The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

The ambulance doors shut, and Nick appeared at my side.

  “Somehow, these bombings must all connect—the priests, and now this one meant for Gavin.”

  “A former member of the IRA. Hard to believe,” Nick said, scratching his head.

  We both turned back to ground zero and watched the controlled chaos continue. Normally, I’d call Jerry and brainstorm on next steps. But something told me I couldn’t. Or shouldn’t.

  “Alex, we need to move on this fast.”

  “I know, I think—”

  “But before we take one move, you need to tell me what happened in Southie last night.”

  I froze.

  12

  Taking a drag on his unfiltered Marlboro, Patrick Cullen glanced back toward the alley opening, thinking he heard footsteps. Two teenagers loped across the narrow path of concrete. They shoved each other, and curse words echoed off the sides of the brick buildings on either side of Patrick.

  It reminded him of when he was a teen, razzing his buddies and, at times, taking it a bit further than that, especially if someone stepped out of line.

  It seemed like someone was always crossing the line. After a while, though, he realized nothing could be accomplished if people didn’t do what they were supposed to do—even at the age of fifteen, he understood this. And that was when he had to step up. To force his will on those who couldn’t get the job done.

  Funny thing he learned back then. If you punched the biggest son of a bitch right in the nose, usually he’d obey your every whim. And then those that followed him—usually a naïve group of brainless sheep—would either run away or beg to join his group...of brainless sheep.

  He chuckled just once, then inhaled until he could see a soft glow around the edges of the cigarette. He felt a tingle in his mouth from the sharp flavor of the smoke. He blew the vapor through his nose, and the swirling wind picked it up and carried it away. Closing his eyes, he felt his body floating in the air. He loved this sensation...the same one he’d felt since he started smoking at age thirteen.

  His lungs emptied, then his breath caught in the back of his throat. Leaning over, he swallowed and tensed his entire torso, trying to suppress the rampant urge to cough. He pressed harder, and he could feel his face turn red, then purple. Finally he erupted, the initial cough throwing his body backward. He flipped around and put a hand against the grimy brick and coughed at least a dozen times, each one scraping more phlegm out of his lungs and esophagus.

  A minute later, he inhaled a breath that tickled his throat, hoping he could avoid round two of the volcanic eruption. His breathing came in short bursts as he said a quick prayer, hoping to tame the undeniable beast.

  A seagull squawked overhead, and he watched the bird flap its wings until fading into the gray sky. He wheezed out a shallow breath and believed the worst was behind him.

  He glanced at the cigarette, recalling what the doctors had told him a few months earlier. “One lung is almost completely dark, the second about twenty percent. If lung cancer doesn’t kill you first, then your lungs will just shut down like an engine running full speed with no oil. It can only take so much. If you’re lucky, you’ve got a year to live. Meanwhile, quit smoking and you might squeeze out another three to six months. But you have to stop now.”

  “Fuck them,” is what he’d said when he left the hospital. He even lit one up on the ride home, laughing the entire ride.

  But he wasn’t stupid. In the long run, the joke was on him. Still, he knew he didn’t have the fortitude to get through the stress and pressure of the last few months without having a crutch of some kind. He had his own business to run—collecting the protection payment from the stores in his territory, providing loan services, and the occasional trafficking of weapons or drugs, if the money was right. Of course, those had all become secondary in his life, once the plan had been conceived.

  He brought the cigarette to his mouth and just before he sucked in, he tossed it to the pavement and snuffed it out with his boot.

  Just then, a man stumbled into the alley, tripping over empty cans and a bag of trash. Righting himself, he called for Patrick and ran right at him.

  “Dermot, man, calm your ass down. You can’t be running around this town like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  “But...but,” Dermot said, both hands anchored on his knees as his chest heaved for more air.

  “Take a second and get your breath.”

  “I...I can’t. I think they’re...”

  “They’re what? And who are you talking about, man?”

  “The police, the Feds. They’re after me.”

  Patrick grabbed a fistful of his brother’s jacket and pulled him up. “Tell me you didn’t fuck this up. Tell me that, Dermot,” he said as his nostrils flared.

  Dermot held up a hand, his face pinched.

  “I’m not going to hit you, dumbass. Just start talking. We don’t have time to screw around.”

  He released his grip and shoved his brother a good five feet away. Dermot staggered a couple of steps, then retained his balance.

  “I swear to you it went down just like we planned. I attached the device to the undercarriage of the car. But—”

  Patrick held a finger to his mouth, shushing his brother. He thought he heard voices. Glancing over his brother’s shoulder, he saw a couple walking across the mouth of the alley, arguing about the laundry and cooking.

  He shifted his sights to Dermot and flicked a hand for him to continue. “And what about it? Did it go off?”

  “Hell yes, it went off. I was huddled about a block away, just barely able to see the parking lot, and I could feel the explosion rumble against my chest.”

  “Hot damn!” Patrick said, pumping a fist.

  Dermot grabbed Patrick’s jacket. “But you’re not fucking hearing me.”

  “What, Dermot?”

  “The bomb didn’t get our target. It killed two people, and six others are in serious condition and may die. Plus another ten or fifteen with minor wounds.”

  A surge of bile hit the back of Patrick’s throat. He started shaking his head as he stared at a homeless man’s empty cardboard home. “I don’t get it. I don’t know how this didn’t work. Our plan was perfect.”

  He could hear his brother draw in a deep breath.

  “You got something to tell me?”

  “I had to see if it worked. I moved in closer and mingled in with the growing crowd of onlookers. That’s when I saw our target hobbling away from the scene, being helped by paramedics and shit. I couldn’t believe it. As I stood around and listened to all the rumors and people talking to cops, I heard that some other guy had taken the number thirty-two car. Some guy named Tyler. Used to play football at BC.”

  Patrick scratched the back of his head, his tone less adversarial. “Listen, Junior, we knew there might be some collateral damage when we took this job.”

  “Job? This ain’t no fucking job.”

  He’d rarely seen Dermot so worked up and emotional. He almost never lashed out at Patrick, which told him he was truly at the brink of losing it. But Patrick couldn’t allow that to happen. Not yet.

  He took his brother’s face in his hands and looked into his eyes. “You’re right, Dermot. You are so right. This is not a job; this is our life’s mission. We can’t allow people to walk this earth who’ve betrayed us, betrayed our heritage. They have blood on their hands, and it’s up to us to make them pay.”

  Dermot nodded, but his eyes told a different story. Had he suddenly lost the passion to continue this fight?

  Patrick grabbed Dermot’s chin so their eyes were just inches apart. “Do you hear me, Dermot? It’s up to you and me to make them pay.”

  Dermot slowly nodded, then Patrick smacked his face lightly a couple times.

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  Dermot paced back and forth across the alley then glanced over his shoulder toward the street. No one was there. “Patrick, man, I think they’re following me.”


  “Why? Who?”

  “Cops, ATF, FBI, you name it. They started scouring the neighborhood asking questions. I got the hell out of there, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “No it’s not, Dermot. They won’t be able to trace it back to you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Remember, there are things that I’ve done, people I’ve gotten to know to protect you and our mission.”

  Dermot paused for a second, and then he cocked his head to the side. “I’m getting a little tired of being on the outside. You’ve got to share everything with me, dammit,” he said, breathing rapidly.

  “That’s not going to happen, little bro,” Patrick said with a quick chuckle.

  “Then I’m done with this shit, man. Do you hear me? I’m fucking done!” Dermot grabbed an empty beer bottle off the pavement, whirled around, and hurled it against the brick façade.

  Patrick flinched as it exploded into a million pieces. A few of the shards sprayed onto his shoulders.

  He looked into his brother’s eyes, his tone measured. “Quite a temper there, Dermot. That’s something you might want to control...if you know what’s good for you.” Patrick set his feet and curled his hands into fists. He could see Dermot’s vision drop.

  “Now we don’t need to be wasting our time bickering. Remember, that’s what led to the downfall of the first movement many years ago.”

  Dermot nodded and then ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess so.”

  Patrick took three steps and curled his arm around his brother’s neck. “We’re a team. Always have been. Just need to stick together. Then no one can beat us. And we’ll make fucking history.”

  “Right. No one can beat us. History. Fucking history.” Dermot began to smile as he nodded.

  He was back on board. Patrick released a breath.

  “Now, we need to iron out our next steps.”

  “Right. Like what are we going to do with the guy who lived? Just move on to our next phase?”

  “You should know by now, I never just move on,” Patrick said.

  A phone buzzed, and Patrick grabbed it from his jacket, then turned to face away from his brother.

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Tell me what the fuck you and your nitwit brother are doing?”

  The doctor never cursed. “Uh, we’re just carrying out the plan that we discussed.”

  “Hold on!” the man on the phone barked.

  Patrick could hear other voices and rustling noises.

  Dermot tapped him on the shoulder. “Patrick, our leader is a doctor? Let me talk to him.”

  Patrick swatted a hand behind him, put his hand over the receiver, and whispered over his shoulder, “You’ll soon get to meet him. Now shut up for a minute.”

  A second later, through the receiver, Patrick heard a door slam shut.

  “Doc, you there?”

  “Answer my question, Patrick. What the hell is going on?”

  “We had a list of targets, and we went after him using the material supplied by the contact you gave me.”

  “I told you not to turn this into a fucking war zone, Patrick. And look at what you’ve done.”

  “You’ve seen pictures?”

  “It’s all over the Internet, TV, everywhere. People are scared, and they’re going to start making irrational decisions.”

  Patrick had never been in a subservient position in his life. If he wanted something, he took it, whether it was through coercion or brute force. But with the knowledge he’d gained in the last year—albeit during a time when he was more concerned about living than enlightenment—he’d learned to listen, especially to someone as wise as the good doctor.

  He had a sudden urge for a cigarette, and his mouth watered. “We wanted to make a statement and take down a target. But we certainly didn’t want to endanger our mission for the targets in the top tier. I hope and pray we didn’t lose this chance.”

  “You’ll be happy to know, Patrick, the target arrived in Boston late last night, a day earlier than planned. If this incident doesn’t send everyone running, we might have our goal still within our reach. That once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to exact justice on those who’d turned their backs to the cause.”

  Patrick could feel oxygen reaching his brain again. “I have a feeling everything will work out. Just glad the target is in town.”

  They reviewed the timing of the events over the next thirty-six hours, wished each other luck, and ended the call.

  Patrick turned back to face his brother.

  “What did he say? Are we still moving forward?”

  Patrick gave him the thumbs-up, and Dermot clapped his hands. It was nice to see him all in again.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick noticed a rat scamper down the edge of the alley and slither through a hole in the grate into a sewage drain. He knew all too well where the drain led. A smile cracked his lips.

  “Come on, Dermot. It’s time to take a swim with the sharks.”

  13

  Seeking refuge from the boisterous activity in the kitchen, I rushed up the stairs with my phone clinched in my hand and slipped into the first open room on the second floor, Luke’s bedroom. I shut the door behind me and tapped the green button.

  “Agent Troutt,” I said, almost certain who was on the other line.

  “Alex. Woodhouse here. Hold for Assistant Director Holt.”

  The line went silent for more than a few seconds. Apparently, I wasn’t number one on Holt’s list. I walked around Luke’s room, a combination of little kid and teenager. Posters of basketball players from the present and past—Lebron, Curry, and Durant on one wall, with Bird, Magic, and Jordan on another wall. I ran my hand down the metal frame of a poster we’d given Luke last Christmas, one that showed all the trophies in the history of the Celtics franchise.

  He wasn’t all that organized. Loose papers sprawled across his desk, even on top of his drone, and socks sprinkled on the floor and his bed. Lots of socks. I picked one up and realized it didn’t match any of the others. A comforter with all NFL team logos on it was scrunched up on his bed, but then he also had a pack of stuffed animals that he insisted on sleeping with.

  My cute little Luke. But that was probably part of the reason he’d been bullied at school. He still looked like a little kid, one whom I just wanted to squeeze and hug. He usually had a positive attitude and a smile on his face. He enjoyed his friends and loved to be active, in the middle of everything. To the older kids, though, he gave the appearance that he was vulnerable, easy prey. My heart ached over the humiliation he had suffered earlier in the week. Sitting back and not taking action against those older kids was not in my personality, and now I questioned if listening to Luke had been the right thing—for him and for those kids who might continue their bullying ways until an adult put a stop to it. I made a mental note to casually bring it up to Luke over the weekend. If I felt like he was still intimidated or not able to take care of things himself, then I’d be forced to step in and address the issue with the principal, or if necessary, the school district—even if Luke begged me not to get involved.

  I huffed and checked the time on my phone. Where the hell was Holt? He’d called me, right? Or at least his minion did. The kids would be home soon, and I needed to get back downstairs.

  I could hear shuffling sounds through the phone, then Holt talking to someone in the background.

  “Alex? Sorry about the wait.”

  “That’s okay. I’m just sitting around the house knitting a sweater.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m assuming you called because of the latest explosion at the post office.”

  “Damn right, I am. That, on top of the priest bombings. I don’t know what to think.”

  “I’m struggling with understanding the connection...if there is a connection.”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it?” He had an edge to his voice.

  I didn’t appreciate how he handled stress.
/>
  “I thought my job was to investigate my boss, to determine if there was any way he was involved in some type of terrorist plot, current or in the planning stages.”

  “Agent Troutt, your job is to protect this country, come hell or high water.” He paused for a moment while he said something to Whitehouse in the background. “Investigating Jerry Molloy is why I called on you, yes. But it appears that these bombings around the city aren’t an isolated incident. Jerry might very well be involved. We can’t just sit on our hands and hope that someone walks into the FBI office and admits to performing these acts. It takes detailed investigative work and, if needed, a different perspective in the way you look at your friends.”

  Veins pulsated in my neck. I took in two deep breaths, giving me a few seconds so that I wouldn’t fire back a string of curse words that would most assuredly be a career-limiting move.

  “You said might be involved. Jerry might be involved. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “We?”

  I wasn’t about to share what was going on downstairs at the moment, or even the details around tracking Jerry to the tavern in Southie. Too many unknowns at this point. “Just a figure of speech. And by the way, the only reason I have this fucking job is to protect the country and the people in it.”

  Throwing in that one curse word helped relieve a bit of the pressure building up in my head.

  A few seconds of silence, and I looked through Luke’s window to see Nick pulling up in his car.

  “Holt?” I didn’t have time or the patience to use his formal title.

  “I’m here. Look, Alex, I didn’t mean to question your commitment. It’s just that we might have a real terrorist cell on the loose, and one of our own could be involved. Can you imagine the hit we’ll take if Jerry is in the middle of these bombings, or even another plot? All hell will rain down on this agency. Both of us included.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me into working harder or even scrutinizing Jerry more, it’s not necessary. I’m already there. By the way, you forgot to tell me about Jerry’s trip to Northern Ireland. I only know about it because I talked to our MI6 contact.”