Free Thieves Till We Die by Stephen Cole

not,’ she said, removing two memory sticks from the chunky buckle of her leather belt. ‘We have five gigabytes of storage on each of these. I’m going to copy his hard drive across so we can go through it later.’
    The minutes crawled by as she copied the files and changed sticks. Patch chewed his lip and checked his watch.
    â€˜Done.’ Con yanked out the second memory stick, tucked it with the other one back behind her belt buckle and shut down the computer. ‘We must leave everything just as we found it. And you must lock the door again.’
    â€˜Tell you what, extra incentive. If I do it in less than a minute, you have to show me your pants.’
    Con raised one eyebrow coyly.
    Patch almost whimpered. ‘No pants either?’
    â€˜You should get out more, Patch,’ Con mused, striding primly to the door. ‘No?’
    Back in the entrance hall, Con told the guard to forget everything that had happened since he’d been ordered to watch them, and to continue as normal. Like any good guard he did exactly as he was told, and covered them with both his gun and his glare until his boss re-emerged from the living room with Coldhardt, almost thirty minutes later.
    Coldhardt looked enquiringly at Con, and she nodded discreetly. ‘I’m afraid that Señor Kabacra will still not tell me how we may contact Sixth Sun. Not for any price.’ Coldhardt’s affable smile belied the ice in his tone. ‘Interesting behaviour for a mercenary whovalues his independence so highly.’
    â€˜I think perhaps you may thank me for keeping quiet some day, Coldhardt.’ Kabacra gave a bark of cheerless laughter. ‘Now, because I have so enjoyed your visit, my men will escort you to your vehicle and you may leave.’ But then he grabbed Patch by the back of his scrawny neck, making him yelp. ‘That is, of course, once you have told me the location of my other swords.’
    Con bit her lip as both guards aimed their weapons at Coldhardt’s head.
    â€˜You’ll find them in the penthouse suite of the Stanley Hotel in Livingston,’ he said. ‘They are in a holdall beneath the four-poster bed.’
    â€˜That is most illuminating. Thank you.’ Kabacra grinned through his criss-cross of scars, tightening his grip on Patch’s neck. ‘But you know, I find myself wondering – why should I not kill you now? If you are telling the truth, I have no further use for you. And if you are lying, you and your young “associates” deserve to die in any case.’
    Con cleared her throat. ‘You’ll let us go free, Kabacra. Because if we do not return to our colleagues this evening, your little hideaway here will be made public.’ She fought to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘To the FBI, Interpol, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service –’
    â€˜The suite at the Stanley is paid for till the end of the week,’ Coldhardt interrupted. ‘Why not stay there with my blessing? The tortillas and eggs at breakfast are particularly good.’
    Kabacra’s scarred top lip curled slowly like paper ina fire. ‘Leave, then,’ he hissed. ‘But should you be foolish enough to tell others of this place, or to seek audience with me again …’
    Patch pulled himself free of the man’s grip, almost falling over as he raced to reach the front door.
    Con set off after him, keeping close to Coldhardt. As Patch threw open the front door and they walked outside, she had never been so glad to feel the sun on her skin.
    The chauffeur started the Range Rover, and the guard covering him looked to Kabacra for confirmation they were free to go. He must have received it, since he stepped away from the vehicle and allowed them inside.
    â€˜We did it,’ Con murmured. ‘We actually did it!’
    â€˜We ain’t out of here yet,’ Patch warned her.
    Coldhardt said nothing until the pale chauffeur