Among Thieves

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Liam sat in the van up the street from the lawyer’s office at seven o’clock. Had he been sure the paintings were in the offices already, he’d have considered storming the place, but there was no way to know. Besides, it was still light out, and the area was busy enough that a full frontal assault would likely draw attention. Even if he couldn’t go in now, he wanted to make sure he knew exactly what was going on in the hours before the exchange-who was there, who was coming, who was going. And so he waited, and he watched. As he’d noted many times before, information was the most valuable commodity in his line of work; right now, he needed as much of it as he could get.

As near as he could determine, there were only three people inside the offices: the lawyer, his partner, and Devon Malley. At the sight of Malley, Liam felt the bile rise in his throat. All of his feelings of anger and betrayal now centered on this one man. Bulger had fled Boston before he’d been able to deliver the paintings. Murphy and Ballick-the only others who had been involved in the heist-were dead. That left only Malley as the object of Liam’s rage. The only logical conclusion was that Malley was selling the paintings for himself. Taking what rightfully belonged to Liam’s cause. Were it not for the chance to get the paintings back, and to provide the funds necessary to continue the struggles at home, he would have gotten out of the van and killed the man with his bare hands. It would have been satisfying, but it wouldn’t have accomplished the mission. He looked back into the van’s cargo hold. There were other ways to make sure his true revenge was taken.

She was in back, bound with tape again by both wrists and ankles, gagged and secured to the side of the van, covered with a swath of heavy canvas. He was being careful with her; she’d done all that he’d ordered, behaved as a pliable bitch, eager to please her master. But underneath, he sensed a deep well of determination that put him on edge. He would not take her cooperation for granted. As much as he hated the offspring of the man who had stolen from his great cause, he had respect for her strength. That respect, however, would not prevent him from making her the instrument of his revenge.

He turned back to watch the lawyer’s office again. The blinds were closed, and as the light faded outside, he could see loose shadows betraying movement inside. Something was happening. Perhaps they were moving the paintings into place; perhaps they were setting a trap for him. There was no way to know for sure, but he would find out somehow before he went in. He had more experience in these sorts of dangerous situations than just about anyone in the world. He would prevail.

As he sat there, his mind picked momentarily over a lifetime spent at war. He knew no other way but hate, and if the hate died, he would cease to exist. He’d gone all in when he killed Broadark. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now; if he didn’t get the paintings back, he would be killed by his own, and the cause for which he’d given his life-for which the lives of his entire family had been taken-would die as well. Even if he managed to secure the paintings and get them back home, he might be killed. He’d gone that far over the edge. He could accept that, however, as long as the hope remained that the struggle would continue. As long as the battles raged, he felt that he and his family would live on in some small way.

He shook his head, bringing himself out of his ruminations. He needed a clear head to do the job ahead of him. He’d worry about the rest once his task was completed.

He looked back again at the canvas lump in the back. She hadn’t moved; hadn’t made a sound. That was good. She gave him the leverage he needed.

It took Kozlowski nearly forty-five minutes to get the office set up. He moved quickly, but with deliberation, making sure that all the tiny cameras in his arsenal were placed so that they were fully hidden, but still gave him maximum visibility. As he stalked his way about the office, Finn and Devon sat in the main office, fidgeting.

“What’s taking so long?” Devon asked. No one answered. “It’s fuckin’ pointless. You think he’s not gonna kill us all anyways?”

“Think happy thoughts. What makes you say that?” Finn asked.

Devon shrugged. “Just a feeling I have. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy who lets bygones be bygones. If he feels like somebody’s fucked him, he’s gonna even up the score.”

Kozlowski paused and looked around at Devon. “Thinking that way’ll get everyone killed. We go into this with our eyes wide open and one goal-getting your daughter back. You do what you’re told, and there’s a good chance that everyone’s walkin’ away from this. I’ll be watching it all go down from just out back. If I get the feeling that things are slipping away, I’ll be in here faster than you can believe.”

“Faster than a bullet? What do we do if he starts shooting?”

Kozlowski walked out of the main office toward the back. He returned carrying a pistol and handed it to Finn.

“I hate guns,” Finn said.

“More than being shot?” Kozlowski asked.

Finn put the gun in his pocket. “We shouldn’t have to use guns at all,” he said.

“We shouldn’t be in this position at all,” Kozlowski said. “Here we are, though. Just having the gun will probably convince this guy he’s better off taking what he came for and letting the rest go.”

“Where’s my gun?” Devon asked.

“Shut up,” Kozlowski said.

“What am I supposed to do when the shooting starts?” Devon asked. “You expect me to fuckin’ duck?”

“No,” Kozlowski said, “I expect you to throw yourself over your daughter to make sure she’s safe.”

Devon started to open his mouth, then stopped. He nodded.

Finn looked at his watch. It was nearly eight, and even through the blinds he could see that the sun was nearly down. Twilight glittered through the gaps. In a few minutes it would be dark out. Finn couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. “How much longer you got?” he asked Kozlowski, who had returned to adjusting the tiny cameras placed around the room.

“A few more minutes,” Kozlowski said. “I want to test the monitors in the car to make sure everything’s working right.”

“We should get out of here soon if we’re gonna have time to get the paintings and get back here.”

“We’ll make it,” Kozlowski said. “When we get back, everything will be ready.”

He said it with ultimate confidence. Somehow, though, Finn felt little comfort.

Hewitt and Porter sat in Hewitt’s car, parked up the street. They were keeping a loose watch on the law offices; they were close enough to see whether people were going in and out, but too far away to see much else. That was okay, though; they had the GPS device planted, and the lawyer’s car was back at the courthouse. If they were going anywhere, it was going to be in Kozlowski’s Caprice.

“What do you think?” Hewitt asked Porter.

Porter was sitting in the passenger seat. Hewitt had picked him up from the FBI office in a minor detour when their quarry had left Malley’s apartment. Porter looked nervous; he didn’t strike Hewitt as much of a field agent. He also had a feeling that Porter’s obsession had taken him over. “I don’t know,” Porter replied. His forefinger rubbed back and forth across the bridge of his nose. “Something’s going on, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe they’re just preparing a defense on Malley’s theft charges.”

“At eight o’clock?”

“He’s a lawyer.”

Porter shook his head. “It’s something bigger than that.”

Hewitt shrugged. “If you say so.”

Just then Finn, Kozlowski, and Devon emerged from the front door to the law offices. “Here we go,” Hewitt said. He started the car.

Porter reached over and turned the engine off. “Give them a good solid head start,” he said. “I don’t want to attract any attention. We can follow them on GPS; we don’t need to have them in sight. If they realize they’re being tailed, they’ll call off whatever they’re planning.”

“What if something happens before we catch up to them? They could be in danger.”

“If they’re in danger, they put themselves there,” Porter said. “It’s not my problem. I’m not going to risk the recovery of the paintings protecting the people who are mixed up in all this. They had a chance to come in and work with us. They passed.”

“You’d let people get killed over this?”

Porter looked at him. “If it’s that or letting the paintings slip away again, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Stone and Sanchez were even further away from Finn’s offices than the FBI agents. The light filtering out from the lawyer’s windows was little more than a distant beacon, but it was enough for them to see the figures coming out the front door. They waited, watching as the Caprice pulled away, staying put as they watched the feds in the car two blocks ahead of them bide their time for several minutes. Staying put ate at Stone. “We’re gonna lose them,” he said.

“No we won’t,” Sanchez said. “Hewitt and his friend aren’t going to let them get away that easily. They’ve got them tagged; all we have to do is keep Hewitt’s car in sight, and they’ll lead us where we need to go.”

The traffic on the street was still heavy. Cars passed them, headed to dinner, or home from a late night at work. Cars pulled out from their parking spaces, and others rushed to take their places, excited at the luck of finding a spot in the parking-challenged town. A white cargo van that had been making a delivery pulled out a block ahead of them, and Stone had to crane his neck around to keep his eye on the FBI car. Still they waited as the minutes ticked inexorably by. “This is gonna kill me,” Stone said.

“Just another minute.”

The lights in Hewitt’s car came on. It eased back in its parking space, making room to pull out, then shot forward onto the street, following the Caprice’s path.

“Now,” said Sanchez.

In one motion Stone turned the engine and threw the car into gear. They were a block behind, and Stone was petrified they might get caught at a light. “Motherfucker,” he muttered to himself. “We lose them, and I swear to God I’m gonna shoot you, then turn the gun on myself.”

She looked at him. “You questioning my judgment?”

He nodded. “I’ll follow your lead, and I’ll let you call the shots. But don’t expect me not to question you when it’s just you and me. When it’s just us, I’ll question everything we do if I think there’s a reason.” He was focused on keeping the tail, and his eyes were riveted on the road ahead of them, but he could feel her staring at him. “What?” he said. “Is there a problem with that?”

She turned away and looked out the windshield as they stayed within sight of Hewitt’s car. “No,” she said after a moment. “There’s no problem with that at all.”

For the first time since they had been riding together, he felt that they were partners.