by Ian Graham
Two gunshots jarred his mind back to the immediate situation as they slammed into the concrete wall a few inches from his shoulder. The lookout goon was up and firing again. With only one bullet left Declan knew he'd need it if Reid popped his mug out of the window again before they were clear of the alley, having the high ground meant that Reid had the best chance of taking them out. He reached out and pulled Regan down behind a dumpster that stood along the opposite wall and provided them cover from the lookout shooter, several more gunshots sailed over their heads. Declan kept his eyes fixed on the third floor window, so far Reid was a no show. Hopefully, he thought, the man was running down the steps and out of the apartment building in an effort to avoid the police himself. While O'Rourke's mob connections likely had more than a few people in the police department on their payroll, getting caught at the scene of a gunfight in the middle of South Boston wouldn't be an easy thing to explain away.
"What're we gonna do?" Regan asked still breathing heavily from the run down the fire escape. His face was covered in sweat and Declan was hoping he didn't have a heart attack.
"I've only got one round left so unless you've got a magazine full of bullets for a Walther PP stuffed in one of your pockets we're going to have to make a run for it."
"Oh damn."
"The door leading out of the alley is there," Declan said pointing to a pile of weather beaten pallets that were stacked against a high picket fence about twenty yards from them. "Behind those pallets is a door that leads to the 6th Street side of the alley. Once we're through that door the alley opens up and we can cut through a parking lot completely out of their line of fire."
The whole time he was talking Declan kept his eyes fixed on the window of his apartment. If he could be sure Reid was no longer in the apartment he was confident he could take down the lookout shooter with his last remaining shot and then they'd be free to run. But as long as Reid's position was unknown, the bullet needed to stay right where it was.
"Alright, on the count of three we're going to push this dumpster out into the alley and run for it. That should give us some cover from the shooter at the car. I'll bring up the rear keeping my sights on the apartment window, you with me?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Regan said wiping his bruised forehead free of sweat.
"Alright. One — two — three!"
Declan grabbed a hold of the dumpster and pushed. With Regan's help the heavy green box scraped across the rough pavement. Several gunshots sounded and Declan heard them clang against the metal. Another one passed over their heads and struck the wall causing dust and chunks of concrete block to pepper them. "Let's go!"
With Regan in the lead and running like a linebacker on a tying drive, Declan ran sideways, his eyes darting between the fence and his apartment window as they crossed the twenty yard distance in what seemed like a few seconds. Regan tore into the stack of pallets with a growl and they came crashing to the floor of the alley, exposing a rickety door. With the Walther aimed at the window Declan saw the barrel of a pistol protrude from the sill. Firing his last bullet, the side of the window frame exploded and the hand holding the pistol disappeared inside. Hearing the hinges squeal as Regan pulled the door open, Declan pushed him through to the other side of the alley and followed as three more gunshots sounded and pieces of the fence were torn loose by the impacting bullets.
"Alright we're through, this way!" Declan yelled as he took the lead and ran across a small parking lot located behind an apartment building. Running down the drive between two buildings, Declan stopped when he reached the sidewalk of East 6th Street. Regan was ten yards behind him trying to keep up. When he arrived on the sidewalk, he grabbed Declan's shoulder for support and bent over huffing.
"Don't get too comfortable. We're not out of this yet," Declan said placing the empty Walther into the waistband of his jeans. The sound of police sirens had grown louder and Declan looked back in the direction they'd come. Blue and red flashes began to light up the sides of the apartment buildings along East 5th Street. "Time to go."
Starting out in a jog, Declan moved across East 6th Street and entered a narrow alley that ran between two houses. Regan followed. "Where are we going?" he asked as they entered the backyard belonging to the house. Tall trees shaded the yard and hid them from view as they moved through on their way to East 7th Street. At the end of the yard a four foot chain link fence delineated one property from another and Declan placed his hands on it, hopping over easily and then turning to help Regan. Declan moved to another section of fence and jumped over as the sound of a dog barking in the house and lunging at the home's backdoor drew his attention.
"Hey! I told ya guys not to be cutting through my yard!" an older man yelled from the door of a broken down garage that sat beside the house. "Hey! You deaf?"
Declan ignored the man and helped Regan over the second fence.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you!" the man said picking up a baseball bat and coming towards them. Just as Regan cleared the fence the man swung the bat at him. Stepping between them, Declan caught the bat in mid swing and pulled the Walther from his waistband. "We need your car."
The man released his grip on the bat as he stared down the barrel of the Walther. "O — Okay."
The door to the silver Honda CR-V parked in the driveway was open and Declan backed towards it. With the keys already in the ignition he turned over the engine and waited for Regan to enter the passenger side. Once Regan was inside, Declan tossed the Walther towards the vehicle's owner. "It's empty. We'll leave your car at Andrews Station," he said as the weapon landed at the man's feet.
Shifting into reverse, he backed the SUV out of the driveway and drove west on East 7th Street for two blocks before cutting south onto East 8th and continuing west in the direction of the Andrews MBTA station about a mile from South Boston. As they entered the parking lot a few minutes later, Regan asked, "Are you sure it was a good idea to tell him where you were going? Won't he tell the police?"
"Most likely, but we'll be out of here in less than three minutes. C'mon."
Getting out of the car Declan and Regan crossed Dorchester Avenue and entered the station. Descending two flights of dingy concrete steps into the underground terminal, they waited for the train to arrive. "Where do you live?" Declan asked.
"Got an apartment in Jamaica Plain."
"Right, we'll take the northbound to Downtown Crossing and hook up with the orange there."
Regan nodded his agreement as the northbound train skidded loudly to a stop in front of them and an electronic voice began announcing the train's next destination. Stepping onto the train along with a throng of other passengers, Declan kept an eye on the station's multiple entrances until the train was underway. Taking a seat next to Regan, he said, "Sorry I got you involved in all of this."
For several seconds Regan's face showed no emotion. Finally, he shook his head and said, "Hell, probably would've happened sooner rather than later anyway. If you swim with sharks eventually you'll get bit." Declan nodded and they rode the rest of the way in silence. He knew all about swimming with sharks.
As the train slowed at the Downtown Crossing station, Declan stood, preparing to exit. When the doors hissed open he stepped off the train and waited for Regan to follow. "You know how to get to the Orange line from here?"
"Yeah, where are you going?"
"If I were you I'd get to Jamaica Plain as quick as possible and pack your things. O'Rourke's going to be out for blood when he finds out what happened."
"There's nothing at my place I want that bad. I think I'll just keep going until I get to my sister's house in Philly. What are you going to do?"
"I'm not leaving Boston yet. Abaddon Kafni's a friend of mine and I'm not going to let him die."
"Hell man you'll…" Regan stopped talking as he realized no one was listening. Declan was gone, his departure cloaked by the melee of commuters advancing towards the terminal's exits.
Chapter Five
8:13 p.m. Eastern US Tim
e
Caspian Way
South Boston, Massachusetts
The Saint Malachy's Revenge bobbed gently in its mooring area a few blocks east of where Interstate I-90 crossed under Boston Harbor and separated the busy downtown area from the seedier, working class docks. Across the bay to the north, planes roared into and out of Logan International Airport, the Approach Lighting System flashing over head to guide landing pilots onto the proper runways. Declan looked carefully at the Revenge, inspecting it for any signs that O'Rourke was still aboard. Seeing no sign of anyone, he turned and walked south towards the derelict warehouse where O'Rourke stored his cargo.
Located on a one hundred yard long side street among the breweries, energy distribution facilities and labor union offices, the warehouse was a tattered reminder of the kind of people he was dealing with. A rusted and half trampled chain link fence prevented anyone from entering the property. Outside, there was no sign the building was even inhabited. The rear yard was full of burned out cars with weeds growing around and throughout them. For a moment, Declan looked, fascinated by how the once paved parking lot and the automobiles had so easily and so permanently been overtaken by nature. Things like that had never ceased to amaze him. Ireland, his native home, was full of centuries old reminders that the earth ultimately reclaimed that which belonged to it.
Refocusing his mind, he walked the perimeter of the fence keeping to the shadows and looking for a way in. In the far corner of the baseball diamond shaped lot he found a section of fence butted against a metal out building and secured with a rotted two-by-four. Despite the normally deserted nature of the docks at this time of the evening, he looked up and down the street for any passersby that might call the police if they saw a darkly clad someone tampering with a fence. The few radio reports he'd managed to overhear throughout the afternoon indicated the Boston Police Department was very interested in finding the remaining men who'd fled the scene of a South Boston gunfight and he had no interest in attracting their attention, at least not yet. According to the reports, two men had been apprehended at the scene and a third was confirmed dead. While he couldn't be sure, he suspected the two men apprehended had been McLeish and the second lookout at the car. He was sure that Sean Reid had made it out of the area and that he would probably be encountering him inside the warehouse. It was a meeting he was looking forward to.
Seeing no one about, he tore the board loose and lifted the fence enough to slide under. In the shadows of the outbuilding he loosened the backpack he was carrying and placed it on the ground. Like he'd been taught in Afghanistan, by the Russian Special Forces team known as Vympel, the backpack was an insurance policy that he'd kept stored in a train terminal locker for an emergency situation. Inside was everything he would need to survive for a full four days in either a natural or an urban setting. Opening it up, he withdrew a Clock 19 and a sound suppressor along with three extra magazines. While he was sure there would be resistance once he entered the warehouse, Declan was counting on O'Rourke's arrogance to give him the edge he needed. It was a gamble, but he felt like he knew the man well enough to know that he'd assume his enemies had run and wouldn't be brazen enough to come after him on his own turf. Declan smiled knowing the captain would be wrong.
Securing the suppressor to the end of the pistol and placing the extra magazines in a holder on his belt, he reached back into the bag and removed an eight inch tactical knife and a sheath. Securing the specially designed sheath around his right wrist, underneath the sleeve of his coat, he placed the knife inside it and moved away from the outbuilding.
The exterior of the warehouse was made of brick and its age was evident in the amount of discoloration from the harsh seaside air. Looking up, Declan counted a total of six stories as he moved into the shadows created by the building. Keeping his back to the wall, he arrived at a door with a broken out window. He leaned in and slowly peered through the window into the darkness beyond the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust. Once they had, he couldn't see or hear anything that looked like a threat. He tried the door latch and to his astonishment it wasn't locked. Gently, he pulled, hoping the metal hinges had enough moisture left to avoid making loud as he opened the door. Natural light from the full moon stabbed the darkness and revealed a small machine room. The floors were covered with dust and it was obvious it had been a long time since anyone had passed this way. An aged and sloppily greased air compressor occupied the room next to the exit, which lacked a door. Pulling the outside door closed behind him and returning the room to darkness, Declan stayed low and button hooked into the doorway leading out of the machine room, clearing the room ahead of any threats.
The warehouse opened in front of him, yellow moonlight piercing the darkness from the few dingy windows that hadn't been boarded up. The air was damp, the smell of mildew and rot invading his nostrils. Looking up, he saw that the second and third floors consisted only of wide catwalks with a large rectangular opening in the center overlooking the first floor. While the building had appeared to be six stories from the outside, on the inside it was only three floors with tall ceilings designed to allow the free movement of whatever freight the warehouse was to hold. Looking through the open ceiling he could see the second floor was filled with crates, some of them he recognized as ones he'd helped unload from the Revenge in recent days. Parked just inside a two car garage door along the warehouse's street entrance was O'Rourke's pride and joy, a late model Lotus Espirit, half covered by a canvas tarp. Declan laughed silently as he caught a view of the vehicle's license plate from a dim bulb that hung from the ceiling, Luk E 1. That was a lie if ever he'd heard one, in the last month alone O'Rourke had probably lost more money betting on horses than Declan had ever seen in one place at one time.
Moving further in he saw a forklift parked in front of a freight elevator along the rear wall. Next to the elevator, a rusted metal staircase lead up, switch backing several times as it climbed to higher floors. At the base of the staircase, he paused and listened for voices. Hearing none, he took the stairs slowly, inching up two at a time and being careful to make as little noise as possible. At the second floor, he button hooked into another doorway with his pistol aimed, finding nothing but dusty crates.
Suddenly the sound of the first floor garage door opening drew his attention and he bolted out of the doorway into a small alcove created by double stacked crates. Overlooking the first floor, he watched a silver Mercedes enter. The garage door closed behind the vehicle and its driver sounded the horn in three short bursts as an apparent signal to the buildings occupants.
"Hey! He's here!" Declan heard a voice echo from the third floor, he was pretty sure it was the voice of Cameron Kelly, but with the echo, he couldn't be certain.
The Mercedes' engine turned off and the driver's door opened. An older man with white hair and a goatee stepped out. Wearing a tan trench coat over a three piece suit, the man's appearance screamed mobster. As he passed under the dim bulb in front his vehicle Declan got a full view of his face and recognized him as Richie Sheehan, a boss in the local dockworkers union and one of the men O'Rourke often made contact with. What exactly Sheehan's position was in the mob, Declan wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find out Sheehan was involved in Abaddon Kafni's assassination. The man's blood ran in shades of gray and green and Declan was sure that if you looked close enough dollar signs could be seen in the pupils of his eyes. His attention shifted as a man appeared on the third floor balcony. Even in the low light, he recognized the bulbous frame of Ethan Boyle. In a thick Boston accented voice Boyle announced sarcastically, "Well if it ain't, Mr. Sheehan! Hold on your majesty… I'll send down the elevator." The man below walked briskly towards the freight elevator as it rumbled down to the first floor landing.
Staying put in his shadowy alcove, Declan waited until Sheehan rose to the top floor and was met by Boyle and Kelly. After exchanging some brief niceties, the three headed away from the balcony and out of sight. Looking around to be s
ure no one else was present, Declan rose from his hiding spot and moved quickly back to the staircase, climbing methodically to be sure he remained unseen.
The third floor was completely empty except for a room which stood in the far right hand corner. With the exception of a piece of frosted glass in a door that faced the balcony, the square room was windowless, hastily constructed of plywood and two-by-fours. Seeing nowhere else the men could have gone, Declan crossed the wood planked floor towards it. He quickened to a silent sprint as the door was opened and a bright light shot out of the room, chasing away the gloom of the warehouse. Declan pressed his back to the wall of the room around the corner from the door and waited.
"Where the hell you goin'?" Boyle's voice called from inside.
"To get a smoke," Cameron Kelly answered as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Moving sideways, Declan crept up the wall towards the corner as he heard the sound of a Zippo lighter. Risking a glance, he leaned around the corner and watched as Kelly took a long drag from a cigarette and walked towards the edge of the balcony, looking out over the two floors below him. Keeping a watch on the door, Declan crouched low and moved up behind him. Sliding the Glock pistol into the holster on his belt, he reached up as Kelly lowered his cigarette and exhaled, filling the air with a blueish haze. A gasp of surprise erupted from Kelly as Declan wrapped an arm around the goon's head and pulled him harshly to the floor. With a forearm wrapped tight around the man's neck and pushing his head forward with his other hand, he applied pressure until Kelly stopped struggling and went limp.
Dragging the goon away and laying him beside the wall, Declan waited for any indication that his assault had been heard from inside. Hearing only a few low voices and no movement, he moved towards the door and bent down, keeping his back against the wall. Leaning forward, he listened through a mail slot below the frosted window.
