The Thieves of Darkness Read Online Free Page B

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 biographyand 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 havedone it himself. There was not a soul in this prison above the desert who possessed an ounce of intelligence, himself excluded, of course.
    He had risen through the ranks of the Akbiquestan army, achieving the rank of colonel through hard work, bribery, and the elimination of the one general who disapproved of his inhumane tendencies. Barabas had retired with a full pension and a full bank account courtesy of his innovative, capitalistic acumen and his ability to blackmail and strong-arm the people and country he had sworn to protect. He had accepted the job as warden for Chiron, as it provided the perfect haven from which to run his varied enterprises, including “disappearing” people—some of whom didn’t come through the judicial system—into the bowels of their cells and eventually their unmarked graves.
    Barabas shone his flashlight about his apartment, found his radio, and thumbed the talk button. “Jamer!” he shouted. “If you don’t get the power back on in the next thirty seconds, don’t bother coming back.”
    He waited for a reply but nothing came.
    “Jamer?” Barabas didn’t have a slow build to anger; he was already fuming. Anyone who didn’t snap to, anyone who crossed him always paid the price. And Jamer would be paying the highest. But then he recalled the fear in which his men held him. They knew his lack of hesitation in putting a bullet through the head of an underling and tossing