The Thieves of Faith Read Online Free PDF Page A

force was a distinct possibility. And then the snow fell harder, whipped up by the winds over the open water, nearing blizzard conditions now. The river was on the verge of freezing but the recent weather had conspired to keep it flowing while dotting it with intermittent chunks of ice—though the water was still thirty-three life-ending degrees.
    The bridge was aglow with flashing red and blue. Michael stayed in the middle of the roadway, his tracks already wiped from existence by the snowstorm. The three behind him slowed their pace, the officers in front having now taken up positions around their cars. Guns were out, pistols and rifles all trained on him. Yet Michael continued running, much to the confusion of those who lay in wait. He ran harder, actually picking up his pace in the face of the myriad of drawn weapons before him.
    And then, without warning, hesitation, or reason, Michael darted left and leapt over the rail into the frigid Rhône, instantly disappearing from sight. The police were dumbfounded, rising up from their positions behind their cars. Their guns fell to their sides as they stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the man’s suicidal jump into the icy water. It was a moment before they charged onto the bridge, squinting through the snow as if their eyes had deceived them.
    At the same time, Michael’s pursuers came upon his point of departure, skidding to a halt. They leaned over the guardrail, scanned the rushing water, but saw nothing but chunks of floating ice banging against the bridge supports. There was no land below the bridge, nowhere to hide. But the three guards were taking no chances. Heinz stepped over the rail and leaned down, peering underneath the elevated roadway. There was no sign of Michael. It was a moment held in time. The cops were in a collective murmur, astounded at what they just witnessed.
    Without a shout or a scream, one of the policemen pointed downriver. Floating downstream, a body, dressed in black, bobbed to the surface. It was a quarter mile away. The police radioed for a boat. The three guards looked about, not a word spoken; one of them kept his eye on the body while the others continued to scan the waters.
     
     
     
    Michael had hit the water as if diving into a vat of lava. His face and hands screamed as the sharp cold pierced the skin of his face. Under his dark coveralls, his body was mercifully covered in a dry suit, the same suit that had kept him warm throughout his heist, the same suit that was now keeping him alive. Michael swam straight down, fighting the current. He clipped his belt to the large steel mesh bag that was anchored to the piling; it now anchored him. He reached through the mesh and removed a regulator, taking a precious sip of air into his heaving lungs, the current strong enough to carry his exhaust bubbles downstream, where they surfaced unnoticed in the chop. Michael pulled on a hood with a dive mask. He exhaled through his nose into the mask, clearing it of water, and looked through the murky river around him. He fought the heavy flow and pulled on his air tank, securing his buoyancy control vest snugly about his body.
    He looked at his watch: it had been a minute. He pulled the release on the mesh bag and watched as the black-suited mannequin was pulled into the current, floating downriver. He knew it would be at least fifteen minutes before they mobilized a boat and disappointedly plucked the decoy from the frigid waters.
    Michael had secured his gear the night before under cover of water and darkness. He had worn a heavier-grade dry suit then, and came in from upstream on an underwater propulsion vehicle. There had been a slim chance that the mesh containment bag would rip from its anchor point during the twenty-four-hour interval before his robbery, but luck had remained on Michael’s side. Michael gripped the handles on the UPV, looked at the handle-mounted compass, and pointed himself upriver. He kicked on the electric motor and held