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

by John W. Mefford

  “And we’re supposed to believe a pathological liar? You’re full of shit!”

  “Hey, check out this Academy Award!” I heard Lewis say off in the distance.

  I tried to ignore the fun and games going on around me, and noticed Paulie shaking his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  He let out a gasping breath. “There ain’t no way that I did this crime. I’m no saint, but I don’t kill priests.”

  “Is that your company’s mission statement? Come to Paulie’s A1 Pawnshop, where we don’t kill priests.”

  “Very funny. Easy for you to make jokes about my…my moral character as you ram your knee into my kidney.”

  I removed one hand off his hairy, sweaty limb, wiped it on my pants, then grabbed his arm again and cocked it another inch.

  “Ahh! You’re going to break my fucking arm, b—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Listen,” he wheezed, “you can ask my wife, you can ask my mother, I actually go to Mass every Sunday. You can ask anyone if I was there. In fact, I went to confession last week. You can go talk to the priest.”

  Glancing up at Jerry, he shrugged his shoulders. It was hard to believe someone who essentially lied for a living.

  “Your little bomb-making operation. We have a team of agents over at Leonardo’s house right now, and they found a treasure trove of material. We’re almost certain that’s where the bombs were made, the ones that killed the two priests, Brennan and Fahey.”

  “What?” He tried lifting his head. “Why would Leo be doing that kind of shit?”

  “From your orders, right, Paulie? He was just a kid.”

  “You said was. What’s going on with Leo, dammit?”

  For the first time since I’d seen Paulie munching on a cigar, a hint of fear entered his voice. But I couldn’t forget that he was a professional scammer or, even worse, possibly the head of a domestic terrorist cell.

  “Your employee was killed when a bomb sitting in the front of his car blew up just a few hours ago. Kaboom. Gone.”

  “What the hell…?” his voice trailed off. He began shaking his head. “This can’t be. You must have the wrong guy.”

  “Nope, it’s Leo, all right. I already told you they found bomb-making material at his house. But I’m sure you knew that. Was that part of your plan? Put all the risk on the young kid, then nothing is connected back to you?”

  His back heaved even under the pressure of my weight, then he let his forehead drop to the floor. “Not Leo. Such a great kid. Loyal. Hard worker. He actually had real promise to get out of this hell hole and do something good with his life.”

  “Feeling guilty, Paulie?”

  “For what? For caring about this kid? I had nothing to do with this. Are you listening to me?” he barked.

  “I’ve been listening to your bullshit since the second I walked in that door. Back in the corner when we were getting the weapons demo from Dante, you said that you could get Jerry and me anything, including explosives. You said that, and you can’t deny it now.”

  “Okay, I said it. But I only said it because I thought you guys had deep pockets. I thought I could probably find someone—hoped I could find someone—but this is not my area of expertise. I’m not even fond of explosives.”

  “I would have thought you were the kid who torched everything that was flammable.”

  “Me? Shit no. I had a fireworks accident when I was ten. I got a scar on my chest to prove it. Take a look.”

  I’d seen and touched enough of Paulie’s body. I’d take him at his word for now, let the uniforms do the dirty work.

  “I’ll pass.”

  The more Paulie spoke, the more he chipped away at my earlier conclusion that he and Leo were in the bombing business, whether it was for money, retribution against these priests, or working for someone else. Now I wondered if Leo was acting alone, and more importantly, whom the bomb that killed him was actually meant for.

  I pushed off Paulie’s back, and he grunted one more time as I lifted to my feet.

  “Suit yourself. By the way, whatever it is you think Leo did or was about to do, it’s just not possible. He’s not the killing type. And there’s no way he could have even thought of such a thing. He was a pretty simple kid. I’m going to miss him.”

  Jerry leaned down while blotting his face.

  “Listen here, you hairy beast, we’re going to scour this entire building, and then we’re going to search your home, Dante’s home, any warehouse you might have access to, and your cars. If we find a speck of bomb-making material anywhere, then you’re going to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Go ahead and search. Anything to get you guys out of my life.”

  A uniform cuffed Paulie and kept him on the floor while Jerry and I shuffled into the front room.

  “I think he’s finally telling the truth, Jerry.”

  He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I thought we had the bombers. Really did. Hearing what Nick found at Leonardo’s home, on top of how Paulie and Dante operate, it’s almost impossible to think they aren’t involved. Drake will be up my ass now.” He threw his blood-soaked towel to the floor and traipsed across the room, stopping near the guitar he’d ogled earlier.

  Jerry’s mental state seemed on the edge, although he had legitimate reasons for being upset. Facts and opinions collided in my brain, which only led to more questions: if Leo didn’t act on his own—and we’d need to check his history more thoroughly—then who was he working with…or for? Was there some type of movement that would endorse this type of targeted killing?

  My thoughts shifted forty-five degrees as I recalled the high-dollar suit, pungent aftershave, and serious tone from the FBI assistant director. Given the intel that Holt had shared about this known terrorist, Ahmed Shaheen, was there any way Leonardo could have been carrying out a plan that was concocted by Shaheen…with Jerry as the go-between?

  I snorted out a breath and stared at Jerry, figuring my wild imagination could be my greatest impediment in simply following the evidence and wrapping up this covert investigation of my SSA. Wasn’t there some type of study to show that ninety-nine percent of conspiracy theories on any case were bogus?

  But dammit, something tugged at my instincts, as if it were being pulled to the forefront by some invisible force. The more I tried to determine its origin, the more I doubted myself. And then I wondered one thing: if I’d been asked to investigate another FBI agent with whom I had no ties or friendship, where would my instincts be pointing?

  I found myself leaning over the glass case full of diamond rings—most likely they were all fake, or just real enough to fool those who wanted to believe they were real. I turned and looked at Jerry again. Was there any way that Jerry’s participation in today’s raid could have been nothing more than a ruse? That he had conspired with Shaheen on this entire operation, only to throw the real investigation off track?

  If so, then Jerry definitely was the one who deserved to take home Matt Damon’s Oscar.

  The urgency to speak with Holt’s MI6 contact had just became priority one.

  8

  Windowpanes rattled, echoing throughout the first floor of Patrick Cullen’s modest row home. Setting his readers on the tattered fabric ottoman that often served as his makeshift desk, he could hear knuckles rapping against the front door.

  Moving with the same debilitating hitch that had limited his movement since the construction incident ten years earlier, he plodded up the two wooden steps and into the tiny foyer. Through the frosted glass, he could make out a man’s shadowy figure on the other side.

  Before Patrick could unlatch the deadbolt, the visitor quickly knocked again, about a dozen times. “Patrick, open up, man. We need to talk. Are you there?”

  The nervous anxiety by his younger brother had been expected, but Patrick still paused for a split second before opening the door, conjuring up the necessary fortitude for the forthcoming discussion.

 
“Dermot, get your ass in here. We don’t need the neighbors watching you have a tizzy on the porch.” Patrick pulled in his taller sibling so fast he stumbled as he crossed the front threshold.

  “Sorry, Patrick. I know we’re trying to keep a low profile in the old hood, but this is earth-shattering news.”

  Dermot clutched his cap in both hands as he rocked from side to side, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Patrick watched his brother’s head flinch toward his shoulder every few seconds. Even at the age of thirty-six, the youngest Cullen brother had the same nervous tic that been his companion as long as Patrick could recall. Actually, the more Patrick thought about it, the involuntary movement became much worse when the middle Cullen brother, Jeffrey, died in an accident at the rail yard. Dermot had seen the entire thing, and watching his brother die had forever changed him, made him adverse to any kind of risk. Convincing him to do anything outside of the norm was difficult at best, which meant that this evening’s conversation would put Patrick to the test.

  Resting a calming hand on Dermot’s shoulder, Patrick guided his brother into the living room. He flipped on the lights from the overhead fan.

  “Patrick, you won’t believe what happened. It’s devastating…to you, to us, to our…movement.”

  “Okay. No reason to build it up, brother. Let me hear it.”

  Dermot muttered something, but choked before the words spilled out. Two more nervous twitches, and then he said, “It’s Pescatore. He’s dead. His whole fucking car blew up right outside the Ted Williams Tunnel.”

  “Dear God.” Patrick feigned bewilderment, and he dropped his arm to his side, then inhaled a single, deep breath.

  “I know, I can’t fucking believe it. I saw the pictures all over social media, including one from some fireman who took a picture of his arm that had shrapnel covering almost every square inch. Said the whole body looked like a pincushion. There was blood everywhere.”

  Patrick nodded, licking his lips, occasionally locking eyes with his brother.

  For a moment, silence engulfed the room, then a barking dog from somewhere outside made Dermot flinch again. Patrick gave his brother a confident nod.

  “Okay, I think we’re going to be okay on this one, brother. I had anticipated something like this occurring.”

  “Who are you, fucking Jesus or something? Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Pescatore is dead…a good man, a dedicated man. But worse than that, he connects back to us, dammit!”

  “I hate it as much as you do, Dermot. But with our cause, you know as much as I do that sacrifices are inevitable, and frankly must occur for the greater good.”

  “But he never even—”

  “Dermot, it doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s mourn his death, but also seek vengeance.” Patrick raised a tight fist, his rolled-up sleeves showing the veins in his forearms.

  With a slow but steady nod, Dermot relaxed his grip on his cap, and the edges of his eyes let go of their crow’s feet grip. “Vengeance. That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

  “So right, little brother.” He gave Dermot a smack on his back as he walked into the kitchen where a couple of bottles were stashed inside a cabinet. He pulled down his two nicest glasses—a pair that he’d received on his one trip overseas—and poured Jameson up to about a third of each glass.

  “Damn, big brother, you’re breaking out the expensive stuff. Didn’t think you could pour money down the drain like this.”

  A wave of heat brushed over Patrick as a hint of anger tugged at his ego. “I live within my means, Dermot. We all do the best we can, given where we came from. But there are some things more important than money.”

  Dermot released a gnarly smile. That damn kid never had a chance with the women with that set of chipped teeth….well, not until Marla and her three desperate kids rolled into town just looking for a sucker to fund their livelihood. Dermot never looked at another woman after Marla arrived on the scene, even though she might be the homeliest woman Patrick had ever laid eyes on. She was the only person who worried Patrick, given her short temper and the short leash she had on his brother.

  “Here’s to a good man and a loyal friend. To Leonardo.” Patrick raised his glass, and Dermot clinked the side, then they each downed the whiskey in one quick tip of the head.

  Dermot thumped his chest. “I love that burn. Makes me feel alive…and connected, you know, to our heritage.”

  “You got that right, Dermot. Now you’re talking.”

  Patrick poured another round, then rested his aching hip by leaning against the counter. They sipped their drinks. The same barking dog interrupted their silence as Dermot swirled whiskey against the side of his glass, his eyes abruptly sullen.

  “What were you saying earlier about how you anticipated Pescatore’s death?” Dermot raised his sights until he locked eyes on his older brother.

  Patrick took in a full breath. “It’s not something I’ve wanted you to worry about. But you know I have this sixth sense, where I can feel when people are getting too close.”

  “Yeah, I know all about your psychic powers, bro.”

  Patrick gave him a steely glare. “I know you’re kidding.”

  “Uh, of course I am,” he said with a nervous twitch.

  Patrick had no intention of pushing him in that direction, so he stepped over and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder and spoke in a quiet tone. “I’d gotten word from one of my contacts that they were on to Leonardo.”

  Dermot stopped all movement, then slowly shifted his eyes to his brother. “Holy shit. What the hell are we going to do?”

  Patrick smiled inside, knowing the steps he had taken to ensure an investigation into Leo would show an obsession with bomb-making. Any evidence authorities would find would be contained to Leo and no one else. He had known all along that they would need a patsy to take the fall and divert attention away from those who truly carried the cause in their hearts.

  “It’s already been done. We’re covered. And our leader is covered.”

  Dermot swallowed just once. “Seriously? But how? You’re just one person, and—”

  He squeezed his brother’s neck. “Like I said, I didn’t want you to worry about it. Remember, we’re family. We stick together no matter what. And I’ll always have your back, Dermot. Always.”

  Dermot turned and embraced his brother, popping his back twice. “Man, I wish Jeffrey were still around. What a team we would make. Nobody could stop us, Patrick. No-fucking-body!”

  Even through his smile, Dermot’s eyes became glassy with emotion.

  “It’s okay, Dermot. He’s watching us from above, probably taking a shot of whiskey with us right now. And you know he’s proud of you; he’s even proud of me. We’re doing something with our lives. We’re making a difference. And the world will know how serious we are very soon.”

  Dermot took another sip of his whiskey. “Damn straight it will.” He nodded while staring off into the corner, then he focused on his brother again. “So if you got everything covered on the Leo front, then what’s our next move?”

  “Follow me.” They walked out the back door, through patches of high weeds, and into a small workshop lit by a single yellow light bulb.

  “Someday I guess I’ll get around to organizing this place a bit,” Patrick said, moving buckets and tools out of his way to make it to the back corner of the hundred-square-foot room. “I know it’s back here somewhere. Ah, there it is.”

  Patrick picked it up by one of its handles and waded through the mess to rejoin Dermot by the door.

  “A bolt cutter. Okay, I know where you’re going with this.”

  Patrick gave his brother an encouraging wink, then pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and placed it in Dermot’s hand.

  “This is where you’ll find the device.”

  Dermot took in a breath, flapping the paper against his opposite hand as his eyes traversed the junk throughout the workshop.

  “You’re prepared for
this event, right, Dermot?”

  “What if I fail? What if I get caught? I don’t know…I just kind of feel like we’re on an island.”

  Patrick nodded. “I understand the questions, Dermot. It’s perfectly normal. But besides our leader—”

  Dermot’s face grew stiff. “Who is this mystical person anyway?”

  “Again, Dermot, for your protection, it’s best that you not burden yourself with more information. In due time, you will know. Soon.”

  Dermot’s mouth opened, but something kept him from speaking. He turned to leave the tiny workshop, then stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

  “I know you’ve told me that many others feel the same way we do. It would just be nice to share this with others.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Patrick held up a finger. “I couldn’t agree more. We can’t have enough powerful people on our side. And I think we might be close to landing a rather large fish.” A knowing smile came to his face. “So, we’re good with your assignment?”

  “Yeah,” Dermot said with an exasperated breath. “I knew it would come down to this.”

  Doubt and uncertainty had returned to his brother’s voice, but Patrick intended to move the operation forward. “Good. You’ll have the tools, and we’ve talked about the timing.”

  Dermot scratched his scraggily face. “Why aren’t we, you know, going with something we created?”

  “We couldn’t afford any more fuckups. No early detonations. The magnitude of this event needs to be bigger to get the job done. So we’ve had to step up to the big leagues, Dermot. This is an exciting time as people finally begin to comprehend who they’re dealing with and why.”

  He popped his brother on the shoulder. “You should be excited, Dermot. We’ve been talking about this since we were young. This is our time to shine the world’s brightest light on a battle that was never finished. We intend to finish it—our way.”

  Dermot attempted a smile.

  “There you go.”

  Once the pair made their way back into the house, Patrick went into his bedroom, rifled through his sock drawer, and pulled out a pouch. He hobbled back into the living room, opened the pouch, and let the contents drop into his brother’s hand.