Free The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee

clanked softly as he set it on the ground. One of the younger Armenians, a boy with a cleft palate scar, knelt and unzipped it. After confirming that the contents were in order, Arshak tossed a sealed plastic bag to Misha. “And the fliers?”
    Sharkovsky handed him a digital camera. Beforeturning it on, Arshak checked the camera’s serial number against a slip of paper that he produced from his pocket, then examined its memory card. Reinserting the card, he turned the camera on and scrutinized the images on its preview screen. In the silence, Ilya heard a train rumble across the track overhead.
    Arshak seemed pleased by what he saw. “These are the kind with wooden handles?”
    “Yes,” Sharkovsky said. “They are in Leninakan. As soon as we give the word, they will be sent.”
    “Good.” Arshak nodded at the boy with the knapsack, who set it at Misha’s feet. “As agreed. Half now, half on delivery—”
    Misha opened the pack. It was stuffed with bundles of cash. Observing the exchange, Ilya reflected that Sharkovsky would not have agreed to this deal ten years ago, when conflicts across the globe had offered a more reliable stream of income. Even at the best of times, though, this was a dangerous moment, with so much money changing hands, and Ilya was watching the Armenians with even more than his usual intensity when an unexpected movement caught his eye.
    Across from Ilya stood a vanity with an oval mirror, its silver surface reflecting the wardrobe behind him. The wardrobe was ample and wide, with a double door of pressed wood.
    As he watched the reflection, one of the doors drifted open a fraction of an inch.
    He turned. Before he could draw his gun, the wardrobe’s door was kicked open from the inside, revealing a fourth man in its darkened interior. A leveled shotgun was in his hands.
    Behind him, more guns were drawn. Arshak spoke softly. “Weapons on the floor.”
    Ilya turned back, keeping an eye on the man with the shotgun, who was emerging from the wardrobe. Guns had appeared in the hands of the other Armenians. Misha, who had been caught in a low crouch, looked furious, but Sharkovsky’s face was stony. “This is really what you want?”
    “Weapons,” Arshak said, sticking his pistol in the old man’s face. “I’m not joking.”
    After a beat, Sharkovsky gave an almost imperceptible nod. Ilya pulled the gun from his waistband and set it on the ground, never taking his eyes from the Armenians. Misha and Sharkovsky did the same, then, as ordered, set their clasped hands on the crowns of their heads.
    The boy with the cleft palate scar frisked them one at a time. As Sharkovsky endured this latest indignity, he regarded Arshak with an air of scientific detachment. “So what is this?”
    “A way to cut costs,” Arshak said, lowering his pistol. “These days, money is tight.”
    The boy with the scar sneered, deepening the crease on his upper lip. “And which of you will stop us? The
zhid
?”
    With the snout of his pistol, he poked Ilya roughly in the chest. Ilya lowered his gaze. On the table by the sofa stood a single lamp, its shade wrapped in cellophane. Before the gun could prod him a second time, Ilya turned, twisting his body, and locked his fingers around the boy’s wrist.
    The boy’s eyes met his own. Without looking away, Ilya took the lamp in his other hand, his actions unfoldingwith an underwater slowness, and smashed it across the boy’s face. He heard teeth shatter, then saw a blur of movement in the corner of one eye as the man with the shotgun raised it, shouting. Misha grabbed for the barrel, deflecting the gun an instant before it went off, and the chest of the second teen disappeared behind a cloud of blood.
    Ilya, ears ringing, dropped to one knee, wrenching the pistol from the boy’s hands. He felt his fingers close around the grip, then swung it up and around, vision red except for a single glowing tunnel centered on Arshak’s face. When the world cleared, the boy