“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said.

“Why do I have the feeling the delivery didn’t go well?” the bald guard asked.

“You must be psychic, Clyde,” Sierra said.

“Do you know how many times a night I have to listen to that joke?” Clyde snorted. Energy shifted in the atmosphere around him. He was a very high-level intuitive talent. It made him an ideal security guard. His brows rose when he saw the leather bag. “Well, well, well. Looks like the buyer is returning the purchase.”

“Unsatisfied customer?” Twitch asked with a knowing look.

“More like an unsatisfied go-between,” Sierra said. She put the leather bag and her backpack on the scanner belt. Next she stripped off her leather jacket, sat down on a handy stool and pulled off her leather boots.

Most go-betweens wore a lot of leather. It had become the unofficial uniform of the profession, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. Go-betweens wore leather for the same reason bikers did—protection. When you worked in a business that involved a lot of paranormal artifacts, you had to be prepared for the occasional supercharged surprise. Brushing up against the most innocent-looking relic could send a staggering shock across the senses. Leather muted the jolt.

She added the jacket and the boots to the other items on the belt and then she walked through the metal detector. “Among other things, the funds were never transferred to my account here at the Vault. I didn’t get paid.”

“If you didn’t get paid, then Mr. Jones doesn’t get his commission,” Clyde said. “The boss is not going to be happy.”

“He is not the only unhappy individual involved in this business tonight,” Sierra said.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones will eighty-six the deadbeat,” Twitch said.

“I certainly hope so.” Sierra collected the leather bag, her pack, her jacket and her boots from the other end of the scanner. “I will take some satisfaction from knowing Keegan won’t be doing any more business through the Vault. One thing Mr. Jones won’t tolerate is a customer who doesn’t pay his bills. Also, the creep pulled a gun on me.”

Clyde whistled softly. “That settles it, then. Mr. Jones really doesn’t like it when a client threatens an agent.”

“When word gets around that Jones kicked him out of the Vault, Keegan won’t be able to get any of the reliable go-between agencies to work with him,” Twitch said.

Clyde grunted. “Serves him right.”

Doing business in the underground trade of hot artifacts entailed a lot of risks for all parties involved. Obsessive collectors, con artists, fraudulent dealers, ruthless freelancers and raiders were all part of the dangerous ecosystem—to say nothing of the occasional psychic monster. To normal people who did not believe in the paranormal, such creatures were the stuff of legends and nightmares, but when you worked in the underworld, you took them seriously.

All of which explained the success of Ambrose Jones and his thriving delivery business. Go-betweens who worked for the Vault received several important benefits. Jones acted as a broker between buyers and sellers. He secured the hot relics in his own private vault until they were delivered. He arranged for the safe transfer of the very large sums of money involved in the deals. And if things went wrong, as they had tonight, he would punish the offender. In return for those perks, he took a hefty commission.