“I would never put her at risk. She’s the most important—”
“But you did. When I think about what they could’ve done to her.”
“Chrissie, I love you, and I love Amy.”
“That’s not enough, Eddie. Your life, your clients—it’s too dangerous. I won’t take that risk. It’s not fair to Amy.”
She stood silently, shaking her head.
“They weren’t my clients…”
“I don’t care. They took our little girl. And I’ll never forgive you.”
I couldn’t answer her.
“I have to go tell someone you’re awake.”
She looked at our daughter, still asleep in the chair.
“She’s exhausted. We’re both tired, Eddie. You might as well wake her up. She’s been waiting. I’ll get the nurse.”
Christine wiped away her tears with a tissue, turned, and left. I felt as though she was leaving more than just the room. She was turning her back on our marriage, permanently.
“Amy,” I called.
She woke and ran to me. I held her as I had never held her before. I kissed her hair and together we cried. The pain in my back, my shoulder, didn’t stop me from getting up and checking Amy, making sure she was all right—no bruises, no cuts, no scrapes. She didn’t let me look at her for long. Her little arms grabbed my neck, and she held me as tightly as she could, enveloping me in her wonderful scent—a mixture of hair spray, pencils, denim, and bubble gum.
“I got you. I got you…” I repeated.
Eventually, she let me go, sat down on the bed beside me, and held my hand.
“Daddy, this might sound a little weird, but I want to get you a new pen,” she said.
Taking her again in my arms, I told her that the pen didn’t matter. I didn’t care what inscription she put on a pen—that I was an asshole sometimes, but that I loved her completely and I didn’t want to let her go. Ever.
I told her she didn’t need to worry anymore.
I would make sure she was safe.
* * *
That night, I slept without the usual dreams of Hanna Tublowski tied to Berkley’s bed. I was able to sleep that night without seeing her for the first time since I’d found her.
Within a week, I felt well enough to speak to Kennedy properly. He was in the room next to me, damaged and slowed way the hell down for a long time, but fixable and alive. Considering all that had happened, I’d come out of it pretty well; I had a bad concussion, four busted ribs, and some cuts and deep bruises. I told Kennedy my story but not all of it. Harry backed me up, like he always did. Kennedy apologized a lot and even helped out when the feds came from his office to interview me. Jimmy turned over the spray-coded million through his lawyer, keeping two mil for himself and one for me.
Harry came and secretly plied me with alcohol, which I drank without another thought, and we played cards in the evenings. But mostly, I had the best thing in the world.
I had my kid.
* * *
Couple of days later, Harry arrived to pick me up from New York Downtown Hospital and take me back to my apartment. He’d changed the locks and tidied the place for me. He carried my bag as I stepped carefully along the sidewalk toward his beat-up convertible. Just as Harry unlocked the car, I heard a horn. Across the street I saw a white limo. Olek Volchek stood at the passenger door, beckoning me over.
“Eddie, don’t do it,” said Harry.
My ribs sent a shot of hot pain into my body as I skipped through the traffic to the other side of the street.
“What do you want?” I said.
Volchek put his hands up and said, “I just wanted to know what you told the FBI.”
“Don’t worry. I told them Arturas planned the whole thing, that you were just as much a victim as me. You’re clean. As much as I would’ve liked to send you down, I’m not stupid. I know that if I tell the FBI everything, you’ll let them know about me arranging the hit on Severn Towers.”
He smiled—only for a second.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Don’t ever cross me again. We’re about even. I say we leave it at that. Remember, I know where your daughter lives.”
Another man, probably Russian, wearing black jeans and a black leather coat, got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the limo, and opened the passenger door for Volchek. The driver was big, ugly, with a boxer’s nose and small, black eyes. He looked at me like a Doberman looks at a burglar’s ass. This guy was clearly employed to do a hell of a lot more than drive. Volchek was rebuilding the Bratva. Having this guy open the door for him was all about displaying his newfound strength, letting me know he was still in charge.
I took one step away, stopped, spun around, and called out, “Hey, one more thing…”
Volchek had one foot in the limo, and he half turned toward me, his driver still holding the open door.
Ignoring the pain that hit me with every breath, I got my balance and kicked the driver in the shin as hard as I could, sending him onto one knee. As I brought my foot down, I adjusted my stance, locked my hip, and threw a right hook. The punch sent Volchek’s head clean through the passenger window. Grabbing the open door, I slammed it into the driver’s punch-drunk face.
The boss of what was once the Bratva lay on the wet asphalt, tiny cubes of glass covering his torso, his hands raised to protect himself.
“That was for Amy, Jack, and his sister. You don’t need to worry about the FBI. You need to worry about Jimmy the Hat. He still wants blood for his nephew. If I were you, I’d take myself and my big monkey here and get on a plane. And just so you know—we’re nowhere close to even. My daughter has more security now than the mayor. Jimmy and I made sure of that. There are people watching her constantly, so you don’t scare me anymore, asshole. If I ever see you again, or if one of your soldiers comes anywhere near me or my family, I will watch you die, slowly.”
Cars and taxis skidded to a halt as I crossed the street to Harry’s car. The judge rubbed his head and looked at me disdainfully, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and leaden with disappointment.
“That was stupid,” said Harry.
And like most things he said, he was right.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
I’d been out of the hospital a month. Amy was beginning to readjust. She was still fearful and wouldn’t go out on her own, but she was slowly coming around. Hopefully, she would go back to school soon. Jimmy’s guys still watched over her and Christine, and no one had heard anything from Volchek since I’d laid him out on William Street. Amy and I talked on the phone every night at eight, but Christine refused to speak to me. I couldn’t blame her. She also refused to let Amy out of her sight, so I got fewer visits—one every two weeks, for two hours, in my former family home.
Parking my secondhand Mustang on the corner, I got out and removed the leather duffel from the passenger seat.
The little house in front of me was a run-down two-story in a particularly poor part of the Bronx. The windowsills had all but rotted away, and even from the outside, I could smell the damp of the interior. I’d driven past that house many times. On each occasion, I’d lacked the courage to stop the car.
Not today.
Five past seven in the morning. The street was quiet.
I put the duffel down on the front step and rang the doorbell.
Footsteps in the hall.
I heard the rattle of door locks and security chains behind me as I opened the door of my Mustang and got in. I drove off as Hanna Tublowski opened her front door. She picked up the duffel and the letter that I’d placed on top of it.
I didn’t want forgiveness. I didn’t want her to tell me that it wasn’t my fault.
I knew what I had done; I knew that I would never make that mistake again; I knew that there were bad people in this world and that as long as I played my part in the justice game and I remembered who I really was, those people wouldn’t get a second chance to harm anyone else.
In m
y rearview mirror, I saw Hanna Tublowski drop the letter and open the bag, spilling some of her nine hundred thousand dollars onto the pavement. She looked up at my car as I turned the corner.
I put the Mustang in third and hit the gas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the passion, knowledge, and skill of my agent, Euan Thorneycroft of AM Heath, this book would not exist. He has been an editor, a mentor, and a friend. I would like to thank everyone at AM Heath for working so tirelessly to turn me into a published author. In particular, my thanks go to Jennifer, Helene, Pippa, and Vickie.
My thanks go to my criminally talented editor at Orion Books, Jemima Forrester, for all her hard work, keen insights, and abundant enthusiasm. Orion has been a joy to work with and my thanks and praise go to Graeme Williams, Angela McMahon, and the whole Orion team. Very special thanks go to Jon Wood, who is something of a hustler himself, at least on the pool table.
I would also like to thank Christine Kopprasch and Amy Einhorn, for giving Eddie Flynn a home in the U.S., for their skill and vision, and for their passionate advocacy for this book. Eddie could learn a thing or two from Christine and Amy. And a huge thank-you to everyone at Flatiron Books for their dedication and hard work. My thanks also go to George Lucas of Inkwell Management.
I’m very lucky to be represented and published by such good people.
To all my family, friends, fellow writers, and beta readers, especially Simon Thompson, Ace, McKee and John “the debacle” Mackell, thank you for your encouragement—it really meant a lot to me.
My biggest thank-you has to go to my amazing wife, Tracy, for putting up with me, believing in me, and for every little thing that she does for me and the kids, every single day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steve Cavanagh is a leading civil rights lawyer from Belfast, Northern Ireland. The Defense, his debut novel, was nominated for the British Crime Writers’ Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for Thriller of the Year. In 2010, Steve represented a factory worker who suffered racial discrimination in the workplace and won the largest award of damages in Northern Ireland’s legal history. Steve continues to write and practice law. He is married and has two young children.
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DEFENSE. Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Steve Cavanagh. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.flatironbooks.com
Originally published in paperback in Great Britain by Orion Books, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photograph by Nikolaus Gruenwald/Offset
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-08225-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-09071-3 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250090713
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First U.S. Edition: May 2016
The Defense: A Novel Page 31
