Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (26 page)

Whenever they had an aerial unit, you could guarantee there'd be a zoom shot of the cops on the ground. Or in this case, the negotiator walking up to the door where armed gunmen were holding their hostage. They'd be sure to let the public know it was an innocent female hostage to promote sympathy. Quivering females were almost as important in news stories as in Hollywood thrillers for painting the villains as dastardly bad men. Right alongside kicking the dog. Didn't sound like there was a dog at Delaney's lodge.

The zoom shot of Grant's back was what he was hoping they'd be showing now. The close-up of the Resurrection Man trying to calm the situation down. As if to confirm he was right, he heard the name
Resurrection Man
used several times on the TV. He kept his eyes on the gap in the door and ignored his peripheral vision. Left and right. Miller and Cornejo would be in position now, or they wouldn't. There was no point worrying about it. In his experience you should concentrate on what you had control over and let the rest take care of itself.

Another gust of wind blew up. There was a cloud of swirling dust, more violent this time. The breeze was getting stronger. The trees weren't whispering anymore, they were shouting. Chimes that had been gentle became warning bells.

A voice sounded through the gap in the door. Could have been Delaney. “Not returning condoms again, are you?”

The door opened another couple of inches. Grant tried to see through the gap, but it was just darkness inside. The lights had been turned off. Daylight had brought dawn fully awake but had thrown the interior into shadow. It made the orange windcheater stand out even more.

“Funny, that. Your mate—the big guy from your office—he said the same thing over at the club earlier. That place is very tastefully soundproofed, by the way. I meant to tell you that.”

Grant stepped toward the opening. He lowered his arms halfway down and relaxed the elbows for quick movement. He still couldn't see inside.

“We had this discussion about how they used to prick one in ten on the production line.” He squinted into the gloom. “You know. About how one little prick could fuck up one big prick.”

There was movement through the gap.

“Well, the big prick. That'd be you.”

A chrome-plated gun barrel came up in one swift movement. It poked through the gap in the door and pointed straight at Grant's chest. There was no pause for negotiations. The gun fired three shots at point-blank range, blasting Grant backwards down the steps. He landed, a deadweight in a cloud of dust. The last thought to go through his mind was, “Who's the prick now?”

thirty-seven

Pain focuses the mind.
Shock fragments it. Pain and shock together can be too much for some people to handle. Grant was shocked at how painful being shot in the chest could be, even wearing the Kevlar vest from Miller's trunk. It felt like being hit with a sledgehammer three times, all at once. The force of landing on his back from three steps up knocked the wind out of him. Everything seemed to be coming in threes. He heard three gunshots inside the lodge.

The other thing that pain does is prompt an angry response. He'd seen it many times before. Even a simple thing like missing the nail and hitting your thumb with a hammer. First thing you felt like doing was smashing something with the hammer. His father had been a middling boxer in the navy but without the killer instinct— until he got punched in the nose and suddenly technique went out the window and a raging bull came out swinging. Grant had been trying all his life not to be his father. He failed. Being shot three times in the chest brought out the raging bull.

Now he was really pissed off.

There was another gunshot. A girl screamed.

Grant ignored the pain in his chest and thrust himself onto his feet. The forward motion carried him up the three steps and across the porch. His shoulder hit the door going full-tilt, and it flew open. He immediately dodged left, the .45 already in his hand.

There was nobody behind the door. The hallway was empty. There were three doors—that trifecta link again—and he quickly assessed what led where. Door on the right would be a reception room. Door on the left would be the living room with the TV. The door at the end of the hall would be either the kitchen or the rear lounge. A dogleg staircase on his right climbed to the upstairs bedrooms—three, he'd guess, judging by the dormer windows he'd seen outside. Trifecta.

He tried the right-hand door first. Quick turn of the handle and kick it open. Nod the head through, then back out again. A heavyset man with a gun was lying on his back in a pool of blood. Massive chest wound. Cornejo stood over him, kicking the handgun out of the big guy's fingers. He jerked the shotgun up as the door flew open. Saw it was Grant and nodded. “Clear.”

Grant didn't wait. He crossed the hall and did the same with the other door. The TV played to an empty room. Fast cuts of the armed police sighting across their patrol car hoods, the red and blue flashing lights, and repeat shots of Grant being blasted out of the doorway. He scanned the living room. Comfortable furniture. A dining table with four chairs beside a door through to the back room. One of the chairs was overturned. There was blood smattering against the wall behind the chair. A bullet hole amid the blood. On the opposite side of the room, next to the side door from the wraparound porch, there was another bullet hole. No blood this time. Good. Miller had made it through without getting shot.

A strangled scream came from the back room.

Grant ran the floor plan through his mind. Based on what he'd seen so far—hallway and stairs, reception room to the right, living room to the left with dining table, door from the side porch, door through to the back, door from the hallway through to the back and into the same room, kitchen extension, three bedrooms upstairs. Judging by the office at the Gentlemen's Club, Delaney seemed to like balconies. He'd put money on there being a balcony along the rear of the bedrooms, away from the lake for privacy.

He heard movement overhead. Something was knocked over in the kitchen. There was a muffled whimper. Grant tried to picture the scene. The hostage being dragged backwards with a strong arm across her mouth and a gun poking out from behind her. One man. Maybe two. Another upstairs. Doing what Grant would have done in his place. Outflanking the lone cop. Ignoring the cop from England they'd just shot three times in the chest.

Decision time. Grant didn't need to relax. Didn't need to breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He was in dynamic action mode. Everything would flow from whatever came his way. He contemplated warning Miller that there were three bad guys left but dismissed the thought. Miller had the same information Grant did. He could count. He'd heard the shotgun blast. One down, three to go.

Grant kept quiet. He was dead already, as far as the bad guys knew.

He went back into the hallway just as Cornejo stepped out of the other room. Grant pointed forked fingers at his own eyes, then up the stairs. He held one finger up, wavered the hand, then two fingers. One man or two. He pointed at Cornejo, then up the stairs. He pointed at himself then made walking fingers towards the front door and around the back. Cornejo nodded. The ex-marine began to climb the stairs. Grant stepped back outside into the strengthening wind.

He was right
about
the balcony. He was right about the flanking maneuver. It was the numbers he'd got wrong. Not because he couldn't count but because he'd placed so much faith in Oddjob's math. The big lug couldn't count worth shit. There were five left, not three, ruining Grant's run at the trifecta. Ruining his plan at sneaking up and ending this thing without losses for the good guys.

At least he was out of sight of the cameras now. Whatever went down from here on in would be private. Anybody wanting to argue about it would have to prove what happened. The first rule of evidence: it's not what you know, it's what you can prove. Given enough time, you could make the evidence support any version of events. The version Grant wanted now was the bad guys down and the good guys uninjured. That wasn't going to happen. They were outnumbered, but not by much. Time to even the odds.

As he came around the back corner of the lodge, he saw what he was up against. One man creeping around the outside of the kitchen to draw a bead on Miller. Two men through the kitchen window, with Miller moving his gun between them both. The girl held in a neck lock by one of them. Upstairs, two men edging out onto the balcony overlooking the kitchen windows. Five against three. One of the three more vulnerable than the rest: Miller. Grant liked the young detective. Had liked him from the moment they met. The responsibility of seeing him through this weighed heavy.

Time to even the odds.

Without giving a shouted warning, Grant stepped into the open, .45 raised. This wasn't the time for any of that “Stop, police” bullshit. There was none of that “aim to wound” rubbish either. He shot the man on the porch in the back twice, then immediately swung upwards and shot the first man on the balcony.

Three on three. Trifecta.

The second man on the balcony spun round and fired a snap shot at Grant. Wood splintered off the porch railing two feet away. The heavy blast of the shotgun shattered the dawn air. Cornejo wracked the slide and fired again. The gunman was blasted over the balcony and somersaulted to the ground.

Grant didn't wait. He darted to the kitchen door and kicked it open. Confusion reigned. That was good. Delaney had gone from six men standing to two against three. The big guy kept hold of the girl but didn't look committed anymore. Frank Delaney lowered the silver automatic.

There was no witty response. There was no gallows humor. Grant had just killed two men and watched a third shot to death. Gallows humor might come later, when he needed to cope with what he'd done, but not now. Now he was all business and dangerous to know.

It looked like they might have just about got away with it. The magnificent three. The big guy lowered his gun. Delaney looked deflated. Miller breathed a sigh of relief. Then the porch door opened behind the young detective and Oddjob's math came back to haunt them. A final heavy came through the door, gun arm raised, and sprayed the room with bullets.

He was the worst shot Grant had ever seen, but even a blind squirrel would find a nut every now and then. The electric toaster beside the breadboard exploded. The cupboard door above it took two hits. Panic flared the heavy's nostrils and fixed his eyes wide open. A stack of dinner plates standing in the washbasin drainer shattered. Glass in the kitchen door behind Grant smashed. Delaney dropped to the floor with both hands covering his head.

Miller took one in the neck above the protective Kevlar vest.

Grant roared his anger. “Nnnoooo.”

He stepped into the room and shot the seventh man in the throat. He didn't aim there. Perceived wisdom was to always aim for the body mass, giving less chance of missing. The perceived wisdom was right. He loosed off three shots at the man's chest, but in his rage his gun hand aimed high. He didn't miss, just killed the guy with two neck shots and one in the shoulder.

Grant rushed to the fallen detective.

Cornejo rushed through from the hallway.

Grant jerked Miller's radio out of his pocket and yelled into the mouthpiece. “Officer down. Officer down. Get an ambulance. Scene clear.”

Blood oozed down Miller's neck. At least it wasn't pulsing; that was good. Grant snatched a tea towel from the rail and folded it into a thick pad. He shifted Miller onto his side and pressed the pad against the wound. Miller's eyes were flickering. He was going into shock. Delaney started to get up, but Cornejo racked the shotgun's slide. Grant glared at the small-time gangster with ambitions of an empire. The suave businessman had disappeared. His face was pale.

Cornejo came over and took over from Grant. “Field dressing. I'm good with this.”

Grant didn't speak but nodded his thanks. He stood up, the .45 hanging loose at his side. The big guy holding the girl had dropped his gun on the floor. Grant kicked it aside. The kitchen smelled of cordite and burned toast. A hint of coffee but the gunpowder overpowered the smell.

“Sit.”

The big guy sat on a stool at the breakfast bar Grant hadn't noticed when he came in. Kristina Simonovich gasped for breath and clutched her throat. Tears welled in her eyes. She sat next to the heavy and coughed the tears away.

Sirens sounded outside, coming from a distance. The uniform officers from the barricade charged through the front door. The big stick Grant had hoped they wouldn't need. His chest felt like he'd been kicked by a horse, but he indicated the heavy to be arrested and explained the others were dead. The uniforms handcuffed the big guy, and one made a move towards Delaney. Grant blocked the way. “I've got this one.”

One of the extra uniforms crouched beside Miller and helped Cornejo stem the flow of blood from his neck. The girl stopped coughing and took several deep breaths. She turned to Grant with anguish in her eyes.

“Pliss. Save my sister. She iss bombed. With bomb. Don't let her blow up.”

Grant didn't understand at first, then it hit him. He saw Freddy Sullivan's workbench with the solder and the tools and the pieces of cotton webbing. He saw the empty matchbooks and the missing condoms. He suddenly realized it wasn't webbing but pieces of bra strap. Delaney wasn't hoping to influence the vote by coercing Senator Clayton. He'd imported his very own suicide bomber, and Clayton was her ticket to the party.

thirty-eight

There comes a time
in every cop's life when he has to make a choice between doing what's right and doing what's lawful. You'd think both were the same, but the way things have become, the law is often stacked in favor of the breakers over the protectors. Grant had made that choice before and had no qualms about cutting legal corners to get a result, but the price had never been as expensive as right now. He made the same choice he always made: right over lawful.

He shot Delaney in the leg, then dragged him into the restroom under the stairs. “Q and A. No wrong answers.”

The door clicked shut behind them, and Grant locked it with the twist lock in the middle of the handle. He took a hand towel off the drying rail and wrapped it around Delaney's leg. Blood soaked through immediately. Grant took the gangster's hand and pressed it against the wound. He didn't explain. It was up to Delaney if he bled to death.

Delaney had plenty to say. “You fuck—you shot me!”

Grant sat on the toilet with the lid down for a seat. He said nothing, just stared at the man crouched on the floor. Delaney stared back, tears of pain welling in his eyes. “Holy Christ bleedin' on the cross—you fuckin' shot me.”

“You said that already. Want to try for the other leg?”

Pain was etched all over Delaney's face. Grant had aimed for the fleshy part of the thigh. There were no broken bones, and he'd missed the vital artery. A .45 at close range made a helluva mess, though, and he knew that shock would rob Delaney of rational thought soon enough. “Where's the girl?”

“In the kitchen.”

“The other girl. Her sister.”

Delaney pressed the towel into his leg. It was almost completely red now. He shook his head in disbelief. His face turned ashen grey. Sweat broke out on his brow. His hands began to shake. He shook his head again. Grant fired one shot into the tiled wall beside Delaney's head. Shards of glazed tile cut the gangster's cheek. His head snapped up and his eyes focused on the man sitting on the toilet seat. Grant held the .45 against Delaney's good leg. On the knee. “Last chance.”

Delaney told him everything.

Grant listened
with increasing
amazement that someone who had achieved so much in the field of crime could be so completely stupid. The man had climbed out of the sewer that had formed him and had crafted a criminal empire that spread far beyond Jamaica Plain and the rest of Boston. He'd reached the stage where he didn't need the criminal side of things anymore; his money was invested in so many legitimate businesses that he could go straight. Instead, he'd begun to believe his own publicity and was going for the championship. It wasn't a case of power corrupting and absolute power corrupting absolutely; it was just that Delaney believed he was beyond the law.

Grant leaned forward. “And you actually thought that would work?”

For Delaney, talking appeared to bring him around. He looked more focused than when he'd been dragged in there bleeding fifteen minutes ago. “Why not?”

“Because you're not Goldfinger, and this isn't Fort Knox. You blow up the oil delegation, you think the deal's going to go away? Hell, no. You've got interests in gas stations and stuff. Big money. You think America gives a shit where the oil comes from? Christ. You've invaded more countries than the Nazis, and it's nearly always about oil instead of national security. Ask them in Louisiana what they think about American oil.”

“That's British Petroleum.”

“It's off the coast of America. Ain't from Abu-fuckin'-Dhabi.”

Delaney shrugged. He didn't even seem to grasp what a monster he'd become. Grant reminded him. “Let's get to the point. You've got the girl wired. Liquid explosives in the condoms hanging from a harness in the bra. How you going to detonate it?”

Delaney held a fist up with the thumb sticking up. He bent the thumb a couple of times as if pressing a button. “Wireless remote. Guy in the food court.”

Grant stood up and pressed his foot against Delaney's injured leg. Delaney writhed in agony. Grant pointed the .45 at the gangster's head, then took it away. He took a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks. “You fuckin' arse. Anybody on their cell phone matches the frequency and they could all go up in flames.”

He unlocked the door and was about to go out but changed his mind. He stepped back inside and kicked Delaney in the side of the leg. Then he went into the kitchen. A paramedic was attending to Miller. The young detective looked pale and frightened. Cornejo was leaning against the breakfast bar. The uniform cops had taken the last prisoner away.

Grant dropped to a squat beside Miller and rested a hand on his arm. “We have to shut down the convention center.”

Miller found it hard to talk. He couldn't shake his head. “Can't.”

The paramedic held up a hand to stop Grant. “This officer needs to be at MGH. Right now.”

A second paramedic prepared the gurney. The pair of them lifted the backboard Miller was strapped to. A telephone began to ring. Not the house phone—the “James Bond Theme.” In Miller's pocket. Grant took the cell out and gave Miller a quizzical look. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Miller managed a weak smile and pointed at himself. “Double-oh-seven.”

Grant tapped his own chest. “QWERTY.”

Grant flipped the phone open and answered. It was Kincaid. “Where's Miller?”

“Paramedics are taking him out now.”

“He gonna be okay?”

“I think so.”

Grant didn't think Miller would be okay, but there was no need to tell Kincaid that. There were more important issues to be sorted. He cut through Kincaid's protestations about getting his protégé shot. “You need to get Clayton and his girl out of there.”

“Hey. There's bigger shit to slop today.”

“You bet your ass there is. Listen—”

Kincaid cut Grant off. His voice could be heard throughout the kitchen. He was angry, and when he was angry he shouted. Loud. “I've just hit the shit valley jackpot. Surprise late attendee. Security just got cranked up to red alert.”

“Sam, listen: there's a—”

“
Fuck
listening. The crown prince of Saudi-fuckin'-somewhere- or-other arrives in twenty minutes.”

Grant tried to tell Kincaid to shut down all communications, but he was talking to dead air. Kincaid had hung up.