Among Thieves (17 page)

Kent walked quickly up the driveway, his head on a swivel, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He knew that two others
were in the trees along the driveway, but he couldn’t tell exactly where. He hated being out in the open.

As he got to the end of the driveway, the driver of the Honda got out of his car and opened the rear door. Kent’s grip on
his gun tightened in his pocket. “What the fuck are you doing?” he called out.

“Pizza,” the driver said, pulling a box out of the back.

“We didn’t order any pizza,” Kent replied. “You got the wrong address.”

The driver looked at the sign just next to the gate. “This is eleven-oh-eight?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t order any fuckin’ pizza.”

The driver was a young man with long hair and a fuzzy chin. He looked stoned as he bent down to look again at the sales slip
in the car’s interior light. Then his head popped up above the car roof again. “That’s the address they gave me,” he said.

“I don’t give a fuck what address they gave you,” Kent said. “I’m telling you, we didn’t order any fuckin’ pizza. Get the
fuck out of here.”

The driver ran his greasy fingers through greasier hair. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this job.” He tossed the pizza box into
the backseat. Then he slid into the driver’s seat and pulled away.

“Fuckin’ moron,” Kent said. He stood there, his eyes searching the street. He’d never seen Ballick so concerned, and he didn’t
understand why. Kent had his best men in place, and they were ready for anything. After a moment he turned and started back
to the little shack by the water.

He took two steps before the shot tore through the center of his back. It felt as though he’d been hit with a baseball bat,
and he pitched forward onto the pavement. In his mind he was moving, his gun out as he whirled around to shoot back, shouting
directions to the men in the trees. In reality, he lay still. The bullet had blown through his spinal column just between
his shoulder blades, and the instructions from his brain had nowhere to go. His mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Blood
fought its way up his esophagus and trickled out of the corner of his mouth onto the driveway. He was dead within seconds.

Liam was moving as soon as he pulled the trigger, silently shifting his position ten feet to the left. The bushes where he’d
been standing exploded from the rounds fired from the trees along the driveway. He watched the flashes and took careful aim
at the spot from where the shots came on the left, firing six quick rounds into the trees.

Then he was moving again, running toward the driveway.

More shots rang out from the right-hand side of the driveway, and Liam could hear the shots whistle by him. Then he heard
a number of gunshots coming from behind him, and he knew that Broadark was returning fire, just as instructed. The gunshots
from the trees stopped, and Liam kept moving, hurtling the metal fence and diving toward the far edge of the row of trees.

The trees were now his allies, providing him with cover as he moved quickly down the row toward the shack. Halfway down the
driveway, he came across the body of one of Ballick’s men. He was slumped against a tree trunk, his neck tipped back at an
awkward angle, his eyes wide open, staring at the overhanging branches. Liam bent down to feel his neck for a pulse, though
he knew there would be none. He could see the hole that had been ripped in the man’s chest.

Now he had a decision to make. He’d seen the man who came out to chase away the pizza delivery boy take a long look at the
canvas mass to the left of the shack, and it gave him a good indication that the fourth man was hidden there. The approach
would be better from the other line of trees. At the same time, that line would require that he cut across the narrow drive,
leaving him exposed. He decided it was necessary—not only to give him a better angle at the fourth man, but also to make sure
that the shooter in the opposite row of trees was dead. There had been no shooting from there since Broadark ripped off his
rounds toward the rifle flashes. It was possible that the shooter was merely playing possum, waiting for Liam to get overconfident
and show himself in the open. It was unlikely—these men weren’t that well trained. Liam was that well trained, though, and
he knew better than to leave any loose ends.

He crouched down low, in a runner’s stance, slowing his breathing and filling his lungs. Then he fired out with his legs,
driving forward across the driveway.

He kept his head moving, looking out for shots both from in front of him—from the man in the trees—and to his left—from the
canvas-covered stack. He was almost hoping that the man under the tarp would take a shot; the chances of a hit at that range
on a moving target were slim, and it would confirm the man’s location. He was fairly certain that the fourth man was there,
but confirmation would have been nice.

No shots came.

Liam slid under the branches of the trees on the far side, and almost toppled into the other shooter. He was lying there,
a few feet from the tree trunk, breathing heavily. A rifle lay a few feet away. Liam moved forward, kicking the gun even farther
away from the man and kneeling on his chest. There were at least two wounds he could see; one in the belly and one in the
throat. Neither had been fatal as yet, though the throat injury looked severe. It appeared as though the front half of the
man’s windpipe had been blown out. As he sucked for breath, Liam could see the hole in the man’s neck whistle and contract;
any air he was getting was coming from there, not from his mouth or nose. He looked down at the man, and could see his lips
forming the words,
Help me, please!

Liam nodded to the man. Then he pulled out his knife and slipped it into the wound, slicing deeply in one motion, severing
the carotid artery that had somehow been spared when the man was shot. The man’s eyes went wide with terror, but darkened
in a matter of seconds as a flood of dark red flowed from the wound, around his neck and into the soft ground beneath him.

Setting his gun on the ground, Liam pulled the body into a sitting position and slipped the sweater off it. He removed the
man’s shoes and wrapped them in the sweater, tying the bundle tight. Then he picked up his gun and moved down toward the last
tree in the line, which sat no farther than thirty yards from the shack.

He crouched under that last tree for a few moments, watching the area in front of him. Whoever the fourth man was, he was
the best trained of them all, and he hadn’t given up his position. He also, undoubtedly, had seen Liam move across the road,
and had a rough idea of the direction from which Liam would be coming.

After a while, it became clear that the fourth man had no intention of betraying himself, and Liam decided to take the fight
to him.

He picked up the bundle he’d made of the dead man’s sweater and shoes and moved to the side of the tree closest to the driveway.
Holding his gun in his left hand, he threw the bundle as hard as he could with his right hand out from under the tree branches,
then dove to the other side of the tree’s coverage.

As the shirt and shoes skidded across the driveway, tumbling in the dark night toward the shack, several gunshots rang out
from under the canvas, and Liam could see quick flashes illuminating the slit opening in the center. The man was a decent
shot, at least, as the bundle jumped and hopped, hit twice by the bullets.

It was the confirmation he needed.

He slid to the edge of the branches and aimed carefully at the opening. Then he unloaded the rest of the clip at the spot
from where the shots had come.

He waited a moment, listening carefully for any signs of life. There were none. The nature of his mission—and the betrayal
that had inspired it—ran through his mind. Then he slid a fresh clip into his gun, took aim at the opening in the canvas that
was now flapping slightly in the breeze, and fired another fifteen rounds.

“Hello?” the guard said.

Devon held up his badge so it could be seen on the security screen. “BPD,” he replied. “We’ve had a report of a disturbance
on the grounds. They sent us out to make sure everything’s okay.”

“We haven’t seen anything,” the guard said. “Who reported the disturbance?”

“One of the neighbors,” Devon lied. “If you’ll let us in, we can do a quick search of the place and get out of your hair.”

“I don’t know.” There was a slight quiver in the guard’s voice. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in after hours.” Devon could
sense that the guard was deliberating; it was taking too long. He nodded to the Irishman to assure him that this wasn’t a
problem. It was to be expected. It would have been nice if the guard had buzzed them in without any resistance, but that wasn’t
realistic. Devon was prepared to apply whatever pressure necessary.

There were risks involved. If the guard called the real cops to confirm the report, they were screwed; once it was clear that
two men impersonating the police had tried to get into the museum, the job was over for good. Security in the place would
triple overnight. Bulger’s words echoed in his ears as he stood there—“If you fuck this up, I’ll only see you once more.”
The meaning was clear. And yet Devon knew this was their best chance.

According to the information Bulger had given them, the guards were not really guards at all; they were music students. It
was a perfect job for someone in that position. The shift started at midnight and ran until eight a.m., and a struggling musician
could play in a band, then head over to work. It was a low-stress gig; there were two of them on duty at night, and their
main responsibility was to watch for fire and make sure the plumbing didn’t explode. The museum housed literally tens of billions
of dollars’ worth of art, and the greatest threat to the collection was from water and smoke. Theft was a theoretical risk,
but a remote one at most. The place was shut up tight every night, and a button underneath the security desk could easily
be tripped, which would immediately notify the police of any trouble. On the other hand, it wasn’t clear that a kid in that
position would have the balls to keep out the police if they showed up unannounced.

Devon got himself into character quickly. He looked straight into the camera. “Look, you fuckin’ rent-a-cop,” he said, “we
have a report of an alarm at the museum. My partner and I can’t leave here until we check it out. This is our last call of
the night, and we’ve been on duty for more than twelve hours dealing with nothing but punks and drunks. You don’t wanna open
the door? Fine. I’m gonna call in the fuckin’ SWAT team to surround the place. Then I’m gonna call the captain, and I’m gonna
have him wake up every one of this museum’s fuckin’ directors and get their asses down here to explain why one of their employees
is interfering with officers responding to a report of a disturbance. I’m sure that’s gonna make your whole fuckin’ week.
Either that, or we can come in for two minutes and verify that it’s a false alarm. It’s your choice.”

Devon wondered if he’d overplayed the hand. He’d been around cops enough to know that their power and authority was most often
projected through aggression. Cops liked nothing less than being questioned, and any time their authority was challenged by
a civilian, the response was predictable.

He looked over at the Irishman, who was standing there, glowering at him. From the man’s expression, Devon wouldn’t have been
surprised if he slit Devon’s throat then and there if the ruse didn’t play out. Devon had seen the knife the man carried.

Finally, after an eternal moment, the guard came over the intercom again. “I’m not allowed to leave the security desk,” he
said. “Do you know where it is?”

Devon winked at Liam and turned to face the camera. “Up on the main floor?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Take a left and then follow the signs for the men’s room. You’ll see it.”

“Okay,” Devon said. The buzzer on the door rang, and Devon reached forward to pull it open for Liam. He didn’t thank the guard;
cops rarely thank the person they’ve just browbeaten. Besides, they needed the guard to remain nervous if they were going
to pull this off. A lot still could go wrong. Bulger had given them a complete layout of the security system. Devon had never
asked where it came from, but it made clear that the only point of contact with the outside world was at the security desk.
If the guards managed to set off that switch, they were done. If they could get the guards out from behind the desk, though,
the danger would be over. There were no other external alarms that would alert anyone to what was going on inside the place.
Now it was all a mental game, and if Devon could out-duel the security guards, they would be fine.

He looked up at the security camera once more and shook his head, as though in utter contempt for the man at the controls.
He hoped the guard was watching.