The Thieves of Darkness (3 page)

“Hi, Michael,” Stephen Kelley said.

“Hey, Dad,” Michael said with surprise.

“Are you alone?” his father asked as he peered into the house.

“Mmmm, you might say that. Come on in. What’s up?”

“It’s about Simon.”

The gale-force wind whipped back Michael’s hair, buffeting his clothes, rippling his cheeks. His body was prone, his arms and legs extended to control his fall. It had been five seconds since he left the safety of the plane and Michael was already at the terminal free-fall velocity of 120 miles per hour.

Michael glanced at the altimeter on his wrist, watching the numbers fall toward his deployment height of four thousand feet. Though comfortable with skydiving, he was never foolish; he didn’t want to deal with that fatal free-fall injury, SDT: sudden deceleration trauma—what some people called hitting the ground.

Michael pulled the rip cord; his chute fluttered out of his para-pack and jerked him to a halt. The parafoil spread above him, capturing the air and guiding it across its airfoils, allowing Michael to control his descent and direction as if he were flying.

Every time he released his chute he said a little prayer and made sure he could easily reach the hook knife that dangled at his side. Though he packed his chute himself, he dreaded becoming entangled, having to cut away his main chute in time to deploy his reserve. He knew it was rarely the novice who was killed skydiving; more often than not, it was the overconfident expert.

He gripped the guidance handles of his parafoil and directed himself
toward the far edge of the outcropping. The prison sat upon a ledge that was more akin to a Wyoming mesa than an Akbiquestan mountain. The lights of Chiron Prison were the sole sign of civilization for fifty miles. It was an imposing structure, seeming to grow out of the earth, out of hell itself. There was no barbed wire, razor wire, or fences. Its location and height served that purpose far more effectively. At three thousand feet, surrounded by desert, the prisoners would be imposing their own death if they attempted escape.

The half moon on the cloudless night painted the world blue, softening the sharp rock outcroppings, dyeing the desert so it appeared as comforting as the sea.

Michael landed softly on the far edge of the mesa, a quarter mile from the prison. He immediately pulled in and balled up his chute, removing the chute’s container harness and tucking it under a tree. He unclipped the black sack off the front of his chest, knelt on the ground, and opened it.

He removed two 9mm Sig Sauers—oiled and holstered—and affixed them to his body. Michael hated guns; he had never used them until Simon taught him how and even then it was always with great reluctance. He had become proficient only through necessity, and he much preferred his knife. But coming into a prison alone, against a group of armed guards, he had no choice.

He pulled out two small backpacks: BASE jump chutes. Different from the chute he’d just worn, these were designed with a small primer release chute that would be deployed by hand from a low altitude.

He extracted three blocks of C-4. He tucked a timer remote in two of them and stuffed the other block in his pocket. He opened the side pouch and removed a small electrical box, a frequency jammer that would render not only portable radios but all cell phones useless.

Michael had stolen art, he had stolen diamonds, he had stolen keys and golden boxes, but he had never done something like this. Tonight he was stealing his friend back from a death sentence.

Michael worked his way around the perimeter of the prison. There were no guards on patrol, no guards on the battlements, just two teams
poised in the north and east three-story towers who were probably more interested in the World Cup soccer match being played on their small TVs.

He looked at the hundred-yard stretch of barren land in front of the prison, his line of sight following the rocky terrain toward the cliff’s edge. He confirmed the lack of obstacles and the moon shadow provided by the penitentiary to his rear. If they could survive the ten-second run without being shot, they just might make it.

Michael pulled out a small block of C-4 and buried it at the south base of the prison, the red LED barely glowing through the dirt.

Michael fell back behind the prison and walked a half mile to the power station, the loud whine of its generators echoing off the prison and surrounding terrain. Utility lines and electrical power were still foreign words in this remote section of the country. Chiron’s desolate location forced them to generate their own power, using gas-driven generators. The electricity was used to power the prison’s minimal lighting, radios, satellite phones, and guard-tower searchlights, which were turned on only in the event of an escape attempt. But first and foremost, the generated electricity ensured the comfort of the warden.

The fuel depot contained two five-thousand-gallon tanks that were filled once every two months by a trucker who was paid triple wages to drive up the narrow mountain pass. He was always paid in advance, since the money in his pocket kept him focused as he drove past the hulking charred remains of his predecessors’ fuel trucks that littered the valley below.

Michael carefully affixed a small block of C-4 to the first fuel tank and triple-checked the remote. He crept over to the generator and found the main electrical panel. He picked the lock almost as quickly as if he were using a key. He found the main breaker, and without hesitation, flipped it off. The lights of the prison immediately blinked out. Michael closed the panel, affixed the lock, and fell back into the shadows.

It was five minutes before the flashlights of the guards could be seen, bouncing with their approach. Michael watched as two guards came into view, their cigarettes glowing in the night. He couldn’t hear
them over the whine of the still-running generators, but watched as they unlocked the panel, flipped the switch, and restored the power.

Michael waited until they were back in the prison, reopened the panel, and, once again, flipped off the lights. This time, the two guards walked fast, the anger about being interrupted once again evident in their stride. Michael quickly worked his way around, directly across from the prison door they exited, and waited as they reset the system once again. Michael watched their return. The lead guard removed the key ring from his waist, opened the door, and disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

Michael went back to the generator, shut off the power again, and hid within the shadows.

It took them ten minutes to arrive this time, their curses easily audible above the generator’s roar. They were so lost in their exasperation they never saw Michael two feet away in the dark.

The bullets passed through and erased the anger from the guards’ minds; both were dead before they hit the ground.

Michael quickly holstered his pistol, bent, and stripped them of their guns, keys, and radios. He took the lead guard’s jacket and hat, put them on, and headed for the prison.

M
ICHAEL SLIPPED THE
key in the side door of the prison. A sudden chill ran through him; he hated prisons more than anything in life. To him it was like having one foot in hell. He had spent three years at Sing Sing a few years back and still had nightmares.

He shook off the feeling and refocused, opened the door, and stepped into the square, dungeonlike room. A raw smell hung in the air. There were only two pieces of furniture: a table and a chair that sat directly across from each other. The floor was slightly sloped toward the middle, where a lone drain sat, from which dark stains radiated outward toward the furniture. Michael looked more closely at the two pieces. They were both rough-hewn, made of thick heavy wood, and were marred by a pungent dark residue. Michael took two stumbling steps back as he realized they were stained with death. The heavy
table bore the scars of countless beheadings, and the electric chair … Michael could see the scorch marks on its arms and back.

Michael quickly exited the horrific room and stepped into a hall that he supposed could loosely be called death row. In Michael’s mind, death row was a term that encompassed this entire prison. This corridor, though, was designed for those who were next in line. From the little that Michael had seen of Chiron, he thought it might be the least cruel exit.

Michael’s quickly gathered intel told of the prison’s lack of funds, which manifested itself in the absence of roaming guards. He knew that the prison’s operation was two small steps above chaos and the guards’ attention to duty would be compromised by bitterness and anger, as their treatment was only slightly better than that of their captives. The idea of a breakout would be met with laughter, and therefore, Michael knew, the last thing they would consider was someone breaking in.

Michael quietly walked down the hall, his ears attuned to sounds and movement. His heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through his veins, but where he usually took pleasure in breaching security, now he found himself filled with trepidation and fear, for he had no idea of Simon’s condition. If he was hurt, Michael would have to carry him out; it wouldn’t be like some artifact that he could abandon, some piece of art he could drop on the ground to steal back another day.

Michael worked his way down the hall and looked through the small slotted window set in the middle of a heavy, solid wood door. The cell was small, shadow-filled, the smell of human waste acrid in the air. And it was empty. Michael continued down the hall; there were ten such doors, and the first six cells were vacant. He came to the seventh and peered through the small, barred opening. A figure sat on the floor, back to the wall. Michael could barely make out the silhouette.

“Simon?” Michael whispered.

The figure’s head jerked up in surprise, cautiously turning. Not a word was said as the shadowed figure rose and approached the door.

As Michael looked through the small opening, he realized this wasn’t Simon. The person was shorter, the shoulders less broad. Michael
lifted his small penlight, flicked it on, and shone it into the cell. As the dirty hair was cleared from the face, Michael could finally see the eyes staring back. They looked at him with a mix of emotion: fear and anger, shame and rage. Their emerald-green color was muted by circumstance.

Michael’s heart plummeted, his mind spun into confusion by the unexpected sight of the woman before him, the woman who sat on death row, the woman he had held in his arms less than two weeks ago.

Michael was left speechless as he stared into KC’s eyes.

S
IXTY–THREE HOURS EARLIER
, KC had stared into the dark recess of a two-by-two-foot wall safe. She stood in the middle of a top-floor office in Amsterdam, the midnight world dark around her. The room was lavishly appointed: Hancock & Moore chairs and tables, antique Persian rugs, priceless Expressionist artwork, the latest electronics.

On her head she wore a small headband, its central pinlight illuminating the open wall safe before her. In her hand she clutched a yellowed letter encased in clear plastic. It was impossibly old, its black handwritten lettering having bled into the paper’s creases. Written in Turkish, it was indecipherable to her but for intertwined symbols of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam that appeared in the uppermost corner.

She handed the letter to Simon, who quickly ran it over a portable scanner that was attached to his cell phone, sending the image back to his office in Italy.

KC carefully closed the safe door, careful not to trip the alarm system that she had so expertly overridden fifteen minutes earlier. She rehung the picture over the safe door and straightened out the bric-a-brac and curios that sat on the shelf below.

She had turned to leave when her eyes fell on the painting hanging on the wall nearest the desk. It was called
The Suffering
, by Goetia, a masterpiece painted in 1762, at the height of the artist’s career, just after the death of his wife. KC knew it well, probably better than any painting on earth. She had researched its trail of ownership, the artist’s biography
and mental state, the type of paint used, the canvas it was created upon. She had become an expert in all things Goetia, as
The Suffering
was the first thing she had ever stolen and sold on the black market.

Her mind spun and she stared at Simon.

“What?” Simon said, seeing her concern.

“I stole that painting ten years ago,” KC said as her eyes darted around the room. “We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

Simon pulled out a preaddressed and stamped envelope as he ran out of the office. He stuffed the plastic-encased letter inside, raced to the lobby, and shoved it down the mail chute.

KC was already at his side. “Do you think this was a setup?”

Simon stared at her. “Absolutely not, I—”

But before he could finish, the elevator pinged open, its interior lights off. Three guards burst out, while two men remained in the shadows of the dark cab, silently watching as Simon and KC surrendered. And though KC couldn’t see their faces, she knew exactly who the shorter man was. It wasn’t just his silhouette that confirmed it, it was the change in the air, a feeling of dread she hadn’t known since she was a teenager.

B
ARABAS
A
ZEM
A
UGURAL
, the warden of Chiron, sat in his apartment on the uppermost floor of the prison. It was a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot space whose décor stood in sharp contrast not only to the prison but to the desert kingdom as a whole.

The walls were paneled, covered in art and mirrors; the furnishings were elegant and refined—deep suede couches, wingback chairs upholstered in silk. The view out the large windows was of the desert world, its moonlit sand and rocks rolling to the horizon. The room was cool, in sheer defiance of the weather, but the humidity was already seeping in. Barabas cursed the generator. If it was broken it would take weeks to fix, and he refused to tolerate anything short of his accustomed comfort.

It had been ten minutes since Jamer and Hank had gone to reset the power plant for the third time this evening. He knew he should have
done it himself. There was not a soul in this prison above the desert who possessed an ounce of intelligence, himself excluded, of course.