The Thieves of Darkness by Richard Doetsch Read Free Book Online Page A

“Speaking of cleanups, I know you’re a couple thousand miles away, but you need to send someone to my office for a disposal.” He looked at Jean-Paul lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. “Now do you mind telling me where they escaped to, where they’re going?”
    “Where do you think? They’re coming here.”
    “I thought they didn’t have the letter.”
    “What does it matter?” the man asked. “We have a copy. I thought you didn’t care if they got it.”
    “That was when I thought they wouldn’t survive prison. Before I thought they’d try to beat us to the punch.”
    “I checked them both myself; they didn’t have it.”
    “Bullshit. They’re smarter than you.”
    “Smarter?” the man’s voice was laced with anger.
    “Yeah, smarter. They have it and they’re going to use it.” Venue felt the rage flow through his brain; he wrapped his hand tightly around the paperweight. “What the hell have you been doing? It’s been two weeks since I gave you the copy of the letter. You told me it wasn’t going to be a problem, that you could break into both places undetected and get me what I want without delay.”
    “Things like this can’t be rushed; it takes time.”
    “You no longer have the luxury of time. You have to steal the chart before they do.”
    “Relax, I have a plan.”
    “What is it?”
    “Mmm, no,” the man said, trying to take control of the conversation. “Just trust me.”
    Venue looked at the monitors on his desk, at the images of empty spaces and crumbling dynasties. He wondered how it was all slipping away. “I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care who lives or dies. Kill the priest, kill the girl if you have to, I don’t care. I need that chart. My world is falling apart. And if my world collapses, so does yours.”

CHAPTER 3
    The Range Rover cut across the rutted excuse for a road that bisected the nighttime Akbiquestan desert. Paul Busch pushed the vehicle to eighty, looking to escape this desolate part of the world as fast as he could, thankful for the luxurious suspension that cushioned them against the frequent potholes. At six-four, 225, Busch’s oversized frame could hardly be contained by the driver’s seat. He resembled a large blond bear, someone who looked more attuned to riding the waves in Hawaii than driving two escaped prisoners and their liberator out of this Eastern desert country. Over the past eighteen months he had gotten himself in shape, running five miles a day, and was proud of the fact that he could once again bench-press his weight. He didn’t mind the frequent comments on his ever-improving appearance from his wife, Jeannie, who said he looked like he did back when he was a rookie on the police force, though he couldn’t help thinking she was angling for a third child through flattery.
    Paul liked to say that he tended bar at Valhalla, though his wife preferred calling him a restaurateur or at least the owner. He had retired after twenty years on the Byram Hills police force and was happy pouring drinks and running what had become a thriving business. What was once a quaint eatery grew into a destination that was sometimes booked a week in advance. The bar, of course, didn’t require a reservationand was always filled with a crowd of singles looking for their next conquest.
    While the restaurant provided them a comfortable living, he still played the Lotto every week, tucking the lucky sure thing in his back pocket—this in spite of the fact that he had a priceless ruby necklace hidden in the back of his sock drawer. The Russian souvenir from a life-threatening exploit with Michael could be sold for a small fortune, but he decided he’d leave it under the pair of blue argyles for the time being. Busch had found that the anticipation of desires sometimes outweighed their realization. Life was much better when you had what you needed but still held wishes for things yet unattained—it’s what kept the drive alive,