Grant set off at a fast walk, keeping his eyes on the warehouse windows along the top floor. He relaxed his body and cleared his mind. Whatever happened in the next five minutes would be crucial.
The door from the access road wasn’t locked. Grant opened it without knocking and stepped inside. Into a dark haven of tranquility that belied the action that was about to happen. He sensed it the moment he closed the door. The atmosphere was heavy with dread and foreboding. Grant shook the feeling off but braced himself for the worst.
The main storage area was big and dark and stacked floor to ceiling with packing crates and boxes. The sliding doors he’d seen from the jetty were against the far wall. Partition walls separated additional storage to the left and right with narrower doors hung from sliding tracks across the tops.
There was no sign of Hunt or the bodyguard. An ancient cargo elevator was tucked away in the far corner, the traditional type with double concertina doors and a large storage base. Worn concrete steps ran up the side wall to a wooden office on stilts. Broad windows allowed the warehouseman a good view across the main floor. The lights were on but the office looked empty. Grant took the baseball cap off and slapped it against his thigh to shake off the rain.
“Hello. Anybody home?”
If Grant had been in uniform, he would have identified himself as a police officer but being dressed like an ice cream salesman, he didn’t think that was appropriate. Daniel Hunt knew who he was anyway. Announcing himself was just an added precaution against being shot as an intruder. Grant doubted even the bodyguard would shoot an unarmed man in a bright yellow windcheater.
The room fell silent. There was no reply. Grant listened, but there was no sound of activity in the warehouse. The doors into the side rooms were partly open. He checked the one on the right. Nobody there. He checked the one on the left. Empty. That put him in the corner next to the elevator. Going upstairs in the noisy cage wasn’t his idea of being sensible. Announcing himself was one thing; trapping himself on the slow rise to whatever was something else. Stupid.
He went up the worn concrete steps instead. All the way up the first flight to the stilt office. He pushed the door open and looked inside. Nothing but a chipped wooden desk and three battered filing cabinets. A titty calendar above the desk. A wall-hung pendulum clock that looked like it dated back to the Boston Tea Party ticked in the corner. Grant walked over to the desk and sifted through the papers scattered across the top. Invoices. Letters. Scribbled Post-It notes. Nothing with Mike Dillman’s name on it. Nothing sinister. Not that Grant knew what he was looking for.
A muffled bang sounded in the distance. Grant went to the windows and looked down at the warehouse floor. The door he’d come in through was still closed. The noise wasn’t Cornejo coming in to watch his back.
Another noise. A dull thud, like a door closing a long way away. Two floors further up. In the top floor offices that overlooked the harbor. Grant left the light on and returned to the stairs. He took them two at a time and followed the cramped stairway up into the darkness. He was so focused on looking ahead that he didn’t notice the squat, hard figure step out of the shadows behind him.
The top floor of Sargent’s Wharf Warehousing and Storage was a revelation. If Daniel Hunt’s downtown offices were the hub of his business world, then the plush office suite atop the dingy warehouse was the heart of his import/export business. Expensive, deep pile carpet muffled Grant’s footsteps as he closed the door and took stock.
The room was open plan. There were no internal walls or glassed-in offices. There were no discreetly placed screens to give office staff their own private working cubicle. This was open and clean and everybody had the same view through the bank of windows running the length of the room. Today, everybody included Jim Grant and Daniel Hunt.
“Knock, knock.”
Hunt turned from the desk he’d been leaning over and stood up straight. “That’s a movie cliché that doesn’t work unless you kick the door in.”
“I could go back out and kick the door in.”
“To announce your grand entrance?”
“I announced myself downstairs.”
“You didn’t kick my back door in down there?”
Grant smiled at the English connotation of having your back door kicked in but kept the thought to himself. It was one of the reasons he’d got the No Entry tattoo just above his backside.
“No, I just called out. Guess you didn’t hear me.”
“I don’t hear much from the ground floor.”
“Isn’t that first floor in America?”
“I was being metaphorical.”
“Well, I’m being rogue cop. And you’d better answer my questions this time or you’ll be admiring the view on your way down.”
Hunt stepped away from the desk but there was nowhere for him to go. The disadvantage of having an open plan office is there’s no place to hide. No doors to lock yourself behind. He glanced at the door Grant had come through, more in hope than expectation. Grant caught the look and checked behind him. The door was still closed. There were no footsteps echoing off the worn concrete steps. He turned back to Hunt.
“Your choice. Stairs or window.”
Hunt didn’t look as worried as he should be. “Am I to take that seriously from a man looks like a tour guide?”
Grant tugged at the front of his yellow windcheater. “This is so you can see me coming.”
Hunt leaned against the desk. “Or watch you leaving.”
Grant felt the short hairs bristle on the back of his neck. Hunt was too confident. There was something Grant had missed. He glanced around the spacious office. Nowhere to hide. So where was the bodyguard who’d parked the car outside? He stepped away from the door and moved into the center of the office. Boston opened up before him through the windows, but it wasn’t the sunny Boston he’d been enjoying the last few days. It was a stormy Boston that was about to get a whole lot worse.
“Who dropped the car off?”
Hunt folded his arms across his chest. “You already know who.”
The door handle began to turn.
“Then where is he?”
The door opened slowly.
“Right where you don’t want him to be.”
Hunt couldn’t help looking towards the door. Grant spun on his heels as it opened all the way. Then John Cornejo came through the door, holding his hands out in mock surprise.
“Whoa. Is it something I said?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Hunt deflated like a pricked balloon. All the bravado and cockiness drained out of him and he slumped into the swivel chair so hard he spun around twice before facing Grant again. Cornejo closed the door and kept station just inside the room. Grant crossed the office towards the desk.
“Where’d he go after dropping the car off?”
Hunt looked up. “Obviously not where I thought he’d gone.”
Grant stood over the businessman. “And where was that?”
“Keeping an eye on the back.”
“You were expecting company?”
Hunt smiled. “I was expecting you.”
Grant kept his hands down at his sides. Loose and ready. Prepared to go all bad cop if he needed to. Not his usual style, but this time the Queen was involved. When he joined the army, it was to serve Queen and country. Despite coming all the way to Boston, it looked like Queen and country were on the agenda again.
“How come?”
Hunt tilted his head as if the answer was obvious. “You are a very persistent fellow.”
Grant balled his fists, but otherwise kept outwardly calm. “That why you sent me after the Irish family?”
“How did I do that?”
Grant’s knuckles turned white. “The shooting at the cafe. You knew I’d track them down.”
Hunt looked genuinely surprised. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I have you shot in the street?”
It was getti
ng hard for Grant to stay calm. “It wasn’t me you shot.”
“Dillman then.”
“Him neither.”
Realisation dawned on Hunt’s face. “Ah. The woman.”
Grant invoked her name to make this real. “Terri Avellone. The woman I was with.”
Hunt seemed to recognize he was in a precarious position. He paused for a second, then chose his words carefully. “I had nothing to do with the shooting. Of the woman. At you. Or at Dillman. Being shot at in front of my house was bad enough. I would not wish it on anyone else.”
Grant was feeling his way around Hunt’s motives.
“Not bad enough to file a report.”
“I was protecting my guest.”
“The one who got shot at again in public view. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“A bit of something. I’m not sure what.”
Grant honed in on what he wanted to know.
“A bit of good luck from a business point of view. Your partner getting shot at just before he’s due to have discussions with the Queen. Boost his profile and help your business.”
This time the surprise on Hunt’s face was obvious. “Discussions with the Queen? You’re English. Do you really think the monarch of the realm would have talks with a convicted IRA bomber? He’s only part of the entourage because of his political standing. He won’t get within twenty feet of her.”
All Grant’s theories were crumbling around him. If Hunt didn’t arrange the shooting, then who else would benefit from the very public show of carnage? Maybe Dillman himself? Playing the martyr before meeting the Queen. Except he wasn’t meeting the Queen. Just improving trade between Boston and Ireland.
“Where is Dillman?”
Hunt settled back in his chair. “Last I heard, somebody threw him in Boston Harbor.”
Grant ignored the veiled accusation. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this. The reasons were unclear but one thing stood out amid all the business shenanigans, the overriding factor that was more important than anything else: Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II was flying into Logan International anytime now. And an ex-IRA bomber was on the loose in Boston. Any other time that would have flagged up the danger signals but Grant was still grieving over the loss of Terri Avellone. He had overlooked the obvious target.
“The delivery you took for Dillman. What was it?”
Hunt looked nonplussed at the change in direction. Cornejo stepped away from the door to hear the answer. Grant was about to focus on the where rather than the what. Then a hard, level voice spoke from the doorway.
“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you.”
Cornejo spun towards the door too late. One hand went into his belt and drew the gun, but the bodyguard was fast and ruthless. He stamped down on the side of Cornejo’s right knee and buckled the leg in the wrong direction. The snap of bone was loud in the quiet office. Cornejo’s scream was louder. He brought the gun round but only got halfway. The ex-special forces man knocked the gun hand upwards, then slammed down with one elbow and snapped the forearm into an L shape.
It was all over in five seconds.
Ten seconds later, the bodyguard had dismantled Cornejo’s gun, dropped the pieces on the floor, and was pointing an ugly black handgun of his own at Grant and Hunt. Hunt was the first to speak.
“Worden, what the hell?”
The bodyguard pointed the gun at Hunt. “Mr. Hunt, consider this my letter of resignation.”
He shot Hunt in the leg, dropping his employer to the ground. That meant two casualties unable to move, leaving one man standing. Grant relaxed his arms and flexed slightly at the knees. If he was going to get shot in the leg, the worst thing he could do was tense his muscles. It would be better to hit the ground softly. He held his arms out to his side, palms upward.
“I had you down as special forces. Didn’t realize it was British Army.”
The gun swung towards Grant. “You were a bit slow there then.”
Grant shrugged. “First time I’ve heard you talk.”
Worden pointed the gun at Grant’s right leg. “Talking is overrated.”
Grant kept his tone light. Friendly. “Not over here. They do like the English accent, don’t they?”
“Seems that way.”
“You’ve not completely lost the Irish burr though.”
Worden smiled. “This is Boston. Everybody’s got a bit of Irish in them.”
Grant nodded. “Comes in handy for introducing Dillman to your boss.”
“Ex-boss.”
Hunt managed to stifle his moans long enough to speak. “You and Dillman?”
Worden turned his attention to the fallen businessman. “And you almost ruined everything. Getting the army involved.”
Hunt tried to get up but Worden jerked the gun in a threatening gesture. Blood soaked through Hunt’s trouser leg and stained the carpet. Grant took a step towards Hunt, holding his hands up to show this wasn’t an aggressive move. He pulled a dozen sheets of paper from a printer on the desk and pressed them onto the wound.
“Keep pressure on this.”
Then he picked up a Scotch Tape dispenser and took the roll of sticky tape out. He wrapped the tape around the leg several times to hold the paper in place. Not as good as wadding paper towels into the gunshot wound but better than nothing.
“Breathe slowly. Out through the mouth. Take your time. Focus on that. Not the pain.”
Grant stood up, scanning the open plan office. Looking for anything more absorbent than printer paper. Nowhere to hide but also everything on display. The first aid box was on the far wall next to the fire extinguisher. He pointed at the medical kit.
“Do you mind?”
Worden waved the gun to stop Grant. “If I was bothered about his leg, I wouldn’t have shot him.”
Grant wasn’t bothered about the first aid kit. He just wanted to establish movement. Get Worden used to Grant waving his arms about and bending and standing. If he got a chance to go for the gun, he didn’t want to be going from a static position. He also wanted the bodyguard focusing on Grant and Hunt. The other injured party was keeping quiet. Like all marines are trained to do. Ex or otherwise.
Grant stood up.
“If you’d wanted to kill him, you wouldn’t have shot him in the leg.”
“He won’t die. But he won’t be moving around either.”
“If you’d wanted him to stay put, I’m sure he’d have promised. At the point of a gun.”
Worden shook his head. “Promises get broken.”
Grant let out a sigh. “And some scars never heal. I know. That was so important, Dillman said it twice.”
Worden focused on Grant. Half a step closer. Gun hand out front.
“Over coffee. I remember.”
Worden took another step. Concentrating on Grant. Grant wanted to keep the bodyguard’s attention. Conversation was the best way to do that. Hard to see what’s around you if you’re busy talking to the person out front. Grant kept his eyes on Worden.
“You weren’t there.”
Worden tapped his ear.
“Wasn’t I?”
Grant tapped his own ear, then pointed at Worden. Keeping the arm movements broad and open and obvious. “You were wired up.”
Worden pointed the gun and feigned taking the shot. Fake recoil included. “So I’d know when to fire.”
Grant nodded, clenching his jaw to contain his mounting anger. That confirmed the expert marksmanship. Missing what he wanted to miss and hitting what he wanted to hit. The cop drawing his weapon. The woman who would provoke Grant into action. Prompting Grant into finding the Irish family. Leaving him open to being accused of their murder.
Worden was a professional. He didn’t lower the gun. His intensity level didn’t drop. He couldn’t help gloating over his prowess though. The longer this conversation went on, the more his attention was diverted from the movement behind him.
/> Grant kept his eyes firmly on Worden. He didn’t let his peripheral vision give any clue to what else he was seeing. Cornejo dragged his shattered leg across the deep pile carpet. No sound. The carpet muffled his progress. Open plan office. Nowhere to hide. Unless you were on the floor. Hidden by desks and chairs and waist high filing cabinets.
Grant played to Worden’s ego.
“Pretty good shooting.”
Worden mimed holding a shield in front of him.
“Pretty solid table.”
Cornejo edged towards the row of desks behind Worden. Grant honed his vision to a point, focusing on nothing except the bodyguard and the gun.
“Just as well. If you wanted me chasing down the Irish. Been a shame if you’d shot me through the table, wouldn’t it?”
Worden pointed the gun at Grant and then aimed two feet to the right.
“You were never in the crosshairs.”
“And you were never just a driver.”
Cornejo drew his good leg back. Knee bent. Foot raised. Hiding in plain sight. Worden had his back to him. Hunt was on the floor, the row of desks blocking his view. Even Grant lost sight of him as the injured marine got close behind the swivel chair and the workstation.
Worden held both arms out to his sides to illustrate his next point.
“Even the Resurrection Man’s got to end sometime.”
The gun was out of the equation for two seconds. Grant flexed his knees. Hunt saw movement beyond the desk. Worden caught the flicker of his boss’s eyes and began to turn. Cornejo screamed in pain as he slammed his foot into the desk and shoved the hard edge into the back of Worden’s legs.
Worden spun to his right.
The gun arm came around in a sweeping arc.
The desk caught him just below the right hip.
Beacon Hill Page 18
