Free Brooklyn Knight by null

the voice on the other end of the line told him;
    “I regret to admit you are correct, sir.”
    He knew it. The electronically masked words stung him, filling him with an exasperating frustration. Deep within himself he had somehow known since the entire operation had begun that things would go wrong.
    “And what is it that makes me correct when I so very much wish not to be so?”
    “Our team failed to acquire the object you requested. Their failure was actually something quite unexpected. What should have been a simple retrieval, a thing of minimal effort, somehow has gone terribly wrong.”
    “How wrong?”
    “Four of our people are dead. Another was forced tocause himself serious injury simply to escape the authorities as well as to cover our tracks. These matters are, of course, sir, not your concern. Our organization in no way is attempting to hold you responsible. Nor are we looking to alter the terms of our agreement. We are, at this time, merely informing you that it appears we simply were not prepared for all contingencies.”
    “This is what you are telling me. Fine. I am told. Now, what is it you are actually suggesting?”
    The electronic voice asked for a moment to confer with its colleagues. After that the line went quiet as the voice on the phone went into muffled conference with others equally disguised. Their discussion consumed only a handful of seconds, ones taken up with what seemed to the party on the other end, not so much any kind of debate rather than a discussion concerning whether or not everyone he was listening to was in agreement. Finding they were, the distorted voice returned to the line once more, ready to make an offer.
    “You must understand, sir, we pride ourselves on delivering on any contract. We have a reputation, after all, as the best in this business.”
    “And so, your offer … ?”
    “You have a choice. We will either refund your deposit, even that interest earned on it while in our possession …”
    “Very generous. Or—”
    “Or, we will make a second attempt. You must understand, however. Unlike our previous foray, the piece you have shown an interest in is no longer sitting waiting in a museum basement. It has been moved to a police station. Also, our sources say that intense examination of it is to begin tomorrow. I hope this will not interfere with your own plans.”
    Tell them to get it, the voice in the back of his mind was snarling—raging. Tell them nothing else matters.
    “The fools can study it all they like; they are gibbons clambering over an algebra textbook. Are you saying you can still get the piece for me by the date mentioned?”
    “It will call upon a far greater output of resources,” answered the disembodied voice. “But again, that is our concern. We have our reputation to consider. If you will allow it, we will put our second attempt into immediate action.”
    Tell them!
    “Do it,” answered the man, still drumming his fingers. “The money is of no concern. I simply must have the piece.”
    “So it is said,” responded the voice, its dead electronic hum coming across as almost joyous, “so it is done. You shall have the object of your desire, even if we have to wipe its prison from the face of the Earth.”
    “Whatever it takes,” answered the man, his fingers drumming, moving faster than ever. “ Whatever it takes.”

 

    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    “I still can’t believe it.”
    The words came from Detective Sergeant Jimmy Dollins. Just approaching middle age, the detective was a massive bear of a man, one gone somewhat soft around the middle, but still dangerous looking enough so that only his best friends would dare mention the fact without fearing retribution. His uncombed mane of tangled brown hair and the four days’ growth of his beard did little to make him appear as if he might be looking for any new friends.
    Across the table from him, his partner, Denny LaRaja, a smaller, immaculately groomed, soft-spoken man,