Among Thieves (41 page)

“If not? If they don’t do what they were told to do? What happens to me then?”

He said nothing, and continued to work at the tape, cutting it away from her feet now. He didn’t have the time to deal with
this sort of melodrama. She sat up and rubbed her wrists. The skin around them had been torn completely away now; he figured
she’d been testing the strength of the restraints. The same was true of her ankles.

“Tell me,” she said. “What happens to me if my father fucks up?”

He pointed his gun at her, holding it inches from her forehead. “Then you die. If you or your father or the lawyer doesn’t
do exactly what I want, then I’ll kill you without even thinking about it. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“Your life is in your father’s hands.”

He watched her as it sank in; watched her digest the information. For a moment there was a flicker of hope in them—just an
inkling of the spirit he had seen in the first day or so. Then it vanished, and her eyes went flat again. He wondered why,
but in the end it didn’t matter. It was no concern of his.

“We’ve got to get back to the office in Charlestown,” Kozlowski said. “If it’s just gonna be you and Devon, I need eyes in
the place.”

“What are you gonna do?” Finn asked.

“Wire the place up with cameras,” Kozlowski said. “Every corner, every square foot of the office. Right down to the toilet.
If this asshole takes a leak, I want to see what he’s got hidden in his pants.”

“How long will it take?”

“Half hour. Forty minutes, tops.”

“Okay,” Finn said. “Let’s get it done.”

They put Devon’s money back in the bag in the bathroom ceiling—they’d figure out what to do with that later—and headed back
out to the car. The three of them piled in and Kozlowski pulled out, headed back to Charlestown.

Two minutes later a nondescript American-made sedan with federal plates pulled out, following the electronic tail attached
to Kozlowski’s car. Another thirty seconds later an unmarked Lincoln spun a U-turn and fell in line, following the FBI.

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.”