King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  “A long time ago, I took something from Ketrin that was not mine to take.”

  Finn’s expression changed in an instant. “You stole from him?”

  “No, I did not.” Asher put out his own smoke. He reached into his jacket almost at once and pulled out his tobacco. He remembered the drive through the woods beyond Baia Mare, and his hands shook as he rolled a new smoke, just a bit, though it was enough to make him frown as it happened. He sealed the smoke and put it between his lips. “It was not his, either. He was the real thief. I merely played a part in the liberation of…of his captive treasure.” He shrugged and took a deep breath. “And that is all. It is a conversation for another day, my friend.”

  “If I’m not looking for Ketrin Arshavin, then who am I looking for?”

  “You will owe me a favor, yes?”

  Finn nodded. “Yes.”

  “I have your word?”

  “Of course. I give you my word.”

  “Petar Dimitrovich is his name. If Ketrin lights a fire, Dimitrovich is the match.”

  Finn held his eyes as she sat back again. He could see her thinking, and he was very curious as to what it might be.

  “He is the true Butcher of Badovinci, and he is the man who makes Ketrin Arshavin, who is already the most dangerous man I have ever known, untouchable.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Asher did not think her question was the question she truly wanted to ask. “At the moment? No,” Asher replied. “But I know he has a weakness for beautiful things. Petar loves to fill his emptiness with the ornaments and trinkets of culture and refined people, even if those trinkets happen to be works of art. It is a penchant he acquired from Ketrin, only I believe it is more of an obsession with Petar. Ketrin has always wanted respectability and social status. To be considered a man of great power, but also, a man of elegance. Petar is different.”

  “What does Petar want?” Finn’s voice was a whisper. She was terribly vulnerable, and Asher remembered the night they had met. She was not yet beyond that place, where death might present a viable alternative to the pain she felt at every moment.

  “Petar wishes to have a soul.”

  “Scheveningen and Nuenen.” Her amber eyes changed as she spoke of Van Gogh’s stolen children, and she understood what he meant—he could see it.

  It was a respect that came naturally to her and he admired it. She would have made an exceptional thief. “Have you ever been to Athens?” he asked. “It is very lovely this time of year, especially near the end of April.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He placed ten euros on the table and a folded piece of paper. “You should go, my friend.”

  The intensity of Finn’s gaze was almost eerie, and he stilled, his wallet halfway into his breast pocket once more. “I use to read books,” she said softly. The tears welled up, then slipped from her eyes. “That was my pursuit.”

  “And so now you are a hunter of men,” Asher said in a hard but quiet voice. “What makes you think one pursuit is more worthy than the other?”

  “Because they were only books.”

  “Then for now, you are on the right road.” Asher let go of his wallet and it dropped to the bottom of his pocket. “One day, your loves will return to you. One night, when you cannot sleep, perhaps Charles Dickens will pay you a visit, and you will welcome him in, with his dirty London streets and long-haired thieves in overcoats.”

  She was surprised by his words, but not displeased.

  “And do not forget, Finnegan Starkweather.”

  “Forget what?”

  “That you owe me a favor. A promise.”

  She flicked the back of her hand across her cheek in annoyance. Her eyes were clear again. “I keep my promises.”

  Asher smiled. “I know that.”

  Finn’s eyes were suspicious. “And how would you know that?”

  “Do you remember the first girl you kissed?”

  His question startled her completely, and seemed to shock her out of her darkness.

  “Do you?”

  Finn smiled and the inclination to do so appeared to be a complete revelation to her. Her eyes filled with a surprising abundance of warmth as she remembered—he could see it. “I don’t know, old man, maybe you’re the most dangerous person you know.”

  Asher laughed and then shrugged. “I am more hungry than I am old. Where are you taking me to eat?”

  Finn’s voice was filled with amusement. “Jesus, it’s three in the morning.”

  “What kind of a cop are you, for fuck’s sake?”

  This time she did laugh. “A better one than I thought I’d be.”

  “I think you have a knack for things, yes. You should go into business for yourself. There are too many rules in your way.”

  Finn palmed the paper he had left on the table and slid from the booth. She waited for him as he inched his way out. “Don’t break anything in your rush to get to the food.”

  Asher hissed at her. “Don’t be wicked. You sound like my Domino.”

  “Do you like crepes?”

  Asher stood up smoothly and stared at her with a withering expression.

  Finn chuckled as she slipped the paper into the front pocket of her jeans. “Whatever. I wouldn’t say it was a stupid question, exactly.”

  “You see? I did not even have to speak. Your French is getting better.”

  “I’ll have you know that I read Les Misérables in the original. It’s prettier in French.”

  Asher rolled his eyes. “Yes, but of course. When you’re selling your teeth to pay for food, the language used to express such tragic irony should be very pretty.”

  Finn covered her mouth as they made their way toward the door of the nearly empty pub, looking down as she laughed. “Jesus.”

  Asher smiled and set a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, I like crepes.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Piraeus Port, Athens

  April 2010

  Ketrin Arshavin leaned back in the desk chair and the old spring beneath the wooden seat creaked in a slow manner. “You are not living up to your part of the bargain, Eric.”

  Eric Werner looked over the neatly ordered desk and took a deep, slow breath. His blue eyes were guarded, but Ketrin could see the wheels turning with thought. Eric’s three piece suit was Italian, a satin steel gray that complemented his light coloring.

  “I have provided you with a very lucrative business. I have advanced to you great monies, so you could provide the best experience, the best security, and the best of everything. In return, you provide for me either the items I would like from your auction, or the names I need, in order to procure those items for myself.”

  “Yes,” Eric answered him. “I am aware of our deal.”

  “So what is the problem?”

  “The problem is…” Eric paused to rearrange his words. “You see, Mr. Arshavin, it’s very difficult to maintain a good reputation, and to keep the trust of both my customers and those that will provide them with their treasures…” Eric cleared his throat. “Let’s say you purchase a Picasso at my auction. You pay an extreme amount of money, it’s true, but a desired masterpiece is now in your possession. Pablo Picasso, he now hangs in your own private study. It is hard to put a value on such a thing. But you do, of course, because in order to possess such a treasure, you are required to hand over a fortune,” Eric continued. “This fortune not only buys you your desired Picasso, but it guarantees you absolute anonymity and safe passage home with your purchase.”

  Ketrin narrowed his eyes at Eric Werner, the tightness of his sudden anger clawing within his chest.

  “But”—Eric opened his hands as he leaned forward in his chair—“much to your shock and dismay, a month later, perhaps two, a man breaks into your house and steals your beautiful Picasso.”

  Ketrin said nothing in the silence that followed, and the man beside him stepped forward. “That is unfortunate,” Petar Dimitrovich replied and a slow smile slipped across his
mouth.

  “Yes,” Eric agreed. “It is.”

  “But how can they go to the police to recoup their loss?” Petar inquired as he stepped about the desk and sat on the corner closest to Eric’s chair. He smoothed at his crisp blue suit and Ketrin smiled at Petar’s expression. They both admired Brooks Brothers, and Ketrin had always enjoyed Petar’s impeccable appearance, for it reflected well upon his own reputation. His brown hair was a bit long at the moment, but it was slicked back nicely.

  Eric cleared his throat quietly and sat back. “They cannot. And if there is talk that I have circulated my list of buyers, the names of those who have attended a recent auction, for example, such rumors will destroy our venture, and very quickly, I assure you.” Eric glanced away from Petar, and Ketrin found the man’s pleading expression somewhat disgusting. “I beg you, please, take better care from this day forward, or else this lovely well shall run dry, and you will have very few opportunities in the coming years to bolster your collection.”

  “Are you threatening me, Eric?” Ketrin demanded and Petar stepped to his feet and looked down at their guest. Eric paled as he looked up in response to the approach. “I believe Eric is threatening us, Petar.”

  “No,” Eric said in a horrified voice. “No, I would never, Mr. Arshavin.”

  Ketrin laughed, liking Eric’s current expression much better than his last.

  The rotary phone that sat upon the desk rang with a loud, old-fashioned bell and Petar picked it up. “Yes?”

  Petar listened for just a few moments and then hung up before he stepped to the tall cabinet against the west wall and opened its doors. The lights from six different security monitors flickered into the room and he studied each one before he picked up the walkie-talkie handset next to the keyboard. “Dahvid?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Finish packing the trucks. We leave now. Let them come, and have your men deal with them once they are here. They could use the practice, and a statement should be made.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Petar turned around. “Thank you for expressing your concerns, Eric. We will take what you’ve said under advisement.”

  Eric glanced at Ketrin and Ketrin stared back at him.

  “If you will leave through the east door, just there”—Petar pointed to the opposite side of the room—“you should be away before they set up their perimeter.”

  Eric digested the words and then stood in a rush. “Who? Who is here?”

  “The police, most likely Interpol, as well.”

  Eric turned his back without another word and walked away. Six or seven hurried steps and he was at the door across the narrow room, which he pulled open and passed through before Ketrin had decided which punishment would be most effective on their guest.

  “Dahvid?” Petar said into the handset. “How long do we have?”

  “Thirty minutes, maybe a little less. Your man called, and we picked them up en route.”

  Petar smiled, pleased that his spy had made a contribution. “Good. Leave the van on the street beyond the north entrance. We will leave from there.”

  * * *

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  Finn grabbed her partner’s shoulder and spun him into the corridor as splinters of wood cut through the air. She lifted her weapon, turned, and took her best guess. The short burst from her HK416 fired into the distance and she heard yelling, as well as a secondary burst of gunfire off to her left.

  Her back hit the wall behind her and she looked to her right. Splash had lifted his goggles and his eyes were wild as he reloaded his weapon. “Fucking waiting for us.”

  “Is this the north corridor?” Finn searched the shadows beyond them both.

  “I have no idea anymore,” Splash answered and then laughed. “You’re always a stickler for details, Dodger.”

  Finn touched her throat mike. “Where are we, please?”

  “And you’re too fucking nice.”

  “There’s no substitute for good manners.” Finn smiled.

  Splash laughed and moved around her. “Fuck it.”

  “North corridor, affirmative, Dodger.”

  “Splash!” Finn called out as he stepped around the corner and fired. She slid wide into the open as he fell, and lifted her weapon. The sniper was on the upper level and she watched as he pulled the side bolt back on his weapon, the silenced barrel lifting up and to the side. She pulled the trigger and kept firing. The rifle fell, but that was all she saw before she ducked back and slid to her knees beside her partner. “Splash?”

  Blood was spreading onto the smooth cement floor beneath them both.

  Finn slung her HK over her shoulder and opened her mike. “I need a medical evac at the north corridor exit.”

  “Rodger that, Dodger.” Comms filled her head as she grabbed Splash by the shoulders of his vest, stood, and pulled. “Main warehouse is being secured. Team one is moving in.”

  “A little fucking late.” Finn’s voice was strained by her efforts and she was sucking air. Her adrenaline had redlined, however, and she picked up speed. She could hear the panic in her voice even as she heard James within her head. If Ketrin lights a fire, Dimitrovich is the match. “How far am I from the offices?”

  “Negative,” comms responded. “Get to the evac point and then proceed.”

  Finn glanced over her shoulder as she backpedaled and the corridor filled with light.

  Her heart jumped into her throat and she let go of Splash as her eyes tried to adjust. He fell against her legs as she lifted her weapon and tried to turn. The hand was there, and she watched as it wrapped around the barrel of her HK like some sort of alien creature. She pulled the trigger and the assault rifle fired toward the ceiling with a violent burst of sound.

  There was a pop and a scream of sound within her head, like gears grinding and turning within an engine that wouldn’t start. It began in her head, and then it spread, rattling through her chest and exploding deep into her legs.

  Finn stared at the ceiling, the cement floor cold against her body.

  “Get the paintings, Dahvid.”

  Finn couldn’t breathe but she tried to get up anyway. She was on fire. Everything was on fire. She heard the clatter, and the air rushed over her face and through her hair, cool, like she had dunked her head beneath the ice cold water from a hose. She watched as her helmet and goggles rolled away from her into the corridor.

  She felt the stock of the Sig Sauer within her right hand but it was caught. Something held it tight to her leg and she didn’t understand what that could be.

  “Would you like me to help?”

  The voice was smooth and mocking, and yet there was an odd warmth to it. Finn’s right shoulder fell back against the cement once more.

  “Because I could help, if you…”

  She stared at him and waited for him to finish.

  He stared back, his brown hair falling forward as he stood over her. His eyes were wide and…and she couldn’t tell what color they were. She thought they might be blue. He was like a ghost, as pale and pure as a silk sheet.

  “Sweet boy?” There was denial as he took an awkward step back from her. “It’s you,” he said in a fractured breath. “It’s you.”

  Finn ripped her weapon free despite its resistance, and she felt the pressure of the trigger beneath her finger. She pulled, and she kept pulling. There was a shout and more gunfire. Someone was screaming. She heard a rush of chatter through the comms. There was sunlight, and she saw a church with a narrow spire beneath a cloudy sky, held motionless in time within swirls of paint.

  She tasted blood.

  “Dodger?”

  She opened her eyes, but she didn’t recognize the face so close to her own.

  “Stay with me, Dodger.”

  She tried to speak but she had no idea if she had.

  “You hit somebody, yeah.” The face smiled at her. “Stay with me now, okay?”

  She felt a pull on her vest and then the pain hit.

  It s
tarts in Nuenen, in the Netherlands. It starts with a sketch of a church and a spire, and a young Vincent van Gogh, who had not yet discovered the joys of a colorful palette…

  Chapter Eighteen

  San Francisco

  Present day

  Casey smiled as she swept the last of her butter fried baguette through her syrup. She felt unbelievably divine, and as she took the last bite, she let her lips linger along the tines before returning the fork to her plate. Finn was close to blushing. “Is this your favorite diner?”

  As Finn glanced around, Casey noticed at least two dozen other patrons taking up space in their world. She didn’t mind, exactly, but now that she’d eaten, she wanted to be back at Finn’s loft. In your bed, with you inside me, Finnegan O’Connell. She shifted upon her seat and then crossed her legs with an inward laugh. Dear God.

  “I haven’t been here since I was a kid, actually.”

  Casey caught the odd wistful tone and she bobbed her boot forward beneath the table. The tap upon Finn’s knee was gentle.

  Finn smiled and turned back to her. “I remember the french toast as being very good.”

  “It was excellent,” Casey agreed. “Thank you for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome,” Finn said in a voice that gave Casey goose bumps.

  Finn’s wound was not as swollen as she expected it would be, but it bothered Casey on a terribly profound level. It didn’t mar the emotions that were so thick within Finn’s amber eyes, but it was obviously causing her pain. “Did you get something for that?”

  Finn lifted her gaze from Casey’s mouth and focused. “Hmm?”

  Casey laughed. She was wet and everything throbbed and ached with the beat of her pulse, which wasn’t doing her any favors as she stared into Finn’s eyes. “Oh my God, do you even know how sexy you are?”

  Finn hadn’t touched her food. “I’m not even hungry.”

  Casey frowned. “Were you given something for the pain?” she asked again. She reached across the table. “Finn?”

  Finn looked up from Casey’s hand as it slid about hers. “That’s not what I meant.”