He moved over toward her and sat on the crate near her. He nudged her in the head with the muzzle of his gun. “It’s time,” he said.
At that, she turned her head and looked at him. He could see the terror in her face, and he could read her thoughts. She was wondering whether he was going to kill her now. Good, he thought. It was right that she remain frightened.
“I’m going to cut the tape on your hands. I’m taking you to your father.”
He reached forward and pulled the tape off her mouth. She still winced when it pulled the skin off around her lips, but not nearly as much as she had the first time. He had to give her credit for that, at least; she was no princess.
She worked her mouth in circles, testing its coordination as he cut the tape away from her hands. “Are you letting me go?” she asked.
“That depends on your father,” Liam said. “If he and his lawyer do what they were told to do, I’ll let you go.”
“If not? If they don’t do what they were told to do? What happens to me then?”
He said nothing, and continued to work at the tape, cutting it away from her feet now. He didn’t have the time to deal with this sort of melodrama. She sat up and rubbed her wrists. The skin around them had been torn completely away now; he figured she’d been testing the strength of the restraints. The same was true of her ankles.
“Tell me,” she said. “What happens to me if my father fucks up?”
He pointed his gun at her, holding it inches from her forehead. “Then you die. If you or your father or the lawyer doesn’t do exactly what I want, then I’ll kill you without even thinking about it. Do you understand that?”
She nodded.
“Your life is in your father’s hands.”
He watched her as it sank in; watched her digest the information. For a moment there was a flicker of hope in them-just an inkling of the spirit he had seen in the first day or so. Then it vanished, and her eyes went flat again. He wondered why, but in the end it didn’t matter. It was no concern of his.
“We’ve got to get back to the office in Charlestown,” Kozlowski said. “If it’s just gonna be you and Devon, I need eyes in the place.”
“What are you gonna do?” Finn asked.
“Wire the place up with cameras,” Kozlowski said. “Every corner, every square foot of the office. Right down to the toilet. If this asshole takes a leak, I want to see what he’s got hidden in his pants.”
“How long will it take?”
“Half hour. Forty minutes, tops.”
“Okay,” Finn said. “Let’s get it done.”
They put Devon’s money back in the bag in the bathroom ceiling-they’d figure out what to do with that later-and headed back out to the car. The three of them piled in and Kozlowski pulled out, headed back to Charlestown.
Two minutes later a nondescript American-made sedan with federal plates pulled out, following the electronic tail attached to Kozlowski’s car. Another thirty seconds later an unmarked Lincoln spun a U-turn and fell in line, following the FBI.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Liam sat in the van up the street from the lawyer’s office at seven o’clock. Had he been sure the paintings were in the offices already, he’d have considered storming the place, but there was no way to know. Besides, it was still light out, and the area was busy enough that a full frontal assault would likely draw attention. Even if he couldn’t go in now, he wanted to make sure he knew exactly what was going on in the hours before the exchange-who was there, who was coming, who was going. And so he waited, and he watched. As he’d noted many times before, information was the most valuable commodity in his line of work; right now, he needed as much of it as he could get.
As near as he could determine, there were only three people inside the offices: the lawyer, his partner, and Devon Malley. At the sight of Malley, Liam felt the bile rise in his throat. All of his feelings of anger and betrayal now centered on this one man. Bulger had fled Boston before he’d been able to deliver the paintings. Murphy and Ballick-the only others who had been involved in the heist-were dead. That left only Malley as the object of Liam’s rage. The only logical conclusion was that Malley was selling the paintings for himself. Taking what rightfully belonged to Liam’s cause. Were it not for the chance to get the paintings back, and to provide the funds necessary to continue the struggles at home, he would have gotten out of the van and killed the man with his bare hands. It would have been satisfying, but it wouldn’t have accomplished the mission. He looked back into the van’s cargo hold. There were other ways to make sure his true revenge was taken.
She was in back, bound with tape again by both wrists and ankles, gagged and secured to the side of the van, covered with a swath of heavy canvas. He was being careful with her; she’d done all that he’d ordered, behaved as a pliable bitch, eager to please her master. But underneath, he sensed a deep well of determination that put him on edge. He would not take her cooperation for granted. As much as he hated the offspring of the man who had stolen from his great cause, he had respect for her strength. That respect, however, would not prevent him from making her the instrument of his revenge.
He turned back to watch the lawyer’s office again. The blinds were closed, and as the light faded outside, he could see loose shadows betraying movement inside. Something was happening. Perhaps they were moving the paintings into place; perhaps they were setting a trap for him. There was no way to know for sure, but he would find out somehow before he went in. He had more experience in these sorts of dangerous situations than just about anyone in the world. He would prevail.
As he sat there, his mind picked momentarily over a lifetime spent at war. He knew no other way but hate, and if the hate died, he would cease to exist. He’d gone all in when he killed Broadark. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now; if he didn’t get the paintings back, he would be killed by his own, and the cause for which he’d given his life-for which the lives of his entire family had been taken-would die as well. Even if he managed to secure the paintings and get them back home, he might be killed. He’d gone that far over the edge. He could accept that, however, as long as the hope remained that the struggle would continue. As long as the battles raged, he felt that he and his family would live on in some small way.
He shook his head, bringing himself out of his ruminations. He needed a clear head to do the job ahead of him. He’d worry about the rest once his task was completed.
He looked back again at the canvas lump in the back. She hadn’t moved; hadn’t made a sound. That was good. She gave him the leverage he needed.
It took Kozlowski nearly forty-five minutes to get the office set up. He moved quickly, but with deliberation, making sure that all the tiny cameras in his arsenal were placed so that they were fully hidden, but still gave him maximum visibility. As he stalked his way about the office, Finn and Devon sat in the main office, fidgeting.
“What’s taking so long?” Devon asked. No one answered. “It’s fuckin’ pointless. You think he’s not gonna kill us all anyways?”
“Think happy thoughts. What makes you say that?” Finn asked.
Devon shrugged. “Just a feeling I have. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy who lets bygones be bygones. If he feels like somebody’s fucked him, he’s gonna even up the score.”
Kozlowski paused and looked around at Devon. “Thinking that way’ll get everyone killed. We go into this with our eyes wide open and one goal-getting your daughter back. You do what you’re told, and there’s a good chance that everyone’s walkin’ away from this. I’ll be watching it all go down from just out back. If I get the feeling that things are slipping away, I’ll be in here faster than you can believe.”
“Faster than a bullet? What do we do if he starts shooting?”
Kozlowski walked out of the main office toward the back. He returned carrying a pistol and handed it to Finn.