King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  Casey nodded and she wiped at her eyes. She reached out and closed her laptop, slowly and with great care, so as not to upset the delicate balance of fate. “She wants revenge.”

  Belgrade, Serbia

  September 2005

  Finn stared at the side of the computer monitor as the noise from the police station washed over her. She could smell cigarette smoke and it was harsh to her nose, a stale scent that was nothing like the sweet cigars they smoked on the patios in San Michele. The lights were bright and she felt ill, as if she were floating slightly above her chair. It was a dizziness that invaded all her senses, and if she moved her head too fast, her stomach lurched.

  There were voices on the phones, and she could understand very little of what they said. She had recognized three different languages so far, and when a phone rang, the old-fashioned sound rattled inside her skull as if she were being pelted with rocks.

  There were black uniforms and blue uniforms, and the gray-green of the Italian police. She could smell burned coffee beneath the smoke, and some sort of sausage, perhaps, from someone’s lunch. It was a pungent and yet somehow flat scent.

  Her eyes moved slowly to the right and she stared at the inspector in front of her.

  He had turned from his computer and he was speaking, but she didn’t care what he might be saying. He leaned forward in his chair and set his elbows on the desk.

  Finn closed her eyes against his words.

  She saw the shackle wounds on Declan’s wrists, and his broken hands. She saw the burn marks along his ribs and the bruises that trailed down his thighs like theater paint. She saw his face again, battered and split and devoid of life, and the divot in his forehead where the bullet had entered at last.

  Finn opened her eyes.

  The fingers that snapped in front of her face seemed to move in slow motion and she felt her stomach roll.

  The inspector held out a pen and waited.

  Finn took the pen and watched as he slid several papers across the desk.

  “Sign, please.”

  The inspector sat back with an odd look on his face and then he pushed away from the desk in order to stand.

  A familiar scent invaded Finn’s nose and she felt the heat of another person against her right shoulder. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until that moment. Her toes burned with cold within her shoes and her hand could barely hold the pen. She trembled and it shimmied outward as her thighs shook.

  The soft silk of hair brushed against her cheek and it smelled faintly of sweet grass and summer grapes. It was a clean, fresh scent. It was a woman’s scent.

  The hand that touched her cheek was tender. “It’s okay, Finn, everything’s going to be okay. Just sign the papers, sweetie, and we can go.” The heat of her voice drifted down the side of Finn’s neck.

  Finn looked down at the desk.

  “Just write your name at the bottom, and we can go outside and stand in the sun. Please, Finn, we can’t be in here anymore, but you have to help me.”

  Finn blinked at the forms and suddenly she understood. They wouldn’t let her take Declan home, and they wouldn’t let her take his things, even what little there was to claim, if she didn’t sign her name.

  “Sign them, Finnegan, and we won’t ever have to come back here—I swear to God. I’ll get you out of here. I’ll get us both out of here.”

  Finn signed the papers.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  San Francisco

  Present day

  Finn looked out onto the city and though the afternoon sun was still bright, the breeze was cold and damp as it tried to snake beneath her leather duster. The view was not the best in the city, but it was achingly familiar, and the neighborhood was one that she loved. It was a good place to get her mind right, before she did what was necessary.

  She felt the weight of the Kevlar vest she wore and the smooth sleeves of the tactical compression shirt beneath it. She wore a black button-down shirt over both and she was as protected as she could be, without drawing undue attention to herself. Her jeans were dark and heavy over her boots, and she could feel the weapons she wore. A Walther PPK on the back of each hip, and a Sig Sauer P250 strapped beneath her left arm. The hideout holster on her left ankle held a Bersa Thunder 380.

  It all seemed foolish and extreme and yet she knew exactly what she was doing. She would have never in a million years expected to be good at such things, but they came as naturally to her as reciting a page of poetry. Poetry had been more Declan’s love than hers, but she had held her own.

  She took a deep, clean breath and closed her eyes.

  She had waited her whole life for Casey, and she had been right to do so. She had even known it in Monte Carlo, though she hadn’t known who Casey was at the time. She hadn’t known anything at all, except that they belonged together. Finnegan’s radar, Declan had called it, and Finn had never really formed a logical argument to dispute his claim. The magical big picture, Malik was fond of saying, and she had never disputed his words, either.

  She didn’t know what it was in the end, only that Declan had something to do with it, and he’d had his own version of it. He had always known what the next pitch would be.

  She had woken up alone, and though the reality of what that meant had blistered its way through the heart of her, she understood why it had happened. It didn’t make it hurt any less, but there was an honest symmetry to it. She had never wanted a head start, but circumstances had pushed her down that path with very little say in the matter. She had always been out in front, and she had never expected Casey to overcome the distance between them in so short a time. She hadn’t expected anything, actually, though she had wished for the world.

  She had gambled everything that Ketrin Arshavin would come for his trophy, and she could think of only one last move that might lead her to his door while leaving Casey completely absent from the equation. One last move that would allow her to keep her promise.

  If it doesn’t kill me first.

  She could feel the presence of the ocean in the distance, and she could feel the presence of Petar Dimitrovich, as well. She hadn’t been wrong, and neither had Asher James.

  Finn opened her eyes, turned, and walked toward the patio door with a rather insolent smile. “I’m off to sell my teeth, old man.”

  Athens

  April 2010

  “The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen…Good Lord, my friend, I have never seen so many commas.” Asher frowned and cleared his throat in order to properly deepen his voice as he read aloud from Oliver Twist. “As if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by the twopenny post, a day or two previous.” Asher considered what he had just read and then gave a snort of agreement. “They are always surprised, it’s true. Dickens was not wrong.”

  Asher’s heart gave a thud as Finnegan opened her eyes.

  The hospital room was quiet but for the hum of the monitors, which were not that loud. The heating unit on the outside wall beneath the fourth-story window was the loudest thing of all, but Asher had learned to tune it out over the past three nights.

  The clinic on the outskirts of Athens was a good one, and though he was not a wanted man, he had entered through a back stairwell from the basement and kept Finn company without anyone being the wiser. The nurse would check on her patient at the top of each hour, though before that happened, he would make himself scarce while wearing counterfeit credentials.

  The clinic security was better than most, and there were guards in the lobby who would verify and provide identification badges for each visitor. Asher had purchased what he needed the evening he had arrived, all for the price of four or five drinks, one hundred euros, and three hours of listening to an orderly complain about living with his mother. It was a sticky situation that involved a basement and a
cat, and Asher had listened with true empathy. He knew about cats.

  Asher stood up and leaned over the bed, his hand gentle as he slipped it beneath hers. “My friend!” His voice was low but filled with pleasure as he greeted her. As far as he could tell from her medical chart, she had been unconscious since her surgeries, the day of her arrival. It was the first time she had been awake within his presence. “It is very good to see you.”

  Her eyes were confused.

  “You are in a clinic outside of Athens. You were shot in the belly, two times.” Asher’s voice was clear and firm, but still filled with happiness. “It was bad, but you’ll be fine.”

  Finn’s grip tightened around his thumb. It was not much, almost nothing, really, but it was enough for him.

  Asher nodded. “Yes. It was a mess, from what the papers say. Your partner, he is well. He was shot in the shoulder and neck, but the angle of the bullet was good for him. It missed the important things, lucky for him. He is just down the hall from you, right now,” he explained. “I have seen his wife in the café downstairs. She likes to talk.” Asher smiled. “She is a nicely proportioned woman, I have to say.”

  Finn closed her eyes and Asher could see the left side of her mouth turn up.

  He stepped closer and, with great caution, sat upon the edge of the bed. Finn showed no discomfort in reaction and Asher was relieved. “I think you must leave your job now, after this, Finnegan. We will find another way.”

  Finn opened her eyes.

  “I do not like it, and I think you can do better for yourself.”

  Her eyes were thick with medication, but he could see her surprise. She was listening.

  “They are too vulnerable to the grift, do you understand? You are not safe there.” Asher’s voice was convinced. “I believe that you were betrayed in some way. You may call it a hunch, if you like, but I have my sources, as well.” He was talking too much, he knew it, but his fear for her was finally finding an outlet. “And, you know, I see these bounties, and it is a lot of money for the taking. Why should you do these things for wages, when you could make yourself a rich woman? And you would still be in the hunt. There would be no rules, only the ones you choose to follow.”

  Asher sat beside her for a long time then and held her hand. He was extremely distressed and he was afraid it would show. When she squeezed his thumb once again, he leaned forward.

  “I will.”

  Asher smiled, but he could see the bargain within her lovely eyes. “But?”

  Finn licked her lips and swallowed. “Domino.”

  Asher was surprised. “Ah, yes…what of my Domino, sweet Finnegan?”

  The expression within her gaze was decidedly certain and he recognized it. “She was the treasure…you took from Ketrin.”

  Asher stared, thrown for a loop by her words.

  “Your name…isn’t just James.” She could barely manage a smile, but she tried. “It’s Asher. Asher James.”

  Asher let out a puff of breath and his hand tightened on hers. It was the last thing he’d expected from her, though in the end, he was not all that surprised. She was a woman with both practical and dangerous skills, and they were painted through her character with the heavy, rich colors of her humor and melancholy. It was a magnificent combination.

  “I remember.”

  Asher held her gaze for a long time and she did not look away, nor did she drift off to sleep. It was an effort for her to stay with him and he could see it. “As I remember you.” His sudden smile could not be stopped. “I have been waiting for Ian O’Connell’s daughter to arrive. I am glad you are here now.”

  “You shouldn’t have—” Pain washed through her expression and she closed her eyes. It passed, but when she looked at him again, her strength was gone and her hand was lax within his. “Asked me that question.”

  Asher laughed softly and leaned down farther, even as he lifted her hand. He kissed the back of it with all the affection he felt for her. “But I am French, my friend. Such a question cannot be avoided forever.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Novi Sad, Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia

  June 1986

  Finnegan sat in the long grass on the hill and looked down at the road.

  The man had walked around the car several times and he had leaned down beneath the hood more than that. He had fidgeted with the engine inside and he had thrown his tools, and then he had picked them up and put them back in the bag where they lived. He had smoked five cigarettes and he’d used bad language, as well. She didn’t know what he said, exactly, but she knew it wasn’t good.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Finn looked over her left shoulder and smiled at her brother. “There’s a man down there on the road. His car doesn’t work.”

  Declan wore faded jeans and a red and blue plaid shirt, the flannel worn and soft. His black hair was a mess and he had a juice stain around his lips. She did, too, though, so it was okay. Declan sat down next to her and pulled his right foot back, his knee coming up. He leaned over and retied his shoe, the black Converse covered with dirt. “Dad said to come to the grove for lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat there, though, and time went by. The man below rolled another cigarette and lit it with a match that he shook out and dropped on the road before stomping on it with his boot.

  “Who’s in the car?”

  “Somebody small.”

  Declan reached over and fixed Finn’s collar, which was turned under.

  “Hey.”

  They turned as one.

  Ian O’Connell smiled and came to a stop as he looked at his children.

  If Finn’s hair hadn’t been a bit longer than Declan’s, he would’ve had a hard time telling them apart, and he knew and understood them better than anyone else on earth. The novelty of that difficulty wouldn’t last long, once Declan hit his growth spurt, and so Ian enjoyed the beauty of it. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a man down there on the road,” Finn began.

  “Whose car doesn’t work,” Declan finished.

  Ian stepped up behind his children and set his hands on his hips. He watched the man smoke his cigarette for several moments, taking his measure as the man stared beneath the hood of the old Renault. “Did you think to help him out?”

  “I can’t fix a car just yet,” Finn answered. “I’m sorry to say.”

  Ian smiled and tried not to laugh at her tone, which was drier than a bone left in the desert sun for years on end. There was not an ounce of meanness in it, no matter how hard you might look for it, only wry amusement. It was a tone that was much too old for all her eight years, but it belonged to her regardless. It was her mother’s, as well, and it was Finn’s inheritance. “Declan, go back and fetch Papa Aedan. He’s good with cars.”

  Declan pushed to his feet, spun about, and broke into a sprint with a smile.

  Ian stepped up beside his daughter and held out his hand. “Shall we introduce ourselves, my darling satirical child?”

  Finn grabbed his hand and pulled herself up. She leaned against him. “You’re gonna give me some sort of a complex.”

  Ian chuckled. “Do you even know what that means?”

  “Grandma says I’ll need therapy for it, whatever it is.”

  Ian considered her statement and nodded. “Probably.”

  He gave her hand a pull and they started down the small hill.

  “Do I have to go to class for that?”

  “For what?”

  “Therapy.”

  Ian smiled, a bit surprised. “No, sweetie, I’m sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll stop giving you a complex.”

  “Maybe you could just give Declan one.”

  Ian held back his laughter once again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The man turned from his car as they approached, and he was startled, seemingly out of his element as he took a small step back. He dropped his cigarette and used his boot to put it out. When he looked up, h
e had recovered and his smile seemed cautious but genuine.

  “Do you need some help?” Ian said as they neared. He noticed the blond-haired girl in the front seat. “Go see.” Ian swung Finn’s arm forward with his, and Finn let go of his hand and hurried to the car. She took hold of the small bit of window that was still rolled up and looked into the car.

  “You speak English?”

  The man spoke with a heavy French accent, but his pronunciation was clear and precise. Ian stepped forward and extended his right hand. “Yes. My name is Ian O’Connell, by way of Boston. We’re American.”

  “Asher James.” The man responded with an easier smile than his first one, and his blue eyes were filled with relief. “Thank you. Thank you for coming down.” Asher gestured to the path they’d taken. “This car is a beauty, though she is old. A truck hit us a few weeks ago,” He turned to the engine. “We stayed to get it fixed, but now, she is not the same.”

  “Dad?”

  Ian glanced at Finn and then turned back to Asher. He pointed toward the front seat of the car. “Is it okay?”

  “Ah!” Asher nodded. “Yes, of course, yes.”

  Finn let go of the window, turned the handle of the door, and pulled it open.

  “Your daughter?”

  “No.” Asher stepped a bit closer. “My niece, Cassandra. My sister and her husband, they were killed in an accident, not long ago. My other sister has three children of her own, and so we are going there. We are going home.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. James.”

  “Thank you.” Asher watched the front seat of the car with a close eye. “It wasn’t good.” His tense expression seemed to ease when he saw his niece. “And Cassandra, she is…it just wasn’t good, that is all. Call me Asher, please.”

  “Well, Asher,” Ian said with a grin and extended his hand once more. “Though it’s been a rough day so far, welcome to the Ailish Orchard.”

  Asher chuckled and shook his hand again. “Thank you, Ian, thank you. We are not far from Belgrade, yes?”