Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  It might be a long time before he could return to the storage unit. He deliberated over what to take. No more than could fit in one medium-size rucksack, in case he had to hoof it. A spare set of lockpick tools and other basics were obvious. As was his available cash, a larger stack than in the truck, ten thousand dollars in used fifties. He added a laptop and extra burner phones.

  Shaw looked hard at the more sophisticated gear and chose half a dozen items designed to tackle alarm systems of office buildings or high-end apartments. Big-city jobs. If something more specialized became a necessity, he would see what he could construct on the go.

  He packed more first-aid items and some clothing. From a pocket in the clothing bag, he took a small plastic zipper case containing chewable fifty-milligram tablets of Vyvanse. If he had to drive for a couple of days without stopping, the amphetamine derivative would make it possible.

  Finally he turned to the duffels with his guns, each firearm individually wrapped in cloth. A long bag held a Benelli shotgun and a fine Merkel .30-06 that had once been Dono’s. He rejected those immediately. Too big for travel. The handguns required more thought. Would he be getting on a plane at some point? If so, any pistol would have to be tossed.

  Shaw had been raised to think of all guns that way. As disposable as the bandage on his side, something to be used once and then discarded quickly. Dono had matured out of his violent youth by the time Van came into the picture, but the habits had remained and the old thief passed them along to his grandson.

  On deployments with the Rangers, Shaw had cleaned and checked his weapons nearly every day, sometimes more than once. His life and the lives of his brothers had relied on the arms’ operating flawlessly. Even so, he’d never considered his M4 or Beretta sidearm to be prized possessions. Nor had he become part of gun culture like many of his friends in veterans’ groups. A gun was a tool. Shaw owned only so many as need demanded.

  And this was a time of need. Twice he’d almost been victim to Tucker and Vic and the curly-headed cyclist. He couldn’t let them be third-time lucky, even if it meant the risk of adding a firearms charge to his rapidly accumulating list of felonies. He chose a scuffed but serviceable SIG P226 with a fifteen-round magazine he’d bought under the table from a former SEAL and a pocket Glock 26 in case he required something more concealable than the burly SIG.

  Both guns took nine-millimeter ammunition. Shaw packed a box of fifty rounds into the ruck along with the handguns. If he couldn’t survive whatever situation found him with fifty shots, more ammo was unlikely to make a difference.

  On his way out of the storage facility, Shaw stopped at the front desk. The guy running the shop selling moving boxes and strapping tape was engrossed in watching a video on his phone. Over the guy’s shoulder, Shaw saw the monitor of the office computer cycling through screen-saver images of tropical vacation spots.

  “Hey, man,” said Shaw. “My phone crapped out on me, and I need to get a buddy’s number online. Okay if we look that up?” He pointed to the screen, which was showing what looked like a cottage replica of the Taj Mahal in the Maldives.

  The guy nodded idly without turning his eyes from the video. “G’head.”

  Shaw typed in the URL and logged onto the marina’s website. Hollis—or FrancescaQ, his boat name and dock letter—had been the most recent post. Shaw memorized the phone number in the post and dialed it as he walked back to his truck.

  “Where are you?” Hollis asked immediately.

  “In the city. Not for long.”

  “The last I knew, your good lady Wren told me you were counting the hours while the police decided whether to press charges. I take it that went well, if you’re walking free?”

  “Not exactly.” Shaw plugged in an earpiece so he could talk to Hollis as he drove. By the time he’d reached the part about popping the smoke grenade in Tucker’s face, Shaw was parked south of the Industrial District in front of his final stop in Seattle, and Hollis was sputtering.

  “I’m looking at the news right now,” Hollis said. “One of the local cable channels. There’s been nothing about gunshots or other violence near the stadiums.”

  “Their team was probably gone before the cops showed.” Shaw reassured Hollis that he was fine before mentioning the graze on his side. “I’m headed out of town now.”

  “That sounds like the best of some terrible options. Sweet Jesus, Van. How . . . is there anything I can do?”

  “Better that you don’t do anything. You’re a known associate of mine. I guarantee the cops will be keeping tabs on you during the next few days to see if I turn up. Maybe more than just cops. I don’t know how far the reach of these people goes. If they’re funded by Sebastien Rohner, they might not have an upper limit to their budget. Assume lots of eyes, lots of ears. This should be the last conversation we have while you’re aboard your boat.”

  “I understand. What should I tell your ladies, Wren and the old broad I love so much?”

  “Let Addy and Wren know I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Probably online—that’s safer than phones. Thanks. And I’m sorry.”

  “Won’t be the first time the police have followed me around for their amusement.” Hollis sighed. “There’s a border trip, a meet with some acquaintances I’ll have to postpone. But perhaps this is a sign.”

  “Keep low.”

  Shaw put on sunglasses and a baseball cap before checking the street once more. He entered the small business, a twenty-four-hour private-mailbox service. The ID wasn’t invulnerable to the wave of gentrification that had swamped the city, but there were still factories and fulfillment centers working odd hours. The mailbox business catered to workers, documented and otherwise, who might need a consistent address for their mail if not their homes. Shaw leased one of the smallest boxes, which served as a kind of safe-deposit. Its key was hidden back at his apartment, but the lack hardly slowed him down.

  Inside the box was an envelope, and inside the envelope was a driver’s license and a Chase Bank debit card and a low-limit Visa under the name Steven Blake Ingram. The license showed Shaw’s face.

  All three cards were authentic. It was Ingram that was a phony. The man had existed for barely a year. Over time Shaw would have slowly created a history for the identity, enough that the name might have school records and tax history and a birth certificate. As it was, Ingram was as thin as the cards themselves. Any scratching below the surface would reveal the paper man for what he was.

  Beggars and choosers, thought Shaw. It would have to do.

  He left the mailbox and drove to the on-ramp for I-90. The interstate was the longest freeway in the country, a wavering line all the way to Boston. If things went to plan—for once this week—Shaw would stay on 90 until Ohio, then keep due east to New York.

  He was a fugitive. His head rocked a little at that. But there was a limit to what the cops could and would do to find him. They wouldn’t throw up roadblocks or have troopers patrolling every road leading out of the state. Not for a suspect who hadn’t been formally charged yet, much less convicted. If he slept in the cab of the truck and avoided showing his distinctive face to cameras at gas stations, he would stay off their radar.

  It was his other pursuers that concerned him. He’d barely escaped Tucker’s crew, twice. Who knew what the team had planned for him if the jailbreak had gone their way? Torturing him for Chen’s chemical—the sample he’d lied about having—might be only the start.

  He had to assume they knew his history. They might guess that he had prepared for a time when he’d have to run.

  His level of risk depended on who Tucker and his crew were ultimately working for. He felt sure that they were part of whatever shadowy enterprise lay behind the Bridgetrust front. Tucker’s crew, and Chiarra, and Bill Flynn, and Karla as well.

  If they were independent operators, their resources would be limited. But if Sebastien Rohner was putting his money and influence behind them, their reach might extend far beyond any border Shaw could cross.


  His single slim advantage was that his enemies couldn’t know he had learned Karla’s real name and her background. That could be a lead in finding whoever was pulling her strings. She and Flynn had gone to huge trouble to hide behind Bridgetrust. Uncovering why might give Shaw some leverage against them. Or at least something he could take to Guerin.

  But to find it, he’d have to risk going onto their home turf. That decision had come to him almost without conscious thought on the drive from Capitol Hill. He was in for a long trip.

  Drive until nightfall, Shaw decided. By then he’d be east of the mountains and the Columbia River. He could find a place somewhere around Moses Lake to park the truck out of sight and sleep. Save the go-pills for an emergency.

  From there it would take three full days of driving, assuming some miles on the back roads if he needed to skirt the largest cites. And taking what time he could to rest and heal. He would have to be as sharp as a razor when he hit New York City.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sebastien Rohner summoned Anders to his office suite in Droma’s main building in High Bridge. Anders’s own office was situated at the near corner. He strode down the hall, the agreeable aroma of the morning’s first batch of coffee from the executive kitchen permeating the floor. The campus was new and Droma the first company to lease space, before construction was complete. That had allowed them some say in the final floor plans. Droma’s executive accommodations were larger by half than in any other building on the campus.

  Sofia was there. Standing directly in front of her father’s desk, as Sebastien sat behind it, his chin high. Anders inferred a disagreement simply from their positions. Sofia turned, her frown confirming his guess.

  “Did you know?” she said to Anders. “About Van Shaw’s escape?”

  Anders shut the door. The office was soundproofed, a preventive measure he and Sebastien took with all their private workspaces.

  “I learned of it only this morning,” he said.

  Rohner held up a hand. “I was telling Sofia that the sheriff’s office called last night to make sure we were aware. In case Shaw should attempt to . . . approach any member of the family.” He turned to his daughter. “I’d planned on telling you in person this morning.”

  “They suspect he killed Linda,” said Sofia. “What are we doing about that?”

  Anders responded for Rohner. “I’ve asked Warren Kilbane to resume his duties. I realize we’d intended to suspend Warren pending a review. But given his familiarity with our procedures and his clearance—not to mention that he may be a target for Shaw himself—having him with us is a wiser direction.”

  “I meant do we believe the police are correct?”

  Rohner blinked. “I have no cause to think they are wrong. That’s sufficient.”

  “Not for me. Not with the oddities in your behavior of late.” Sofia glanced at Anders.

  “Perhaps I should excuse myself,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “You’re part of this. First the family collection was moved to the island despite my misgivings. You said you had wanted to offer tours. Then I discover your plan was to use the gallery for the chemical tests with Jiangsu Manufacturing, which you might well have told me from the start.”

  “I did plan to have guests view the gallery, and I’m sorry you were left out of the decision about the lab,” said Rohner. “It was a late choice. So long as we took measures to protect the art, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Protection seemed to be your top concern. You left me in the dark about Shaw’s role as well.”

  “We wanted his expert evaluation of our alarm system. It hardly mattered for him whether the gallery held art or chemicals, did it?”

  “It matters if those chemicals were why Nelson Bao was killed.”

  “Shaw again,” said Anders. “The man has a violent past.”

  Sofia looked at him. “Is that what made him an attractive candidate?”

  Anders forced a smile. This was really going too far. Too close.

  “We made an error, hiring Shaw,” he said. “Please let’s not compound it by quarreling. If he’s innocent, I’m sure the police will reach that conclusion.”

  “Our focus should be on closing the agreement with Chen Li.” Rohner leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand to the desk, his habitual gesture to punctuate the closing of a topic.

  Sofia appeared unmoved. “I’m aware of how important this deal is, how important new markets are. To Droma’s future as well as to you personally. I know how hard you’ve worked to make us successful.” Her expression softened. “I just want to be sure you’re not sacrificing too much of yourself.”

  “We’ll be fine, my dear,” Rohner said. “This will all be over soon. Now, what can we do for Linda’s family?”

  “I’ve spoken with her parents, and her daughter. They’re planning the funeral for Saturday, pending . . . whether Linda will be released in time. We should cover the expense.”

  “Of course. Just let my assistant know. She can coordinate everything for them.”

  “And Jiangsu,” said Sofia. “If it can’t be concluded promptly, I want to discuss alternatives. We can restructure. Even form different partnerships. At least two of our competitors would leap at a chance to lease our top-level staff—”

  Anders nearly coughed. “A merger?” he said. “That’s . . . far too premature, Sofia.”

  “I’m not saying it’s first on my list,” she replied. “But it’s viable.”

  “We can consider all options,” Rohner said, in a tone that invited no further input. “Privately.”

  Sofia hesitated.

  “Good,” she said finally. “I’ll make time for us next week.”

  She shut the door behind her, saving Anders the trouble.

  “She seems convinced of Shaw’s innocence,” said Rohner, “and that our hiring him had ulterior motives. She as much as said so.”

  “She couldn’t know we’d intended to take the polymer. And any suspicions Sofia may have hardly matter now. We’re past that point. We can only hope to recover the sample and complete the deal as originally planned.”

  “Yes.”

  Anders crossed to sit in one of the club chairs in front of the desk, taking the moment to compose his thoughts. Sofia’s plea to her father had been couched in concern for his well-being—genuine concern, certainly—but she had hinted at other worries.

  “Sofia may have also guessed that Chen did not invent the sample,” he said.

  “What if she has? She won’t press the point so long as we finish quickly and without further misfortune.” Rohner frowned. “And still no word from Chen.”

  “I’ll try again today.” As he had every day for the past five. “But if Sofia should begin asking questions beyond these walls, that could be disastrous. Chen is clearly wary. Hargreaves . . . well, we can imagine how Hargreaves might react if he thought Sofia posed a risk to the deal.”

  Rohner stood and walked to the window. Perhaps to cover his unease. “We’ll have Rangi stay close to Sofia. Armed. We’ll tell her it’s a protective measure while Shaw is at large.”

  “A fine idea. And if she goes to the police?”

  “She said herself how important this is. Sofia would never . . . jeopardize Droma.”

  Anders laced his fingers. Unconvinced. But Sebastien was right about the clearest path. They must finish what they’d started. Before the investigations of Bao’s and Linda’s murders turned to official inquiries about links between Droma and Avizda Industrial, where Bao had worked most recently.

  Anders felt a familiar knot in his stomach at the thought. Conspiracy was an ugly concept. He’d thought so from the start.

  Just a few more days, and then he could breathe. This whole blighted affair would be a memory.

  FORTY-THREE

  Shaw reached the outskirts of Staten Island before midnight on Thursday and continued across, over the Verrazzano Bridge into Brooklyn. He didn’t know the territory. But the driv
e since sunrise had provided plenty of time to map his route and to plan.

  There were three used-car dealers and one scrap-iron yard within half a mile of one another in the Gravesend neighborhood and on the northern side of Coney Island. Shaw cruised past each of them during the next hour. Taking his time to get a good look. All the vehicles in the scrap yard had been stripped down to the chassis. Two of the car dealers had installed reasonable security.

  The third dealership was pudding.

  Just an eight-foot fence with a spool of razor wire on its top and a pair of cameras, one pointed at the gate and one at the lot. No camera behind the repair bays and office. The dealer was guarding against somebody stealing a car or some of its engine parts, so why monitor anything but the inventory?

  Shaw had bought a thick blanket in Montana three days prior to have something over him while sleeping in the truck at night. He parked in an alley behind the fence at the back of the dealership and climbed from the bed of the truck onto its roof to toss the blanket over the concertina wire. Stepping on the top pipe, he jumped down behind the buildings.

  His side thumped back at the impact. Not so much that he thought the scab under the bandages had torn, but enough to make him wince. He’d laid off painkillers during the long days of driving. The endless ribbon of road had been dizzying enough.

  He walked around the repair bays, judged the angle of the camera pointed at the two dozen vehicles packed like sardines into the narrow front lot, and low-crawled to the cars on his elbows and knees. The lot was stained with years of oil and gas drippings. By the time he reached the first row, so was his hooded sweatshirt. Worming his way to the back of the pack, he removed the front license plates from two cars with Empire State plates. He tucked the metal rectangles into his shirt to crawl out of the front lot and return to the truck.