Page 1 of Factory Thief

VICTORIA

Silver moonlight splashes amorphous shadows across the well-manicured lawn before me. Crouched on the twelve-foot-high privacy fence surrounding the post-modern six-bedroom house, I have a great vantage on my target; the smallish attic window situated over the ten-car garage across the lawn.

Beautiful as it is, the full moon overhead presents a problem. The privacy fence doesn’t fully block the view from the neighbor’s bedroom window. Should they happen to glance out while I speed across the grass, they’re going to see me.

But I don’t have much choice. Fred Wilson, the rich A-hole who owns this overwrought example of insipidly artistic architecture, is only going to be out of town this weekend. It’s now or never.

I check my mechanical watch in the light of the moon. No screen or digital glow means it doesn’t give away my position in the dark. The quartz casing can reflect light, which is why I keep it tucked under my long, black sleeve. It’s well after midnight. The neighbor’s window is a dark rectangle against the lighter façade of their ivory walls.

I stare at the ground twelve feet below, gauging the distance. I drop off the wall and hit feet first, then leap into a forward somersault to eat up the momentum. When I come up to my feet I run across the yard, a dark flash in the night.

The side of the garage looms before me, a wide window offering a shadowed glimpse at the hulks of high-end vehicles. I don’t slow down, leaping into the air and planting my left foot on the edge of the windowsill.

Using my momentum, I launch myself into the air and snag hold of the edge of the roof with both hands. I shimmy sideways, my body swinging below me. The roof shingles feel rough and gritty beneath my fingertips.

I flip over to a section of the garage near a streetlight. I climb up the pole and stand atop the roof at last.

No time to savor my victory. I move with a swift, careful tread toward the attic window. There are windows far easier to access on Wilson’s miniature castle, but they all have motion sensors protecting them.

Not this window, though. They probably figured the steel fan set inside would be enough of a deterrent.

They thought wrong. Last night I downloaded a PDF on exactly how to install and uninstall one of these attic fans, and I learned it by heart and then watched three videos. The internet is an incredible source of information. Moving with precision, I use my electric screwdriver to remove the cumbersome fan.

A poly-carbon sheath muffles most of the noise of my driver, but not all. Breaking into places for a living helps develop a sixth sense. I’m usually listening to everything and anything all at once. The driver robs me of that sense, and I can’t help but feel anxious.

The fan out of my way, I climb through the opening left behind. My nose wrinkles in disgust at the disarray in the attic. It looks like anything left over from construction or childhood got shoved up here. I pass by one of those Furby things turned over on its side atop a stack of Spanish hardwood tile. Hmm. Too bad I didn’t bring in a driver on this caper. If I had, I could make an additional profit. This stack of tile is worth at least seven grand.

No time to worry about that. I creep along the attic floor and reach the severe, narrow stairwell leading down to the third floor. The smell of a pine cleaner mingles with lavender. I find myself in a hallway lined with artwork. Oil paintings, the obligatory bust on a pedestal, and…is that a tapestry? An actual freaking tapestry? Who the hell has a tapestry in this day and age?

Shaking my head, I pad silently down the hallway to Wilson’s study. Now that I think about it, that tapestry was kind of cool. Maybe I can make off with it, too…How much could it weigh?

I reach his office door and roll my eyes when I find it locked. Sighing, I crouch down and get my lockpick kit out. Fortunately, it’s a standard knob lock instead of a tricker deadbolt or spindle lock.

Using a flat piece of metal between door and frame, I push the latch bolt aside and the door pops open with ease. Glancing around Wilson’s office, I grunt with contempt at his taste in décor. Everything is polished metal and black, giving it a boring clinical feel.

Who cares? It’s the painting on the wall I’m after, anyway. I make sure the curtains are closed extra tight, shut the door, and flick on my flashlight.

I’ve got to admit, it’s a compelling work of art, all right.The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.An original work by Rembrandt, it’s a dark, masterful, and moody piece of Jesus and the disciples crossing the sea. A massive wave breaks against the prow of their little vessel, endangering them all.

This masterpiece used to live in the Isabella Stewart Garner Museum in Boston. It was stolen in 1990 and remained missing since. Well, not for everybody obviously.

One of the disciples—I can never tell them apart—is actually puking his guts out, which is funny. Then there’s Jesus himself. He’s supposed to look calm, but honestly, in that situation, he just looks like a guy on too much alprazolam.

Enough admiring the work. My fence says I’ll get a cut amounting to three hundred grand for this painting. Time to get it wrapped up for transportation.

I use a very sharp scalpel to cut the canvas away from the frame, paying utmost care with the old fabric. I force myself to remain calm and keep my hand steady. Once the painting has been freed of the frame, I gently lay it on Wilson’s desk and roll it up. I slide it into a mylar sheath and secure it on my back.

I close the office door on my way out and decide against taking anything else. I shall not be greedy. Exiting out of the attic window, I replace the fan, not bothering to put in more than two screws. Just enough to hold it in so the neighbors won’t notice it laying on the garage roof tomorrow morning.

Again, I have to cross the yard in plain sight of the neighbor’s window. I rush through the patch of silver-splashed grass and scramble up the privacy fence. I swing myself over and drop to the ground on the other side.

Mission accomplished. I parked my car a few blocks away, next to a poplar tree. Only a short hike through this wooded patch and I’m home free.

I doff my leather hood and stuff it in my bag as I go. Wilson had security cameras and I didn’t want my face being filmed. It’s a BDSM prop, but what can I say? It stays in place better than a ski mask, which are always sliding around and blinding me.

I come over a slight rise and spot the edge of the woods. My car, a nondescript Toyota sedan, sits in a pool of shadow on the sleepy residential road beyond the tree line.

“That’s far enough.”

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