by Ian Graham
Regan's face flickered with fear and his child like eyes examined the graffiti on the pitted table in front of him. "Never thought of that I guess, you say these are some bad dudes, huh?"
"The worst."
"All I got was a last name. Some guy named Kafni. He's some sort of Jewish writer or something."
Declan recognized the name immediately and felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.
"Thanks," he said as he got up from the table. "Food's on the way. I'll take it from here."
Slipping on his black pea coat, he withdrew a small roll of bills from the pocket. After peeling off a fifty and placing it on the table for the tab, he handed the rest of it to Regan as the agreed upon payment for the man's spy work.
"Keep it," Regan said gruffly. "If what you said is true you may have just saved my life. I think I'll see about finding a new job."
Declan slid the bills back into his pocket and clapped Regan on the shoulder. "Sounds like a grand idea to me."
"Hey," Regan said catching him by the arm before he could leave the table. "You be careful you hear me? I've been with O'Rourke for ten years now and I've seen a lot of people come and go… some of them in some not very nice ways. I'd hate to see you end up like that."
Declan nodded and walked out.
Outside, a cold wind blew straight down Adams Street and onto Dorchester Avenue like a getaway car running a red light. Turning the collar on his coat up, Declan walked away from the bar in the direction of Carney Hospital where he knew he could find a cab ride back to his two room haunt in South Boston. A thousand things sped through his mind as he walked. "Abaddon Kafni," he repeated to himself several times, his mind flooding with memories from the not-so-distant past.
On the streets of Belfast life had been cheap, every shadow hiding a man looking for a way to get a knife between the ribs of another. For a man to take the risk of helping another marked for execution showed an incredible degree of honor and decency that up until that point Declan hadn't thought existed. Abaddon Kafni, an agent with the Israeli Mossad operating illegally in Northern Ireland, had saved his life. The question burning through his mind as he entered a cab parked along the curb of the five story hospital was whether or not he was going to try to return the favor.
Chapter Three
"There's our old pal Brendan leaving now," Rory McLeish said as he watched his cousin Mickey shift uncomfortably in the driver's seat of the Cadillac. The two were parked in an alley one block from Barr's Bar. "I told you the fat man was battin' for both teams, didn't I?"
"Yup," Mickey said.
Mickey was a large role of a man whose vocabulary was as short as the stubby little fingers that stuck out of the mass of flesh he called a hand like the extremities of a balloon animal. Rory hated being stuck in the car next to him but together they'd been given the assignment of following Brendan Regan by Sean Reid. According to Reid, Regan had been asking far too many questions over the past week and Reid wanted to know who he was talking to. Five minutes earlier, they'd watched as another member of the Revenge's crew, the brooding Irishman called Declan, had left the bar.
"I guess we solved Reid's little mystery. We should be rollin' up on 'em and doing some damage. I hate these sit and do nothing jobs. I'm not a damn private eye. Watch this. Find this. This is crap," Rory complained. He was a man of action, or at least he fancied himself a man of action. In reality he mostly talked about action that had happened a decade ago when he and Mickey had still been in the good graces of Alan Byrne, the now imprisoned crime boss who had ruled South Boston's Irish neighborhoods unchallenged for nearly a decade.
"I don't know, but we'd best do what Mr. Reid says." Mickey offered, his slow wit evident in his speech.
"Shut up you lap dog. If I wanted your opinion I'd give it to you. Now let's go before he gets too far ahead of us and we lose him. The last thing I need after being stuck in the car with you all night is Reid pissed at me. That guy's got a few screws loose if you ask me."
Mickey gripped the gear shift on the side of the steering wheel with five meaty digits and methodically pulled the sedan into gear as if he had to think about each step in the process to keep from screwing it up. The Caddy's suspension groaned under his weight as he piloted it over the concrete drainage decline between the alleyway and the pavement of Adams Street.
Rory shook his head in embarrassment feeling like he was sitting higher than Mickey, the car's suspension not having given way under his short and skinny frame. "We'll follow him back to his house and then call Reid," he said as the vehicle moved north after Brendan Regan who was stepping into a taxi one block ahead of them. "Maybe we'll get to break some legs after all."
Chapter Four
11:47 a.m. Eastern US Time — Friday, April 25th, 1997
Cutler Court
South Boston, Massachusetts
Declan placed the black journal he was reading on the night stand beside his bed and stared at the ceiling in the tiny bedroom of his apartment. Thinking about his conversation with Brendan Regan the previous night, he had decided that Regan had been right. He shouldn't care about what these Iranians or Chechens were up to. He should just keep his head down and stay out of the line of fire. He could warn the few members of the Revenge's crew that he respected and then find himself a new job somewhere else. That's why he had come to America, to work and to build a new life as far from his bloody past as possible. But as the seasoned floor joists of the apartment above him creaked under their occupant's weight, he reminded himself why he cared.
As a participant in the Northern Ireland conflict, known as The Troubles, that was slowly coming to a conclusion after nearly thirty years of bloodshed, he'd seen too many men like those aboard the Zarin vessel operate. When men like that were about, people were going to die and those people were usually innocent. He hadn't known Kafni for very long or very well but he remembered the man speaking glowingly of a family that he hoped to rejoin once his duties with the Israeli Government were finished. As the Israeli had helped him board a freighter in Galway bound for the United States, they'd shook hands and looked across the wide Atlantic, each sharing their desire for a better life away from the conflicts that had defined both their lives to date.
He could only assume that Kafni's presence in America meant that he had immigrated along with his family and the thought of children getting caught in the crossfire of an assassination attempt filled Declan's mind with dread. He'd watched as his own parents had been murdered by members of a loyalist paramilitary known as the Ulster Volunteer Force and wouldn't wish the experience on his worst enemy. He looked over at the black book he'd been reading, it was his father's journal and the only physical item he had that belonged to either his mother or father.
Standing from the bed, he walked into the living area and took a seat on an aging recliner. Rubbing his face with his hands and brushing his blonde hair out of eyes, he looked around the third floor apartment that was made up of his bedroom, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, and a slightly larger living area with a stove and dwarfed refrigerator shoved into one corner, his landlady's idea of a kitchenette. The peeling wallpaper, torn vinyl flooring, stained carpet, ragged furniture and barely consumable water along with an excessive amount of rent were the best he could do given his situation and if he were being honest, it was better than some of the places he'd slept over the years. At times, he felt doomed to a life in the company of people like O'Rourke, people who had only their own best interest at heart and who cared nothing for the people they hurt along the way to whatever ends they had in mind, if they actually planned that far ahead.
Since he'd learned from Brendan Regan that the target was Kafni he'd been reading every newspaper and tuning into every local news channel his antiquated television would pick up in hopes of finding some mention of what Kafni was doing in Boston. On the boat in Provincetown he remembered O'Rourke promising to get the target's schedule and in the bar, Regan had mentioned he was some kind of writer
. Maybe he was here on a book tour and didn't even have his family with him. Declan could only hope.
Spreading a piece of newspaper across a small coffee table in front of his recliner and opening it to the events section, he stopped and looked up suddenly as the front door of the apartment vibrated with the sound of a pounding fist. He jumped up from the recliner and moved to the nightstand beside his bed, withdrawing a black Walther PP. Releasing the single stack magazine, he checked to be sure it was fully loaded and slapped it back into the grip before chambering a round and tucking the pistol into the rear waistband of his jeans. The door vibrated again loudly.
"Declan, it's Regan. Are ya there?"
The voice sounded tired and Declan knew it meant trouble. He'd never told anyone aboard the Revenge where he lived and he'd been very careful to make sure no one had ever followed him. He purposely varied the routes and methods he used to arrive at the property and never received mail there, not that anyone ever sent him any. "Damn," he said under his breath as he considered his options. Outside of the apartments only window was a fire escape and he'd made sure the window operated properly. If Regan was alone, which he seriously doubted, the alleyway that ran along the backside of the apartment buildings would be free and clear. Moving over to his recliner and pulling back the olive green curtain behind it, he looked down the alley onto East 5th Street. Just as he had suspected, two men were parked in a beat up blue Chevrolet Cavalier directly across from the entrance to the alley. Despite doing their best to seem innocuous by leaning back in the seats and smoking cigarettes, Declan knew they were lookouts.
The door vibrated again. "Declan. It's Brendan. I need your help."
Withdrawing the Walther from his waistband and concealing it behind his left leg, he walked to the front door. He stood to the left of it and reached over to turn the doorknob allowing the frail wooden door to open on its own as it always did if it wasn't latched properly. As the door creaked open Brendan Regan came into view, standing front and center with a look that could curdle milk. Even in the dimly lit hallway Declan could see his face was bruised and bloody. "I'm sorry man. They made me."
"Get outta the way you git!"
Regan was struck in the back of the head with the butt of a pistol. Declan dropped back and brought the Walther up as the large man fell forward into the apartment forcing the door the rest of the way open with his weight. "I'm sorry man. I'm sorry man," the giant whined as he lay face down on the floor crying.
"I know you got a gun you mick!" someone with a high pitched voice yelled from the hallway. "If you know what's best you'll toss it out here. There's more of us than there are of you!"
Declan stayed silent with the pistol aimed towards the hallway.
"You make me come in there and you're gonna get worse than your friend on the floor got!"
Regan whined in response and Declan listened to the sounds in the hallway. By the way the man's voice echoed and the lack of footsteps he was certain that the goon was alone. "You talk pretty big for a guy at a major disadvantage," he said.
"Yeah and what disadvantage would that be?"
"This one," Declan said moving his aim down and a little to the left before pulling the trigger. The report of the Walther echoed through the apartment and a bullet tore into the sheet rock beside the door frame opening a broad hole. The sound of the goon falling to the floor preceded his scream, "Ah Jesus man!"
Declan moved forward and rounded his way through the doorway with the pistol aimed. On the floor beside the door, gripping his leg, was a sorry looking man with bulging eyes and loose, jaundice colored skin. Declan recognized him as Rory McLeish, a part time errand boy O'Rourke used to run messages back and forth to his contacts in the mob. Kicking away the Smith & Wesson 9mm the man had been holding, he gripped him by the collar and tugged him into the apartment.
"Jesus, you shot me man!"
"Shut up," Declan said pushing him into the recliner. "You should know better than to come after a man with more mouth than muscle."
"Ah fuck you ma…"
Declan brought the butt of the Walther down across the right side of McLeish's face. "Be nice."
McLeish spit a mouth full of blood and at least one tooth onto the floor and sat whimpering, holding the wound on his leg tightly.
Keeping the pistol aimed at McLeish, Declan walked over to where Regan lay. "Can you get up?"
Regan nodded and gingerly stood from the floor with Declan's assistance. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut from the beating Reid's goons had given him. Declan grimaced at the site, feeling bad for getting him involved.
"How many more are there?"
The gentle giant wiped his face with his sleeve. "Two more at the front door downstairs and two more in a car outside."
Declan slammed the door shut now that Regan was out of the way. "Is Reid with them?"
Regan nodded.
"Good. Then we'll just sit and wait for him. Get a shirt from the dresser in the bedroom there and tie his leg up. He's bleeding on my furniture."
Regan moved into the bedroom and just as Declan thought, they didn't have to wait long. A voice shouted from the landing between the second and third floors.
"Alright McIver! There's four of us and only one of you! The cops are on their way so you either leave now with us or this becomes a standoff that won't end very well for you!"
The voice belonged to Sean Reid and Declan knew it. "Aye, still got your man up here! I'd hate for anything further to happen to him," he called out.
"I don't care what happens to McLeish! Why do you think I sent him up first?"
Declan smiled and laughed. He'd known the answer to that threat before it even left his mouth. He winked at Regan who stood in the doorway of the bedroom with a shell shocked look. "I'm easily amused," he said. "Let's get outta here."
Responding to the question on Regan's face, he continued. "The fire escape, c'mon."
"But they're watching it. They'll shoot at us."
Declan shrugged. "Then we'll just have to shoot back." Having prepared for scenarios like this in both the IRA's training camps and with the Russian Spetsnaz, Declan was confident he could handle anything Reid could throw at him. The first mate of a smuggling ship and his three hired leg breakers might be enough to frighten most civilians, but they were badly outmatched with a man who'd been trained to take down entire governments from the bottom up.
"He's going ou…" McLeish tried to yell out but was stopped by the grip of the Walther as Declan blasted it across his face again.
"I told you to be nice. Now I'm going to have to shut you up for good."
"Ah Jesus man no," McLeish whined assuming he was about to die.
"Forget his leg. Put the shirt in his mouth and tie it around the back of his head."
Regan rolled the white t-shirt up and went to work. "Who's in charge now you little bastard?" Regan said to McLeish as he punched him in the eye with a meaty fist.
"Feel better?" Declan asked as he moved to the curtain and opened the window.
"Yeah, actually I do," Regan said.
After McLeish's gag was secured Declan said, "I'll go out first and cover you, when we get to the bottom there's an old fence at the end of the alley. Hidden behind some pallets there's a door that leads out to the other end of the alley."
"Okay," Regan said nervously rubbing his sweaty hands together.
With the Walther aimed towards the goons in the Cavalier, Declan ducked out of the window onto the rusted fire escape. Immediately the man in the driver's seat of the lookout car noticed him and reacted by opening the door and getting out. Staying low, Declan waited as Regan climbed through the window.
"Hey! Hey! He's on the fire escape!" the goon on the street yelled as he reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a revolver. Several pedestrians walking along the sidewalks on either side of East 5th Street darted into buildings or took off running in the opposite direction. Breaking into a short run the man stopped at the edge of the alley an
d aimed. Declan fired first with the Walther and the man's chest burst open at center mass, his body falling straight back onto the concrete sidewalk.
"Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn," Regan said as he moved down the aged fire escape faster than he'd probably moved at any time in the last twenty years. With the Walther aimed up the alley, Declan followed. From across the street the second goon in the lookout car bent over the vehicle's roof and aimed his own revolver. His first two shots pinged off the metal railings of the fire escape and Regan continued to swear as he switch backed down the staircase. Declan fired the Walther twice into the driver's side door of the vehicle causing the lookout to duck for cover and allowing Regan to reach the bottom of the fire escape. A metallic squeal filled the air as the last staircase descended from its dormant upright position under Regan's considerable weight. Rounding the last switchback, Declan heard the sound of his apartment's front door splintering in from a forceful kick. Taking the remaining steps three at a time, he turned and aimed his pistol upwards just as Sean Reid's pallid face appeared in the third floor window. Declan fired his fifth shot out of the Walther's six round magazine in Reid's direction, his expert aim assuring the bullet hit his intended target and didn't go through the roof of his apartment into someone else's. Wood from the weathered window sill exploded as the bullet impacted and Reid's face disappeared back into the apartment, taking cover.
"C'mon," Declan said as pushed Regan towards the picket fence that blocked the alley about three quarters of the way between 5th and 6th Streets. With his eyes darting between the apartment window and the man taking cover behind the lookout car his mind began to focus on exactly how they were going to get completely away from the area. In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching. Soon Reid and his goons would only be half the problem. Being confronted by a legion of police officers and hauled off to jail would be the other half.
