Page 1 of Boxed In

Prologue

“Let’s run through the drill again. The first rule is—do not hesitate to kill. The second rule—do not open the box under any circumstances.”

Mr. Smith spoke quietly as he issued his final orders to the other two thieves.

Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown picked up their handguns from the bedside tables and checked the magazines. Then they returned to their seats on the hotel room sofa and chair and focused on their leader.

All three men were of medium height, their well-toned muscles giving them the look of bionic soldiers.

All three had dark eyes and olive skin. The oldest of the trio, Mr. Smith, had close-cropped hair shot through with gray. Mr. Jones had thick black hair that was slicked back from his wide forehead. And Mr. Brown was as bald as a cannonball.

Their names were convenient fictions, of course, chosen to help them blend into the Baltimore urban landscape. None of them was an American citizen, but each had a driver’s license, credit cards and a medical insurance card to prove that he had been born in the States and resided here.

In reality, they would be in the country only long enough to complete their mission—to steal the priceless antique box they had been hired to acquire. They would be leaving the hotel suite soon, and suppressed excitement thickened the air.

Excitement, not fear, Mr. Smith assured himself. They were too disciplined to let their nerves show. They would execute the mission without a hitch. And they would be rewarded handsomely with a million dollars each, deposited in Swiss bank accounts.

Or—

He refused to consider the alternative. Because failure meant death for the three of them. And that was not going to happen.

They’d deplaned at BWI International Airport the week before and passed through customs and immigration without a hitch. Initially they had been posing as European antique dealers on a buying trip to the United States. Once inside the country, they’d switched ID’s.

They’d also acquired the weapons they needed, then gotten comfortable driving the narrow streets of Baltimore. It was an ugly city, but that was of little importance, since they’d be leaving soon.

They’d taken turns checking out the location of their target, watching the comings and goings at the front door, the garage and the loading dock.

That was only part of their drill. Every day, they jogged for five miles around the Inner Harbor, then worked out at a downtown gym, keeping their bodies in shape so that they functioned like a well-oiled attack machine.

Mr. Smith looked at his watch. “Almost time.”

He picked up a drawing from the dresser and unfolded it. It showed a wooden chest about a foot long and eight inches across, the entire surface was covered with ornate carvings of vines, flowers, animals and phases of the moon. They had studied it countless times.

“It’s beautiful,” Mr. Brown murmured.

“The power is more important than the beauty,” Mr. Smith answered.

“Will we feel the power?” Mr. Jones asked in a hushed voice.

No one had asked that question previously, and Mr. Smith took it as a sign that nerves were finally breaking through their carefully cultivated calm.

“You may sense something,” Smith answered, keeping his words slow and even to cover the inconvenient fact that he was just guessing at the answer. “The ancient magic has a seductive power, but there is no danger if the lid remains closed.”

Jones nodded, apparently satisfied.

Smith folded the picture and put it in his pants pocket, then looked toward the bags sitting beside the door. The luggage was going in the car when they left the room, and the team would be ready to leave the city as soon as they pulled off the theft of the century.

Not at a bank or a museum but at a small import company called Peterbalm Associates which was woefully ill-prepared for their attack.

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