was held at gunpoint by a money-laundering maniac a little over a year ago, were you worried about me?"

Well, shit. "That's beside the point."

"That's exactly the point." Delia's tone softened. "You were held at gunpoint in a bank robbery, Camila. It's not a small deal."

Camila sighed but didn't argue. Delia knew the fear of having her life threatened, and anyway, she was right. "I know," Camila said. "And I'm not saying it was nothing. But I am saying I don't need to be treated with kid gloves just because it happened to me. My boss keeps asking if I'm sure I should be back at work. My parents are trying to turn my apartment into a fortress. My siblings made a rotating schedule for who gets to come "take care" of me, and despite the fact that I've asked at least ten times, Matteo won't tell me even the tiniest detail about the case for fear of upsetting me." Irritation flared, pushing her words out faster. "How ironic that the only person who said I had even an ounce of bravery is the frosty-cold FBI agent who, up until we were held at gunpoint together, didn't even really like me."

Delia's eyes widened for a split second before Camila realized she'd said too much. "When did you talk to Roman about this?"

Camila resisted the urge to clam up entirely, knowing it would only snag Delia's curiosity further. While she'd told Delia about the robbery itself, she'd kept her lunch with Roman-and the kiss that had gone with it-to herself. Time to come clean before Delia's curiosity grew legs.

"The day of the robbery. I saw him in the lobby at the precinct when we were done giving our statements."

"What a coincidence," Delia said, poorly concealing her smile behind her glass.

"You don't believe in coincidences," Camila reminded her, hoping like hell she'd take the bait.

Delia tilted her head. "The laws of probability dictate that coincidences certainly exist. In that way, they can actually be explained by science. But, to your point, I don't believe in the cosmic sense of coincidences. Most of them are so boring-say, for example, two red cars parked next to each other on the street-that we dismiss them out of hand without even realizing them. You and Roman ending up at the same place at the exact same time after that robbery, however? Not boring. Also, not a coincidence, hence my sarcasm. Also-also?" She lifted a platinum brow at Camila. "Excellent attempt at subterfuge, but no chance am I letting this one go. A broody, moody FBI agent calls my BFF brave? Details on this conversation between the two of you, please."

"Ugh, fine," Camila grumbled, knowing she'd been bested. "We were both leaving the precinct at the same time after giving our statements. Obviously, we know each other." As embarrassing as it had been, Camila had told Delia about what had happened-or, more to the point, hadn't happened-that night after she'd flirted with Roman a year ago. "Tess had told me I needed to eat, and frankly, I needed a drink, too. Roman took pity on me and we ended up at a taco place by the precinct." "Ah. Definitely not a coincidence, either," Delia said, not unkindly.

"No," Camila said. "But also not a date. We shared a meal. A couple of well-deserved margaritas. That's pretty much it."

Delia's brows lifted in question. "And how did you get to the bravery bit, exactly?"

Camila was starting to regret having opened her big mouth. "We were talking about reactions to fear. Roman said it had been brave to insist that Rosalie needed help even though I was scared. But really, I think he was just trying to humor me after the shit day we'd had, so...you know, no big deal."

"No big deal," Delia repeated. But Camila had no game face to speak of-she wore every single one of her emotions on her sleeve, good, bad, or ugly-and she promptly caved.

"Well, maybe not no big deal. We, um, did have a good conversation and sort of cleared the air over what happened last year."

"Did you?" Delia's eyes sparkled with interest, and while Camila wanted to respect the privacy of his former marital status, she knew she wasn't going to be able to dodge the rest. "Yep. We also...might have...kissed a little when he dropped me off. But-"

Delia held up one hand, stopping Camila mid-babble. "Stop. Rewind. You and Roman kissed?"

"Yeah?"

"And this happened six days ago."

"Yes, but-"

Delia arched a brow, effectively silencing her. "And you're just telling me now."

"You waited longer to tell me you'd hooked up with my brother," Camila pointed out, although she knew it was a flimsy argument. "Anyway, there's not a ton to tell."

"You and Roman kissed," Delia cried, her smile expanding.

But nope. Camila had to squelch this right here, right now. "We did, and it was"-hot. So hot. The kind of hot you only see in movies, hottttt-"a very good kiss. But I haven't spoken to him since then. Honestly, I think we just got caught up in the moment." "Okay, you were both held at gunpoint in a bank robbery," Delia mused. "I could see where adrenaline might play a factor. Still. Roman doesn't exactly seem like an impulsive guy. How did you two end things?"

"He made sure I got up to my apartment safely, we said our goodbyes, and that was pretty much it," Camila said. Thankfully, their server arrived with their orders, placing two plates loaded with fruit-smothered French toast in front of them and leaving Camila highly grateful for the distraction. Delia drizzled syrup over her breakfast, passing the small pitcher to Camila and popping a piece of turkey bacon into her mouth before not letting Camila off the hook. "Roman is pretty hot. Objectively, of course. He's very smart. Plus, the planes of his cheekbones have great symmetry."

Camila's laugh took the tension in her shoulders down a notch. God, she was over-thinking this. "Next thing you know, you'll be mapping the parabola of his perfect a*s."

"Are you volunteering to do the research for that particular equation?" Delia asked, brows up, but Camila shook her head.

"I'm kind of feeling like that kiss was a one-time thing. I mean, not that it wasn't..." Heat flooded her face, and yeah, probably best not to finish that sentence out loud. "And not that I necessarily want it to be a one-and-done. But I haven't talked to him at all since it happened."

"So?" Delia asked. "Since when are you a wallflower when it comes to following up with a highly kissable man?"

Camila opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Which turned out to be okay, because Delia wasn't done. "Let me ask you this. Did you get the impression that Roman wanted it to be a one-time thing?"

The question had Camila freezing with her fork halfway to her lips. But her answer popped out, all truth. "No."

"And you just said you'd like to see him again, right?"

"Well, yeah," Camila admitted. It was also the truth, not to mention a pretty big understatement. "But I'm not sure it's quite that easy."

"And I'm not sure it's quite that difficult." Delia met Camila's gaze across the table and smiled. "Look, I'm going to tell you something I think you already know. Roman isn't exactly the sort of guy who's fast and loose with his emotions. It's not necessarily a bad thing," she added quickly. "I'm sure he's got his reasons. But you aren't even the tiniest bit afraid to tell it like it is when it comes to your feelings. And that's also not a bad thing. In fact, in this case, it's a very good thing." "Okay," Camila said, thoroughly lost. "You just made us sound like complete opposites. How is that a good thing?"

But Delia simply shrugged. "Balance. He needs a nudge in the right direction, and you're the perfect person to give it to him. Anyway, hasn't anyone ever told you?" Her eyes twinkled with mischief as her mouth widened into a smile. "Opposites attract."