Boston Cream (32 page)

“What was that shooting?” a man asked. We heard his voice down the corridor to our left but couldn’t see him. I jabbed my gun into Daggett’s spine.

“Me,” he said. “Shooting at a rat. You wouldn’t believe the fucking size of it, Bren. Thought it was Whitey Bulger himself.”

“Good one,” Bren said. The hall he was coming down wasn’t carpeted, and we heard his steps grow louder over hardwood. Ryan made eye contact with Victor and pointed to himself and his shotgun, and pointed him to the hallway across from us. Bren’s steps were measured as they approached the foyer. “You want a coffee, Sean?”

The words had just tailed off when he broke into a run and came charging in firing an automatic weapon of his own. Victor’s chest exploded in a shower of blood. Another gun boomed from the corridor Victor had been watching and blew out a piece of the wall just behind Ryan’s head. I pushed Daggett aside and returned fire there, five shots hitting nothing but wood and plaster. Ryan pounded two shotgun rounds into Bren, who dropped to his back, his gun clattering across the parquet floor. Daggett went for it—or made me think he was going for it. As I lunged to grab the back of his collar, he
planted his good leg and whirled backwards, elbow first, and caught me with a vicious shot to the side of the head. I felt a wave of nausea surge up my throat, burning the tissue, as I reeled back. His act had fooled me; I thought he’d been too badly hurt to try anything.

“Jonah!” Ryan yelled.

“I’m okay. You get Joey. Daggett’s mine.”

Daggett staggered back down the corridor that led to the garage. I tried to fix him in my gunsight but my eyes were out of focus and the bullet only bit into the wooden arch. I took three steps to my left and fired again. A sconce on the wall shattered in a burst of glass. He kept running, hopping, zigzagging across the wide corridor, and then banged out the door that led to the loading dock.

Damn it. I hadn’t taken the gun off the guard there, Denny. If Daggett made it back there before I could stop him, he’d be armed again.

I dropped the Beretta in the bag and took out the Colt M4 and moved down the hall on unsteady feet. When I reached the door that led out to the dock, I knelt down and blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus properly. I reached up and shook the handle. Two rounds tore through the wood of the bottom half. A third shattered the glass, raining shards down on my arm and neck. I stood up, stuck the M4 barrel through the broken glass and blindly fired three bursts. There was no cry of pain, no body dropping dead on the cement. Just uneven footsteps running out into the night. I opened the door wide enough to roll out onto the dock. Denny was still lying flat on his back. No gun in his belt. I swept my gun barrel left to right, making sure Daggett wasn’t hiding behind his car or Stayner’s Caddy. But he was gone. I went out after him, feeling the temperature drop as I exited the garage. I kept my back to the wall of the building, wondering which way he had gone. Left or right. Then I remembered the north-side door, the one with the crash bar, could be
opened only from the inside. He could only have gone south.

As I eased around the corner, a shot rang out and bits of brick blew into my face, breaking skin and drawing beads of blood. I dropped down and elbow-crawled forward until I could reach around the corner with the M4 and fire off another burst. As the sound died away I heard a door close. He had gone back into the building. If I followed him, I’d be on his turf and on his terms. I’d seen drawings of the building but he knew it cold. He could ambush me a dozen different ways. I turned and went back into the garage instead, vaulted up onto the dock. Denny was lying on his back, breathing. I turned him onto his side, found some strapping and bound his hands behind him. Back inside, moving down the hallway toward the foyer, I stayed close to one wall, my finger on the trigger of the Colt. When I came to the open space, only silence greeted me. Victor, the big man and Brendan were dead. The one Victor had clubbed, Kelly, was dead too, his neck unnaturally loose when I felt for a pulse. There was no sign of Ryan or Joey.

That left me nowhere to go but the prep rooms. I started down the hall that led to the extension where they were housed, where undertakers had worked their magic over the years to prepare bodies for viewing. Though the funeral home had long been out of business, the air smelled different in this wing. There was a chemical taint to it, a hint of preservatives. Maybe if I breathed it in I’d live longer.

I listened for the sound of steps, of breathing, anything that might tell me if someone was lying in wait. There was no room for hesitation or error. If Daggett or one of his men crossed my field of vision I would blast away, and keep blasting until they were dead.

Even though I’m not a violent man.

Wait. A floorboard creaked ahead of me. Ahead and on the right. I stopped moving and crouched into the smallest possible target. The hall ended in a T. To the right was a storage
room where supplies were kept, to the left the two prep rooms. On the right side, something came into view at eye level. The barrel of a shotgun. My breathing was loud and ragged in my ear. A few more inches of the barrel showed. I knew Daggett only had a pistol. So did Frank. Ryan or Joey? Both had shotguns. I tasted salt on my lip from the sweat that was beading there. I put a little pressure on the trigger and kept it there until I saw the stock of the shotgun.

A Mossberg.

I ran my tongue over my lips and hissed, “Ryan!”

The barrel stopped moving. I heard him whisper, “Jonah?”

I stood up slowly, heard a crack in my knee as a tendon stretched. “All clear,” I whispered back.

He came around the corner, raising the gun barrel toward the ceiling, and waved me over.

“Where’s Daggett?” he asked.

I shook my head. “He got away. And he’s got a gun.”

“Whose?”

“The guy I laid out on the dock.”

“Shit.”

“I fucked up. Forgot to frisk him.”

“Never mind that. It was all happening fast. We’ll get him.”

“And Joey?”

“I had to chase him into an office and shoot him in the back. First time I ever did that. All my years in the game, I never had to.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Hey,” he said. “This is me, Geller. Not some rent-a-fuck you hire off the street. I won’t lose a minute’s sleep over any of them.”

“All right.”

“What about you? You took another shot to the head.”

“I’m good,” I lied. The truth was I felt unsteady, weak, more than a little nauseous. “Any sign of Jenn?”

“Not yet. I was about to check these rooms.”

“Daggett said she was in Prep Room B.”

“You believe him?”

“He had a gun on him when he said it.”

We moved together down the hall, Ryan going forward, me walking backwards, covering us against any action from the rear. When we got to Prep Room B, he whispered, “How do you want to do this?”

“Kick the door in and shoot anyone who isn’t Jenn.”

“You’re the karate kid,” he said. “As soon as you kick it, drop to the floor so you’re not in my line of fire.”

“Use your pistol,” I said. “It’s too close quarters for a shotgun.”

He set the shotgun down carefully, stock down, and took out his Glock and nodded. I lined myself up in front of the door handle. There was no additional lock on the door. I focused on the area where the strike plate would be, took a deep breath and launched a front kick. The door flew open and I hurled myself forward and saw Jenn down on the bed, her wrists and arms strapped to the frame, a gag in her mouth, her body twisting back and forth, her eyes wide with fear. A man with hair like a scrub brush was standing next to the bed, dropping a cellphone and going for a gun under his arm. Ryan shot him twice in the chest. He fell backwards on top of Jenn; I leapt forward and grabbed his bloody shirt front, yanked him off her and threw his body to the ground.

She was alive. Thank fucking God she was alive. I sat down on the narrow bed and undid the gag first and she cried out my name. I leaned down and put my arms around her and felt hot tears on my neck.

“We got you,” I said.

She tried to say something but her sobs became hiccups
and I just held her, feeling her chest heaving and shaking. I felt tears well up in my eyes too.

“I knew you would,” she finally said.

“Ahem,” Ryan said.

She turned her head and saw him and broke out in a grin. “And you,” she said. “I hoped you’d mix in.”

“When don’t I?”

I got her wrists free while Ryan went back to the door and retrieved his shotgun, covering the hallway. “Did they hurt you?”

She sat up, her cheeks shiny with tears. She wiped them with one sleeve. “I don’t think so. Not much, anyway. Daggett slapped me a couple of times because of what I did to his friend. But then he said he wanted me healthy so he could use me. You heard what for. He brought me in here and this guy put a needle in my arm. That’s all I remember except for—”

“For what?”

“Weird dreams. Really weird. I mean, I … What time is it anyway? Is it still Saturday?”

“Monday,” I said. “Monday night.”

“Jesus.”

“When did you wake up?”

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago. Daggett’s friend, the one I hit with the car, he called a few minutes ago. He was on the way here.”

“Don’t worry about him.” I stood and held out my hand. “Can you stand up?”

She took my hand out and I pulled her up gently. I pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her and held her tight again.

“My clothes are on the chair,” she said.

I kept my arm around her shoulder. She took a few steps and grimaced and then tears started to stream down her face again.

“What?” I said. “Honey, what?”

“It hurts,” she said. “My—down there—it hurts. Oh, God. Oh God, what did he do? Did he—what, the whole time I was here?”

She looked down at the man on the floor and kicked him hard in the head, the sheet coming off her and falling to the floor, just as David Fine’s grey blanket had fallen to the sand on Plum Island. She threw her arms around me and I held her tight.

“Listen,” I said. “Daggett is in the building. On the loose. We have to go find him.”

“Wait,” she said.

We held each other another half minute. When I felt the panic subside, I let go of her and picked up the dead man’s gun—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Ryan and I turned our backs while she got dressed. Then I handed the gun to Jenn and said, “Stay here until we find Daggett.”

“No.”

“It’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I said no, Jonah. I’m not spending another second in this room.”

“You’ll be safer here.”

“I’m coming with you. Like it or not.”

Ryan put out his hand and said, “Let me see.”

She paused, then handed the gun to him. From its flat black surface, I guessed it was another Glock. He racked the slide and handed it back to her. “There’s no safety on this,” he said, “so keep your finger outside the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot. And if you do fire it, keep pressure on the trigger and it’ll keep firing. You have enough rounds in there to do plenty of damage.”

“Good.”

Ryan went out first and knocked softly on the door to Prep Room A. “Frank?”

There was a moment of silence, then we heard steps and
the doorknob turned. The door swung open and Frank stood there, his pistol levelled at us. His eyes took in the three of us. He said, “Where’s Victor?”

“He didn’t make it,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Frank’s lips drew tight together and he looked down at the floor and shook his head. “Daggett get him?”

“No. One of his men.”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “He’s dead too.”

Over his wide shoulders I saw Stayner and three other people in surgical masks, and Marc and Lesley McConnell. She was in a hospital gown whose sleeves came down to the elbows; below them I saw the angry fistulas bulging beneath her pale skin.

“It’s off, then,” McConnell said. “Lesley’s not getting her transplant tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Bullshit. This guy’s not even the real donor”—pointing to Frank—“so you knew all along it wouldn’t happen.”

“I can’t argue this now. We have to find Daggett.”

“He’s here?” Frank said.

“Somewhere in the building. We’ll find him.”

“I’m coming with you,” Frank said.

“We need someone to stand guard here,” I said. “If he’s still inside, this is probably where he’ll come.”

“I’ll do it,” Jenn said. “As long as I’m not alone in that other room with that creep, I’ll be fine.”

“I was in the service before law school,” Marc McConnell said. “I can handle a gun.”

I knelt down and pulled aside the sheet draped over the operating table. The gun we’d given to Stayner was there.

“Put on gloves before you touch it,” I said. “You too, Jenn.”

The surgical nurse handed them each a pair. When they were on, I gave the gun to McConnell, who looked it over,
hefted it and thumbed the safety off. Jenn also put on gloves, then used a cloth to wipe down the gun she’d been holding.

“Anyone but us comes in that door,” Ryan said, “don’t even wait for him to clear it. Squeeze the trigger and hold it till he stops dancing. Both of you.”

McConnell nodded.

“You be careful,” Jenn said. “All of you.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I didn’t spend all this time looking for you to get myself killed.”

“Does Daggett know that?” she asked.

W
e came to the main foyer where all the bodies were. Frank knelt beside Victor and touched his cheek; placed two fingers against the side of his neck, feeling for the pulse he knew would not be there. Then he stuck his pistol in his waist and picked up Victor’s Uzi. “Fucking Victor,” he said.

Ryan put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. He shrugged it off. “He was the late mistake, born fifteen years after me, when my parents didn’t think they could still have kids. I was the oldest of six, so I practically raised him. I never should have brought him along. I don’t mean tonight, I mean the life, but it’s all he ever wanted. All he could do. He was useless at anything else. And not even so good at this.”