“Things worth discrediting you for?”
Dillman stared at the ground as if deep in thought. When he looked up again, he rubbed his chin, then wiped his eyes. “The politics stuff. The negotiations. It’s a delicate balance. And like you said, this shit could maybe give me a bit more credibility at the peace table. But I’m not just here for politics.”
Grant was beginning to put it together. “The Anglo-American trade stuff.”
“The Irish-American trade stuff. Business. Money. That’s always going to bring out the worst in people.”
“Worst, as in trying to kill you?”
“Not kill me. Damage me. Bring my price down.”
“For business?”
Dillman shifted his back against the wall. “There’s a lot of money at stake. Somebody’s protecting their investment. Trying to get the best deal they can.”
Grant turned towards Dillman. “So who would benefit from that?”
Dillman looked Grant in the eye. “Who am I negotiating with?”
Grant looked over his shoulder but couldn’t see into the restaurant. “Hunt?”
Dillman sat still. “And who was with me at the first shooting?”
This time, Grant was following Dillman’s thread. “The same man who didn’t want to make a report about it.” Grant did some internal calculations then continued. “But now he knew you were a target and wanted a more public place to set you up.”
An engine started up on the other side of the restaurant. A medium-sized boat from the sound of it, not one of the ocean liner yachts. Seagulls screeched. The engine revved. Dillman jerked a thumb towards the sound.
“That’ll be him starting up.”
Grant looked in the direction of the engine. “He going sailing?”
Dillman nodded. “That’s the idea. After a late breakfast.”
“Big yacht?”
“Small.”
“Crew?”
“He used to sail the America’s Cup. He doesn’t need a crew.”
“Just you and him?”
Dillman sat up straight. “And the driver.”
“Bodyguard.”
“That too.”
Grant got to his knees and looked through the window. Hunt and the bodyguard were on the private jetty. Hunt climbed out of the yacht and looked around. He spoke to the ex-special forces bodyguard who shrugged and looked around as well. Looking for Dillman.
Dillman knelt up too.
“Did you know he was ex-military?”
“Hunt?”
“His bodyguard. That would make him a pretty good shot.”
Grant turned to face the Irishman. “Good enough to miss you but make it look good.”
Dillman prodded himself in the chest, three times. “Good enough to put three in the chest when the cop drew his gun.”
Grant let that sink in. His thoughts moved from the uniformed cop to Terri Avellone. Shooting her was what set Grant on the hunt for the shooters. It was what made him track the Irish family to Winthrop. It was the incentive Grant had needed. The push in the right direction. Four good shots. Three near the front entrance and one towards the side door. Either side of Grant and Dillman, and the spray of bullets intended to make Dillman look like the target.
Grant weighed his options. Questions needed answering. He needed to get Hunt alone. He glanced through the window one last time. The yacht was ready to go. The bodyguard was by Hunt’s side. Grant ran the maths and made his decision.
He dragged Dillman to his feet. The Irishman lost his balance.
“What?”
Grant propelled Dillman towards the edge of the wharf.
“Can’t leave you here. You did say you could swim.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ninety seconds later, John Cornejo came charging out the front of the restaurant shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Man overboard.”
The only people along the jetty were Daniel Hunt and his bodyguard. Hunt was on board the Flying Swan, a sleek motor yacht with the mast up but the sails down. The bodyguard was beside the moorings looking towards the restaurant. Cornejo jogged over to them.
“You with that Irish guy?”
The bodyguard looked at Hunt. Hunt nodded. The bodyguard spoke. “Yeah. What’s up?”
Cornejo feigned being out of breath. “What’s up is down. Guy’s taken a tumble off the pier. Banged his head on the way down.”
The bodyguard set his jaw. “So go in after him.”
Cornejo waved his arms. Helpless. “I can’t swim. I need your help.”
Again, an exchange of glances. Again, Hunt nodded. Cornejo led the way at a trot. The bodyguard followed. Once they were round the corner, Grant stepped out from behind the refuelling compound, unfastened the aft mooring rope and dropped onto the rear deck. The yacht barely moved. Hunt stepped back against the controls.
Grant squared his shoulders and braced himself for action.
“Unless you wanna find out what grief can do to a desperate man…” He jerked a thumb towards the open channel. “…take us out.”
Hunt made it look easy. He steered the yacht away from its berth and pointed the bow towards the open water of Boston Harbor. They followed the channel southeast at a gentle chug. Grant didn’t understand nautical speeds but reckoned they were travelling at a steady pace. Whatever number of knots that equated to. Standard speed for leaving your moorings.
Grant kept his legs flexed to combat the swell as the yacht left the shelter of the waterfront and slid past the Seaport District on the right. Starboard, if he remembered his C.S. Forrester correctly. Logan International was on the left. The Flying Swan glided along the channel between the two. They passed the Pleasure Bay Marine Park, then hit open water.
The swell increased. Grant rested one hand on the stern rail for support. His balance was good but he was a long way from developing sea legs. There were a scattering of islands up ahead that loosely bordered Boston Harbor but didn’t stop the sea from taking charge. They cleared the end of the runways and left the airport behind. Hunt looked relaxed at the wheel. He glanced over his shoulder at Grant.
“You want me to keep going? Might hit England in a week.”
Grant looked around at the bejewelled waters. “Hang a left, then slow down.”
Hunt throttled back and spun the wheel. The yacht swung slowly towards the North Channel. Winthrop was up ahead. The treatment plant jutted out on the finger of land to their right. The stubby knoll of Snake Island poked out of the bay.
Grant nodded. “This’ll do. Stop here.”
Hunt throttled back some more but didn’t stop the engine. “If I stop, we’ll drift. We’ll beach on Snake Island or hit the east runway markers. Either way, I don’t think that’s what you had in mind.”
Grant made a circling gesture with one hand. “Holding pattern then. Just keep us here.”
Hunt set the yacht in a tight circling path and tied the wheel off.
“Aye aye, Cap’n.”
The Flying Swan began a slow circle. Not too tight. Not too wide. A passenger jet followed its approach path over Winthrop and came in low over the bay. A cluster of tiny sailboats from Winthrop’s Cottage Park Yacht Club formed a colorful pattern against the clear blue sky. The sun shone down on the aft deck and glared off the white coachwork.
Grant leaned against the stern rail. “You think I’ve taken over the ship?”
Hunt didn’t correct Grant about the ship, pointing out the obvious instead. “Piracy is still a capital offence in some states.”
Grant slitted his eyes.
“So is shooting a cop and an innocent bystander.”
“I didn’t do either one.”
“And you didn’t have a passenger the first night.”
Standoff.
Grant let Hunt’s first lie hang in the air. Thing about telling lies is nobody believes you when you’re telling the truth. Grant didn’t think Hu
nt was telling the truth. The businessman knew more than he was letting on. Time to run a bluff and make Hunt spill the beans.
“You ever hear about the boy who cried wolf?” Hunt kept quiet. Rhetorical questions don’t require an answer. “Or was it the boy with his finger in the dyke? I can never remember.” Grant rubbed his forehead as if massaging his memory. “Bottom line is, this kid’s always running around saying a wolf’s chasing him. Or he’s always telling the villagers there’s a hole in the dyke. One or the other. Until one day a wolf really is chasing him.”
Hunt got into the swing of it.
“Or there really was a hole in the levee.”
“Dyke. It was in Holland. Anyway, nobody believes him. Has to stick his own finger in the hole. And gets eaten by the wolf.”
Hunt swayed with the gentle movement of the swell.
“You think I’m plugging a hole?”
“I think the wolf’s coming for you.”
Hunt smiled. “But if the wolf eats the boy, his finger will come out of the hole.”
Grant shrugged. “Then we’ll both drown.”
Hunt let out a sigh. “Is that wise?”
Grant lowered his head as if ready to charge. “You know who they killed. You think I care if I go down with you?”
“Do you really think I’d shoot people on the street?”
Grant braced himself. “Not you. People who work for you.”
His eyes cycled around the aft deck. The port rail. The stateroom door. Daniel Hunt. The engine controls. The wheelhouse. The starboard rail and entry hatch.
“I think business makes for strange bedfellows.” He took a step to his right. “And I think you’d do anything to tip the odds in your favor.”
Another passenger jet came in low overhead. The roar drowned out the yacht’s motor and prevented Hunt from answering. The plane touched down on the east-west runway. The yacht continued on its tight circular track. Grant stepped over to the starboard rail. It was time to increase the consequences of the bluff.
“Couple of years ago, a family got knocked overboard on a water-skiing holiday. Bobbed about in the water. Nobody at the controls. Boat was in a tight circling pattern. Ran them over three times before the lifeguard could board and steer it away.” Grant opened the starboard hatch and mimed running out the plank, then turned back towards Hunt. “You mentioned piracy. What do they always do with the captain?”
Hunt took a step away from the opening. “Walk the plank? Are you out of your mind?”
Grant’s stare turned cold as steel. “Grief and a desperate man. Remember?”
Hunt glanced at the yacht’s wake. A moon crescent of foaming surf.
“Have you become a navy man now?”
“My dad was in the navy.”
“Like father like son then.”
“That’s why I joined the army.”
“Well, don’t go taking your father issues out on me.”
Grant took a step towards Hunt. Another passenger jet lined up for its final approach. East of Winthrop coming towards the bay. The engine roar began to build. Not as loud as in the little house on Oceanview Street, but noisy enough to make Hunt shout to be heard.
“If we keep circling like this, airport security will start wondering.” Hunt took one more step sideways. “They even get nervous about the yacht club.”
The storage locker was hidden behind the businessman.
“Tried to ban any sailing under the flight path.”
The passenger jet drew closer. The noise drowned out the rest of what Hunt was saying. It thudded into Grant’s brain and made him lose focus. Instead of watching Hunt, he glanced up at the big silver fuselage hurtling towards them.
Hunt roared at the top of his voice, “Just in case of something like this.”
Grant looked back towards Hunt. The businessman whipped open the storage locker and pulled out a flare pistol. In one swift movement, he pointed it at the sky and fired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Everything happened quickly but seemed to take forever. The flare blazed upwards, then drifted in a lazy arc across the ice blue sky. The passenger jet was too close to deviate and roared through the smoke trail. A siren went off towards the airport. And blue flashing lights started up in the south channel as a security boat changed from lazy patrol to emergency intercept.
That all happened away from the Flying Swan.
On board, things happened even faster. Grant lunged at the wealthy businessman and blocked his gun hand in an upward strike that collapsed the wrist and loosened his fingers. Grant’s other hand grabbed the flare gun just in front of the trigger guard and bent it downwards as the arm went upwards. The pistol came out of Hunt’s hand before he could break the barrel and load another flare.
Grant brought his knee up into Hunt’s stomach, doubling the Bostonian over. He skidded the flare gun across the deck, then opened the stateroom door. The entrance was low and narrow and went down three steps into the main cabin. Grant bundled Hunt backwards down the steps and shut the door.
Blue flashing lights and a police siren came across the water. The security boat was picking up speed. Heading directly for the yacht. Grant untied the wheel and set a collision course for the security launch. He opened the throttle and felt the yacht lurch forward. Foam spewed in its wake. The service dinghy swayed from the derricks over the stern rail.
The flare drifted and blinked out, leaving a trail of smoke against the pale blue sky. The flotilla of tiny yachts danced in the waves, their brightly colored sails painting a pretty picture against the azure backdrop. Grant gauged time and distance, then took one last look at the oncoming motor launch. He stepped over to the stern rail and swung the derricks outward. He hit the release lever and the dinghy dropped into the foaming wake. Grant vaulted overboard and tumbled into the dinghy. He righted himself and started the outboard motor.
Plan B. Not much different from Plan A, just a lot faster. The Flying Swan pulled away towards the airport. The security launch took evasive action, then turned to go in the same direction. It matched the yacht’s speed and came alongside, ready to board her. Grant went in the opposite direction, straight at the flotilla of colorful yachts.
The dinghy was fast and bouncy. Grant held tight to avoid been thrown off the narrow wooden bench seat. Yachts veered out of his way. He went directly north towards Winthrop. The Cottage Park Yacht Club jetty was straight ahead. Grant lined up the dinghy and eased off the throttle. This was the designated pickup point, only under more urgent circumstances. Grant hoped John Cornejo had made it across in time.
“When you decide to piss somebody off, you don’t go for half measures.”
Cornejo didn’t wait for Grant to shut the car door before pulling out of the yacht club parking lot. The car was a new addition to Cornejo’s life, another sign that Grant’s intervention had transformed the ex-marine. From riding the T to owning his own car. The door slammed shut as he swung the battered Dodge Challenger west and started threading his way through Winthrop towards Main Street and the bridge out of town.
Grant settled into the passenger seat. “Didn’t go the way I planned it.”
“You throw him overboard as well?”
“Not hardly.”
“But you got his attention.”
“I did.”
“Not sure setting off a flare in the flight path’s a good idea.”
“That wasn’t me.”
Cornejo laughed. “Oh, he got the drop on you, did he?”
Grant pointed up ahead. “Are you taking us past Winthrop PD headquarters as a test?”
They were heading up Winthrop Street towards Metcalf Square. As if to prove the point, blue lights started up and two patrol cars came screaming down the road. Grant lowered himself in the seat. The cars flashed past, heading for the Cottage Park Yacht Club. Grant looked over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t turned back.
“Straight on. Left fork.”<
br />
Cornejo kept the Dodge to the left as he passed the police headquarters and Amanda’s Oakleaf Cakes. The stars and stripes in the park square fluttered in the breeze. Another police car flew out of the headquarters' parking lot and headed south. This must have been the busiest week in years for the Winthrop PD. Grant let out a sigh.
“Did you manage to get hold of anybody?”
Cornejo followed the road north towards Main Street.
“I reached out to some of my guys. Army mainly. Some marines.”
Cornejo went quiet. Grant wondered if it was a request too far, asking his friend to call in some favors. Eventually Cornejo glanced across at Grant.
“There’s nobody free. They’ve all been deployed to the airport.”
“Just now?”
“Pretty much. Don’t know what you did, but the military’s buzzing.”
Grant let that settle in his mind. He knew the military could move fast when the shit hit the fan but wasn’t convinced he’d done anything to spark an emergency of that scale. A flare in the flight path felt like small potatoes. He let Cornejo drive while he thought things through. The junction with Main Street loomed ahead.
Grant pulled out his cell phone. “Let’s find out, why don’t we?”
He punched in the number and waited.
Sam Kincaid answered after the third ring.
“Jim. What the fuck?”
Grant indicated for Cornejo to pull onto the Belle Isle Seafood forecourt. Across the road from the Mobil gas station he’d filled up at yesterday. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot and a pickup round the side loading garbage bags. Grant made calming movements with his hand even though Kincaid couldn’t see him.
“Sam. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“You talk in an alien fuckin’ language.”
“Calm down’s what I mean.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. You’re in America now. So talk to me in fuckin’ American.”
“Drop every third word and chew a straw?”
“Fuck you and your entire fuckin’ country.”
Beacon Hill Page 15
