Free The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee Page A

was on the ground, crying, his scar obscured by blood. A second man lay dead on the floor. Misha was holding the shotgun. Arshak, gun raised but pointing at nothing, found himself face-to-face with two armed men. “Okay—”
    “On the floor,” Sharkovsky said. “Nose to the rug. Don’t make me ask you twice.”
    Arshak and the surviving gunman lowered themselves to the ground. It took a while to get the boy with the scar to pay attention, but a few kicks persuaded him to lie flat as well. Ilya picked up his own revolver. As he covered the Armenians with a gun in each hand, Sharkovsky told Misha to bring in Zhenya, then turned to the owner. “Were you a part of this?”
    “No,” the owner said, his face pale. “I saw only three men. This one must have snuck in when I wasn’t looking—”
    As his voice began to quaver, Sharkovsky cut him off. “Enough. Get me some rope.”
    Misha returned with Zhenya, who was trembling with excitement. They bound the Armenians with cord fromthe storage room, then took stock of the situation. The cash in the knapsack consisted of
kukly
, rolls of plain paper with real bills on the outside. Taking one of the bundles, Sharkovsky showed it to Arshak, who was still on the floor. “So what was the rest of your plan?”
    When Arshak did not respond, Sharkovsky threw the bundle in his face, then turned to the owner. “The rug is ruined. How much for it?”
    The owner pondered this for a moment. “For you? Let’s call it three hundred.”
    “Three hundred?” The
vor
seemed incredulous. “For this piece of shit? It’s worth two fifty at the most—”
    “But it’s wool,” the owner said, kneeling to turn over the label. “Tufted by hand.”
    Sharkovsky grunted, then signaled to Zhenya, who, after a sharp nudge, dug a bankroll from his back pocket and peeled off three bills. The owner accepted the money without speaking.
    Turning back to the others, the
vor
took a cushion from the nearest sofa. Without being asked, Misha came forward and pressed his foot against the neck of the boy with the cleft palate scar.
    With the air of a man who had been given a tiresome but necessary task, Sharkovsky placed the cushion against the boy’s head, wrapping it around his gun. When he fired, the shot was muffled, like that of a damp noisemaker. Moving on to the man from the wardrobe, he fired again. Two dark pools began to spread slowly across the rug, leaving a feathery outline around each body.
    When they arrived at Arshak, he did not say a word. His eyes were open and dry, and he flinched only slightly when he felt the pressure of the foot against the back ofhis neck. Sharkovsky took the cushion, which was leaking wisps of stuffing, and placed it against Arshak’s head.
    Resting the gun against the cushion, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again. The gun refused to fire. At the level of the floor, Arshak’s one visible eye looked up uncertainly.
    “Fucking thing is jammed,” Sharkovsky said. He turned to Ilya. “Give me your gun.”
    Ilya handed him the revolver, grip first, and took the pistol in exchange. Without a pause, Sharkovsky pressed the gun against the cushion and fired. Rising, he gave the gun back to Ilya, then turned to the owner, allowing the cushion to fall from his hands. “You can see after this?”
    The owner’s eyes were fixed on the four bodies. “Yes. I will take care of it.”
    “Good.” Sharkovsky told Zhenya to bring the guns. He had to repeat the order twice before Zhenya, face ashen, picked up the duffel bag. The shotgun and pistols went into the bag as well, along with the digital camera. With a handkerchief, Misha scooped up the shell that the shotgun had ejected, slipping it into his pocket. They left the phony cash where it was.
    Outside the store, it was still raining. The shutter fell behind them, sliding down with a coarse whine. As they headed up the sidewalk, Ilya could make out the Wonder Wheel in the distance. It was, he saw, a