The Heist

The Heist Team Zulu Series, Book 3 Julie Weaver Epic Press Dedication For my little family. The only one who doesn't give me grey hairs is the dog, but I love you all to bits. Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Julie Weaver First published by Epic Press Edited by Kelley Luna Cover design by The Book Cover Boutique Cover model Kevin Creekman All rights reserved No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN (eBook): 978-0-6452795-7-3 https://www.julieweaverbooks.com/ Contents A Note to readers 1. Freya 2. Kane 3. Kane 4. Freya 5. Kane 6. Kane 7. Freya 8. Freya 9. Kane 10. Freya 11. Kane 12. Freya 13. Kane 14. Kane 15. Kane 16. Freya 17. Kane 18. Freya 19. Kane 20. Freya 21. Kane 22. Freya 23. Freya 24. Kane 25. Freya 26. Freya 27. Kane 28. Freya 29. Kane 30. Kane 31. Freya 32. Freya 33. Kane 34. Freya 35. Kane 36. Freya 37. Kane 38. Freya 39. Kane 40. Freya 41. Kane 42. Freya 43. Kane 44. Freya 45. Kane 46. Freya 47. Freya 48. Epilogue - Kane Afterword Also By Julie Weaver Also By Julie Weaver Also By Julie Weaver Acknowledgments About Julie Weaver A Note to readers The Heist contains adult content including sex scenes, swearing, and violence. It also tackles some serious issues relating to domestic violence and coercive control. Additionally, it contains limited reference to the following: human trafficking, the loss of a parent to illness, a parent recovering from a stroke, a child recovered from a congenital heart defect, and PTSD. 1 FreyaMy mother died when I was twelve. A short time before she passed away, she recorded videos for my sister and me. Knowing the relevance of her message would take shape as we matured, she asked that we watch them once a year. On each anniversary of her death, I’d do just that. In mine, Mum reminded me why I’d been named after the Norse goddess of war, and as she’d done many times before, she retold the story of how I’d come into the world. How I’d been born blue in the face, with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, and how once it’d been removed, I’d screamed a battle cry so loud it’d shocked the midwife. She’d known at that moment that I was a fighter. Then she pointed out that I’d continued fighting ever since, and not only for myself.She described how, despite being a slip of a thing at ten years old, I’d kicked the school bully in the balls when he’d thrown my little sister’s macaroni craft against a wall. As well as the time I’d written to the Daily Mail and advised them that my father’s newest building in London was not ugly as they’d reported; rather it was ahead of its time, and they wouldn’t know modern architecture if it slapped them across their weaselly faces. I’d been eight when I’d written it, but I remained satisfied I’d gotten my point across.Their fierce little honey badger, Mum and Dad would sometimes call me. Initially, the comparison irritated me because I’d much rather have been likened to a stealthy lioness or a cunning wolf than some overgrown rodent that looked like the unfortunate love child of a Tasmanian devil and a skunk. But my mother had assured me a honey badger was a formidable foe that bowed to no predator. Often underestimated, the sturdy creature was intelligent, had thick, almost-impenetrable skin, and would viciously defend itself and its family against those far more powerful.A honey badger pulled no punches.A honey badger was badass.The analogy grew on me, and I embraced it.These qualities, Mum had convinced me, would be my greatest asset in years to come, despite the suggestion of others that it would be my pretty face.In the final moments of her recorded message, Mum said to me, “Men will covet your beauty, Freya, and some of them will be intimidated by your fierceness. I know it’s not in your nature to avoid a fight, but I urge you to walk away from those whose only goal is to crush your vibrant spirit. Remember to pick your battles, my love, because even the goddess of war cannot win them all.”She hadn’t been wrong.Beverly Crest, Los Angeles I checked my gold Cartier wristwatch.7:29 a.m.The saltshaker slipped from Marceline’s fingers and clattered against the water pitcher in the center of the table. No doubt the maid’s hands were as sweaty as mine. She cast me an apologetic glance before righting the saltshaker and scurrying from the patio with moments to spare.My eyes scanned the table, a nervous habit due to the ritualistic scrutiny that would determine how badly my day might go.Bollocks. Marceline had used the wrong juice glasses, and at the place setting opposite me, the folded napkin sat crooked.I needed to keep Andre placated. If he was in a foul mood, he’d find some excuse to punish me, and my plans would be ruined.I repositioned the napkin, but there was nothing I could do about the glasses. With my back to the sterile modern mansion that would never feel like home, I straightened my posture, took a deep breath, and feigned an expression of stoicism.I deserved an Oscar under the circumstances.Despite the already-warm LA sun, ice flooded my veins when the glass door slid open and the familiar tread of Louboutins over granite paving approached the poolside table.Breakfast with my tormentor of seven years, two months, and sixteen days was truly an appetite-destroying experience.Dressed in a gray Armani suit, Andre lowered himself into the chair opposite me. There was nothing inherently threatening about his outward appearance. Salt-and-pepper