“You okay, boss?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy circumvented the remaining obstacles, rounded the building, turned left and entered the back door of a seedy bar. To outsiders, the tavern was closed, but the Townies knew that the action had merely moved to the back room, which was in reality a private club.
O’Leary felt at home in Charlestown and was one of the few non-Townies with access to everywhere. He walked to the bar and slapped a heavyset man on the back. “How’s it goin’, Bobby?”
The man spun on his stool, ready to punch the interloper. When he recognized O’Leary, he smiled a broad smile that revealed a missing canine tooth. “Not bad, Jimmy. How ’bout you?”
“I’m doin’ okay.”
“You get the dough I sent?” Bobby asked.
O’Leary slid onto a bar stool beside Bobby and glanced around the room. He saw no one who was not known to him and felt secure enough to talk openly. “Yup, was that my cut from the armored car in Andover?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some advice, Bobby?”
Bobby downed his shot of whiskey. “Depends. What’s it gonna cost?”
“Nothin’ . . . you know me—I charge for information. Advice, on the other hand, is free. But I’m lookin’ for some info.”
“Okay,” Bobby said, “it’s your dime.”
“First, the advice: lay off the rolling banks for a while. I heard the Feebs have moved a task force into the city. They believe all the robberies are bein’ done by a gang of Townies.”
For a few seconds, Bobby pondered O’Leary’s advice. “How long you figure we should lay low?”
“Shit, I was you guys, I’d get into a whole new line of business. It’s hard to know who to trust anymore. Take Whitey, for instance. No way in hell anyone would have expected him to be a rat bastard informing to the Feds.” Once again, O’Leary scanned the room. “It’s getting to the point where you can only trust your blood relatives—and you better keep a close watch on them.”
Bobby nodded his agreement. “Ain’t like the old days, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
“Nope, the whole friggin’ world has gone nuts. If the Feebs bust you, call me. I got a real good lawyer. It’ll be on my dime, no charge.”
“Thanks.”
“Shit, you’re almost family. Over the years you bin’ loyal and I appreciate that.”
“What can I do for you?” Bobby motioned for the bartender to bring him a refill. “And get Jimmy whatever he wants.”
“Coffee,” O’Leary ordered. He turned back to Bobby. “Talk to me about these shootin’s goin’ on all over the city.”
“Jesus, Jimmy, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Street talk is that this guy’s a fuckin’ psycho with an agenda . . . ”
“You got any idea what that agenda might be?”
Bobby’s eyes widened as if he had just had an epiphany. “The woman that got popped over on Comm Ave. was . . . ”
“My sister.”
“Aw, damn it all to hell, Jimmy, I’m sorry. Pam was a good kid . . . that sucks big time.”
“Yeah. So you see, this is personal. That’s why I want anything and everything you know.”
Like O’Leary had done moments before, Bobby glanced over his shoulder. “There’s somethin’ fucked up about this . . . you didn’t get this from me, okay?”
“Sure. Now tell me what you got.”
“The shooter’s agenda is your former brother-in-law. He has a major hard-on for him, one that goes back years . . . ”
16
“The sniper must always take maximum advantage of the terrain by occupying positions which offer good observation, fields of fire, concealment and cover, and which control enemy avenue of approach into the defensive position.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
After hanging up the phone, Houston tried going to sleep again. It was a futile effort. Finally, at five o’clock, he got up, made coffee and poured a cup. He sat at the table going through his notes and running a mental inventory of every scout/sniper with whom he had ever served. If, indeed, someone from his past had an issue with him, there was not a single clue as to who it was. However, he was going to find out. Once the shooter’s identity was known, they were going to settle this one-on-one. It might cost him his shield, but he didn’t care. What really ate at him was that for the first time in his life, he was the mouse and not the cat.
By six o’clock, the caffeine had made him jittery and he decided to get busy. He opened his address book and looked up Danny Drews’s phone number. He hoped Danny was still an early riser; if not—too bad. The information Danny could provide was too important to worry about something as trivial as his sleeping habits.
When Drews answered on the second ring, his voice sounded as if he had been awake for a while. “Hello.”
“Danny, Mike Houston, what’s up?”
Drews laughed, “I’d say nothing good if you’re calling. What’s it been, two years since we last talked?”
“Something like that, but who’s counting?”
“I am, not that you care. You were always an independent son of a bitch, Mike.”
“Hey, let’s do breakfast.”
“Sure, anytime.”
“No, I mean this morning . . . now. Meet me at Andy’s—say in an hour?”
“Yeah, sure, that’ll be okay.” Drews sounded suspicious of Houston’s motives. Their relationship was not of the let’s get together for a couple of beers variety.
“Hey, Danny, you still got that list of guys from the old days?”
“Do you mean my scout/sniper roll call?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Bring it with you.”
Danny said nothing for several seconds and Houston knew he was giving his next words serious thought. “Mike, is this about the sniper killings I been following in the news?”
“Yeah, Bucko, I’m afraid it is.”
“You think the shooter is one of us?”
“Not only do I think it is, I’m certain of it. We’ll talk over some eggs.”
Andy’s was a small local diner wedged in between rows of aging brownstones in a neighborhood that was in flux. Once the domain of the middle class, many of the brownstones had been purchased and converted into offices and classrooms by the myriad small colleges that filled Boston’s Back Bay and west end. Cruising past the Common—site of the first shootings—Houston was cognizant of how fast time was passing. They were coming up on the end of the crucial first forty-eight hours after the crime and they still had little if anything to lead them to the shooter.
Houston got to the restaurant early, bought a newspaper and took a booth in the back. He flipped over the paper and saw a full-page picture of the Blackman/McGuire crime scene with a huge headline that read: SNIPER STRIKES AGAIN: Death Toll Now 7. On a wall-mounted television a local news anchor was interviewing the police commissioner. Even though the volume was low, the hysteria was clearly reaching extreme levels and all of the city’s politicians were catching hell—especially those affiliated with the BPD. Opening the paper, Houston read the lead article, which pointed an accusing finger at the incompetence of the police when it came to bringing in the sniper.
Houston ordered a couple of mugs of coffee and the waitress placed them on the table as Danny Drews walked in. Drews had changed a lot during the two years since they had last seen each other. The years had not been good to him. Houston had to force himself from commenting on Drews’s balding pate and the growing paunch that hung over his belt.
“You haven’t changed much,” Drews said.
“I don’t know about that. I feel as if I’ve been rode hard and put away wet a few times too many. How’ve you been?”
“As you know, I got married—our first child is due in two months.” Drews was jovial and smiling. It had to be the result of living a normal life, one that didn’t make you deal with violence and guns on a daily basis. Houston wondered if he would ever feel like that again.
“You know how it is . . . my mother always said the first one comes anytime—after that it takes nine months,” Drews said.
Drews’s joke had brought back memories and Houston felt nostalgic. Pam had been pregnant with Susie when he and she got married. “Now I remember—you sent me an invitation.”
“You didn’t come.”
“Yeah, I got no excuse.”
“Aw, hell, you would have been bored to tears anyhow. What fun is a wedding if you can’t get shit-faced, huh?”
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Drews settled into his seat, took a sip of coffee. “Here’s the stuff you asked for.” Drews slid a manila folder across the table. “Those are yours, I made copies of everything I got: names, addresses, and phone numbers. What makes you think it’s one of us?”
“These kills have been planned with military precision . . . as if whoever did them is following the scout/sniper training manual. As a matter of fact, they remind me of the ops we did in the Mowg. Whoever this shooter is, he’s either been through sniper training or he’s working with someone who knows scout/sniper tactics. One thing is for certain though—somebody who knows search-and-kill procedures and tactics is involved in this somehow.”
Drews shook his head. “I can see how you might come to your conclusion. It does sound as if this shooter is a trained sniper. But you got to get with the times, Mike.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, this is the Internet age. Hell, if you go online and search ‘one shot; one kill’ or sniper, you’d shit at how many hits you’ll get. If you want to learn how to be a sniper, I can give you the names of some people who run camps and train anyone with the money. We’re living in some fucked-up times, Mike. Goddamned terrorists have got the world paranoid. The NRA even had an actor in charge who said he’d only give up his gun when somebody pries it from his dead hands. Anybody with the money who wants to be a sniper can be. As for knowing about Hathcock and Burke—hell, Henderson’s book, Marine Sniper, sold so many copies he used the pages his editor cut out of the first edition to write a sequel. Hathcock himself did a video interview you can buy on the Internet.”
“Yeah, I know I may be jumping to conclusions. But this shooter made it personal when he shot my ex. He also called me and said we were in the Mowg together.”
Drews’s eyes widened. “Jesus, he shot Pam?”
Houston nodded. “Yeah, it’s in the morning papers. There’s more to it though. He sent me a warning last night. Had me dead in his sights and didn’t hit me. Everything he’s done so far indicates that he’s too good to have missed unless he meant to. Immediately after that, he called me and referred to the Mowg.”
“That’s scary. Still, you can’t eliminate the guys you’ve put away as a cop. They could be saying some of this shit to throw you off track.”
“I hope so, Danny. That would mean I’m chasing an amateur. Unfortunately, nothing this perp has done so far says anything but that he’s a trained and experienced professional.”
They talked about old times for about an hour. Houston needed to ask one more question and finally threw it on the table. “Danny, during our time in the Corps, do you remember anyone who walked around with a major hard-on for me?”
Drews sat back and Houston visualized wheels turning in his mind. “I can only think of one guy who even comes close.”
“Who was it?”
“Edwin Rosa.”
“Rosa? Christ, I haven’t thought about him in years. You’re right about one thing though, he wouldn’t spit to save me from dying of thirst. There’s one major problem with that theory though—he died over there. I know—I was with him.”
“That’s not what the official record says. It lists him as MIA.”
“That’s bullshit! I was involved. There was no way he lived through that.”
“Really?”
“He and I were on a mission and the enemy ambushed us. During the fight Rosa got hit through both legs and couldn’t walk. We holed up in an old tenement and held them off for a couple of hours. Since Rosa was unable to walk, I decided one of us needed to go for help. Once it was dark enough for me to leave, I moved him to a window where he’d have a clear field of fire, gave him my rifle and headed back to the base camp. After I left, the skinnies burned the building to the ground. By the time we got back, it was just a pile of rubble. It must have burned faster than a paper house on a windy day—there was no way he could have made it out.” Houston paused and took a drink of his coffee.
“Now I remember. But, I also know that they never found his body in the rubble.”
Houston settled back, slowly turning his coffee cup. “Rosa was one bloodthirsty bastard. He and I butted heads several times over his indiscriminate shooting of noncombatants.” Houston paused, staring into his mug of coffee, and looked like he was a million miles away. “Still, nobody deserves to die like he did.”
Drews stood. “Well, some of us are gainfully employed. I hope the file helps you get this guy before someone else gets killed.”
“Me too—it’s been good seeing you, Danny.”
“Same here—see you around.”
The sniper had been on-site and in position for half an hour. He had broken into an under-renovation brownstone and climbed the three flights of stairs to the top floor. He was pleasantly surprised to find the door to the roof unlocked. He stepped onto the roof and checked his line of fire to the front door of the building across the street—it was unobstructed and only about a twenty- or thirty-meter shot. For a shot that short, he didn’t need to worry about the wind or difference in elevation having an effect on the bullet’s flight; for these reasons he had opted to use his 9mm pistol.
He made a quick survey of the roof’s perimeter. The next building was separated by no more than six or seven feet. He backed up a couple of steps and easily vaulted across the narrow chasm. Once again he studied the roof and found a fire escape leading down to the narrow service street behind the line of buildings. Satisfied that he would be able to take his shot and exit the area, he jumped back to the partially renovated brown-stone. He returned to his shooting position and settled down behind the roof’s parapet. Now there was nothing to do but wait for his target to appear. He glanced at the sun as it crept over the top of the city’s skyline and felt the early-morning warmth on his ravaged skin. Gonna heat up quick—in more ways than one, he thought.
Houston and Drews shook hands.
“We should do this more often,” Drews pulled a twenty from his pocket.
Before he could throw it on the table, Houston waved him off. “This is on me—for old times.”
Houston counted out two singles as a tip for the waitress and tossed them on the table.
Drews nodded and headed for the exit. Drews opened the door and turned to wave good-bye. His arm was still in the air when his chest exploded. A microsecond later, a sharp crack broke the morning stillness. Blood and tissue flew everywhere, splattering a woman in a white business suit.
Houston ran forward, hoping to catch Danny as he fell. He didn’t get there in time. Drews hit the floor with a muffled smack.
Houston took his pistol from its shoulder holster, held his badge up, and ignored the pain in his lacerated hands and knees as he slid across the floor, stopping beside his fallen friend. “Police, everyone get down!”
Houston knelt beside Drews; a cursory look told him that all a doctor would be able to do was pronounce him dead. His head was turned to the side, blood was smeared across his face from the nose and facial bones that had broken when he hit the restaurant’s industrial tile floor. The leg of Houston’s trousers was soaked with blood from the gaping exit wound in Drews’s chest and his own ripped-open stitches. Houston’s fingers were slippery with blood when he pressed them against Drews’s carotid—there was no pulse. He left the body, duckwalked to the door and ventured a look outside.
The sniper ignored the ejected cartridge an
d concentrated downrange. He saw Houston’s head appear around the doorjamb. He adjusted his aim until the pistol sights were centered a couple of inches beside the cop’s head and squeezed the trigger.
A bright light flashed from the roof of the building directly across the street, and then something slapped into the doorjamb next to Houston’s head. Wood splinters exploded and tore into the side of his face. Houston ducked, hiding behind the door, and belatedly raised his arms to shield his eyes from the sharp splinters. He paused for a few seconds, trying to decide what course of action he should take. He looked at the diner’s patrons. The waitress knelt on the floor. She and the sobbing businesswoman clutched each other, one arm wrapped around the other woman and their other arms folded over their heads as if warding off falling debris.
Houston took a deep breath and burst through the door. He dashed between parked cars and raced across the street toward the building from which the sniper had fired. He felt as if he were a halfback running end zone to end zone on an endless football field and no matter how fast he ran, the entrance to the building seemed to remain at a fixed distance.
After what seemed an eternity but was only seconds, Houston vaulted up the six concrete steps leading to the entrance and slammed into the door with his shoulder. The door burst open and he faced a dark unlit stairwell. Ignoring personal safety, he ran up the old warped stairs. As he climbed, his feet hitting the aging wood sounded like a stampeding elephant. He was certain the sniper could hear him. Yet Houston pushed on, taking the steps two at a time. Intent on reaching the top floor, he gave no thought to the fact that a bullet could end his ascent at any second. He raced upward, ignoring dark doorways and landings in his determination to get to the roof. If the sniper were inside the building, rather than on the roof, Houston was a dead man, yet he didn’t care. The chances of getting to the rooftop before the sniper fled were slim enough and taking precautionary procedures would reduce them to nil.
Sniper Page 11
