The Thieves of Darkness Read Online Free Page A

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 heavytable 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. Michaellifted 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