by Ian Graham
Declan lowered his hands, bringing them together with his left hand under his right. With a nervous sweat forming on his forehead the gunman pulled three black zip ties from his back pocket.
A blue and red alternating light began to flash in the window on the landing behind Hashemi, dancing off the walls of the brick buildings along the street beside the restaurant.
"The police are here!" Hashemi said looking over his shoulder as the LED lights from the patrol car on the street lit up the white walls around him. "Get it done already!"
With the gunman's attention momentarily focused on the flashing lights and his body obstructing Hashemi's view, Declan reached into his right sleeve, pulling the eight inch tactical knife from its hidden sheath and driving it upwards under the man's chin. The gunman's eyes went wide as the blade entered; momentarily unaware of what was happening to him. With his right hand, Declan pulled the pistol from the man's coat and aimed over his shoulder.
Hashemi realized what was happening and raised his own pistol as he backed up the stairs. Declan fired twice, the report of the unsuppressed pistol echoing down the hallway. Hashemi's right leg opened up and he screamed in pain as he fell onto his back, sliding down the four steps he'd managed to climb. Returning his attention to the gunman, Declan pulled the knife out of the man's neck and pushed him away. Choking on his own blood, the man stumbled backwards. Declan dropped the knife onto the floor and fired twice more at the gunman's chest.
As the gunman's body fell to the floor, Declan kept his aim tight, bringing his right hand up under the grip and firing again as Hashemi attempted to raise his weapon down the hall. A hole appeared in the Palestinian's shoulder followed rapidly by a red burst like the impact of a paintball. Dropping his gun as his arm became useless, Hashemi howled in agony, writhing on the steps. Declan moved forward, clearing the three rooms in the hallway. In the last room, five dark haired, brown eyed children stared up at him from the floor, each with their wrists and feet bound with black ties, but otherwise unharmed. Arriving at Hashemi's position, he looked down at the aged Palestinian. Hashemi quit moving and stared upwards, trying hard to hide the fear in his eyes. Declan fired once and the stairs behind Hashemi's head turned bright red as the Palestinian's head jerked backwards before falling still. The sound of the empty brass casing hitting the floor and rolling down the steps stopped and the third floor grew silent. Declan listened for any motion on the fourth floor above. With the sound of the gunshots moments before there was no way the Chechen didn't know someone was coming. The question was whether or not Abaddon Kafni and his wife were still alive.
With the pistol aimed, Declan turned and faced the fourth floor as he backed up the steps onto the landing. With the third floor obviously being used as living space, Declan wasn't surprised when the fourth floor was nothing but a grayish blue painted hallway with rooms off to each side, the doors made of wood and painted brown to match the baseboard that ran the length of the hall. An open window stood at the end of the hall, a white lace curtain blowing in the breeze. Like the floor below it, the ceiling at the beginning of the floor was vaulted, the roof made of skylight windows.
Suddenly glass shattered with a thunderous sound as one of the skylights fell to pieces, raining down onto the hardwood floors. Declan felt the bullet as it grazed his left shoulder tearing his jacket and lacerating the skin beneath. He darted up the steps and out of the view of the skylight windows as more shots erupted from the roof.
Stopping halfway along the hall, Declan removed his coat and let it fall to the floor. A U shaped canal bled on the side of his left arm, another inch to the left and the bullet would've entered his arm. He wiped the blood away as the gunshots stopped on the roof. Looking at the fourth floor entrance, he noticed none of bullets had entered the building. They'd been fired in another direction.
Removing the magazine from the grip of the Clock 19 he'd taken from the gunman downstairs, he counted the rounds as he rushed towards the end of the hallway where he hoped to find a way onto the roof. Someone had stopped the Chechen from getting the drop on him and as far as he knew, Abaddon Kafni and his wife were the only two on the roof that would have any interest in preventing his death.
At the end of the hall, a window leading onto the fire escape stood open. With the pistol aimed in front of him, Declan stepped out into the blustery Boston night and looked down at the alleyway he'd used to enter the restaurant. Behind him, a ladder led up to the roof. He climbed upwards and slowly looked over the edge of the roof with the pistol aimed.
The roof was flat, a rough concrete knee wall surrounding it and the floor was made of pea gravel. Three square air conditioners provided the only cover, their fans silent in the last remaining days of the New England winter. At the far end of the roof, a man stood holding a woman in front of him, the sleeves of his camouflage jacket visible as one of his arms was wrapped around her waist and the other placed over her shoulder and holding a semi-automatic pistol.
The Chechen's head came into view as he leaned around the woman to get a look at the ladder. He said something in a language Declan didn't understand and allowed spit to fall onto the shoulder of his hostage.
"Throw down your weapon or I'll kill her," the Chechen said switching to roughly accented English.
Declan proceeded onto the roof, keeping his pistol aimed and slowly stepping forward, the loose gravel shifting under his feet. Behind the Chechen, the pyramid shaped skylights leading onto the fourth floor landing stood, the one directly behind him broken.
"You do not think I'll do it?" the Chechen screamed. "I came a long way for this and you will not stop me!"
Sirens filled the air in the distance and Declan could hear the radio chatter from the police cruiser that had arrived to investigate the abandoned Lotus but had obviously heard the nearby gunshots.
"Take me, Deni," a weak voice said from somewhere to the Chechen's left. "I'm the one you want. Not her… not my wife."
"You really think your life alone is worth the life of my brother?" The Chechen said spitting in the direction of the voice. "I will cut off her head as you watch and hold it in front of you! Then you will die, Kafni!"
Suddenly the Chechen shoved his hostage forward and dove to his right, firing at Declan who also moved right behind one of the air conditioners.
"No! No!" Declan heard Kafni yell being unable to see that the Chechen hadn't been shooting at his wife. With the pistol aimed, Declan ducked around the side of the air conditioner looking for Kafni's wife. The woman sat sobbing on her knees, her hands on the ground for support. The Chechen leaned around an air conditioner on the other side of the roof and fired more shots. Declan took cover again as the bullets impacted the bulky unit he was hidden behind with a metallic clang.
"I want you to hear her gasps as I cut her head loose!" the Chechen screamed.
Declan knew he had to end this quick. With the police closing in the Chechen wouldn't be able to wait long enough to make good on his threats of decapitation. If he were going to kill Kafni, he'd have to do it with his gun. Moving to his right, Declan skirted around the air conditioning unit and looked down the edge of the roof. Leaned up against the concrete knee wall on the opposite side, he could see Abaddon Kafni, a bullet wound to the right side of his chest bleeding heavily and preventing him from moving. Kafni's eyes opened and flashed briefly with a hint of recognition as he saw Declan looking at him.
Running to the twin unit a few feet away from the one he was hidden behind, Declan pressed his back against the unit and watched for the Chechen as he reached out to Kafni's wife, grabbing her by the arm. The dark haired woman looked up at him and met his eyes. He nodded his head back indicating that he wanted her to move behind him. The sound of the gravel shifting under Mrs. Kafni's feet as she moved towards Declan attracted the attention of the Chechen who began firing, the bullets impacting the roof's floor and churning the gravel. With Kafni's wife secure, only the Mossad agent himself was left in the line of fire. Behind the two air co
nditioning units opposite them, Declan could hear the sound of shifting gravel indicating the Chechen was moving around and looking for them. The police sirens filled the air, now only a few blocks from their location. He knew it would take a bold action to end the threat to Kafni's life, an action that would mean exposing himself and possibly being shot. Gripping his pistol tight with both hands, he took a deep breath, turned one hundred and eighty degrees and jumped straight up, rolling across the top of the air conditioning unit and landing on the other side. He rushed forward and pressed his back against the opposite side of the same unit the Chechen was using for cover.
The Chechen growled angrily knowing his time was up and Declan listened as the sound of the shifting gravel indicated the man was moving in Kafni's direction. Diving out from behind the unit at the same time as the Chechen, Declan landed on the gravel and fired upwards rapidly into the advancing wild man's chest. The sound of semi-automatic gunfire covered the blare of the approaching sirens as Declan emptied his magazine into the Chechen, driving the man backwards towards the edge of the roof. As the report of the weapon echoed away followed by an empty clicking, Declan jumped to his feet and rushed towards the man who stood leaned against the edge of the roof wearing a stunned expression, gaping wounds bleeding profusely across his chest and covering the front of his camouflage jacket with inky red stains. Declan turned and launched his foot sideways with an adrenaline fueled growl, connecting with the man's head and driving him the rest of the way over the roof's edge. The sound of a hollow thud and crushing glass followed by the sound of a car alarming reached the rooftop as Declan stood upright.
Taking a deep breath, he looked over the edge of the roof at the body of the Chechen that lay wrapped in the wreckage of a vehicle parked on the street, staring at the sky with an intense hatred as if he was looking at the disapproving face of God himself.
Declan turned around and leaned against the edge of the concrete knee wall, allowing himself to slide down and sit on the gravel floor. Breathing heavily, with the intensity of the last half an hour suddenly catching up with him, he looked across the roof at Abaddon Kafni and his wife, who now held her jacket against her husband's chest, keeping pressure on his wound. The sound of tires screeching to a halt sounded below them as the police arrived.
Abaddon Kafni slowly turned his head in Declan's direction, mouthing the words thank you. Declan nodded back. Kafni's favor to him in Belfast and on the shores of Galway had been repaid. Their account was settled. Willing himself to his feet, Declan stood and turned to look over the edge of the roof at the cluster of police cruisers that stood a few houses back. Officers on radios stood in the doorway of several of the vehicles and a SWAT team exited the back of an armored vehicle. The entire block was surrounded.
Declan held his arms up straight in the air and waved them like he was flagging down a helicopter. "Up here!" he yelled. Several of the closest officers looked up. "We've got a man down on the first floor and a man down on the roof! We need medics immediately!"
An officer brought a bullhorn to his mouth and said, "Where's the shooters?"
"They're dead," Declan answered lowering his arms. "They're all dead."
Chapter Nine
10:42 a.m. Eastern US Time — Wednesday, May 14th, 1997
Massachusetts Correctional Institute — Norfolk
Norfolk, Massachusetts
One hundred ninety-eight… one hundred ninety-nine… two hundred. Declan jumped to his feet from his push-up stance and bounced on the balls of his feet, throwing a few punches in the air and breathing heavily. Pulling a ragged towel off the edge of the metal bed in the four by eight cell, he wiped the sweat from his brow and chest as he heard a guard yell, "Open cell block C!"
A loud clack followed by the sound of a retracting door and the unmistakable jangle of a set of keys on the belt of a guard came from the cell block entrance below. As the sound of the gears reversing and the clack of the gate locking closed came, the guard yelled "Open cell twenty-four!"
Declan began to listen closer. Why was the guard coming to his cell? He finished toweling himself off and splashed some water on his face from the tiny, calcium stained sink that sat next to the cells toilet. Pulling on his faded navy blue shirt with the word INMATE clearly marked on the back and the right breast pocket, he buttoned it up as the guard arrived at the door.
"Alright, sunshine," the mustached man in the olive green Correctional Officer uniform said. "Roll it up, time to get going."
"I'm being moved?" Declan asked. "Where to?"
"You'll see when we get there."
Declan rolled up his bedding, grabbed the few library books he'd borrowed and stepped into his shoes as the guard held the cell door open. Stepping outside onto the metal catwalk that ran across the eight cells on the second level, Declan followed the guard to the stairwell and onto the concrete first floor.
"Dead man walking!" an inmate yelled from one of the top cells on the opposite side of the block. By now, Declan's involvement in bringing down Lorcan O'Rourke's smuggling operation was well known on the inside. Word had been put out to various parties within the prison community that he was to be taken out and that whoever managed to get the job done, would be rewarded by O'Rourke's partners who had lost a fortune.
The constant threat of murder had forced the prison officials to keep him constantly on the move between the medium security prison's twenty cell blocks and in a private cell away from the general population. Cell block C, where he was currently located, was the confinement block for inmates who for one reason or another needed to be kept separate, but even here, apparently the word was beginning to spread that the Irishman was a marked man.
Declan followed the guard out of the cell block and into one of the prison's main corridors, a smooth concrete hallway with faded yellow walls made of rough plaster stretched towards a windowless metal door at the end. They paused briefly as the guards in the control office of the prison opened the gates electronically, allowing them to pass. Moving into a twelve by twelve foyer that looked like the forward room of a submarine, they paused as the controllers locked one door behind them before opening the door in front of them that led out of the building. As a loud buzzer sounded, the guard took hold of the door and pulled it open, its weight evident in the tightening of his muscles as he pulled. Declan shielded his eyes from the bright daylight.
"C'mon," the guard said stepping out into the prison yard. Declan followed, holding his bed roll under one arm and his books under the other. Twelve foot high fences encircled with razor wire across the top surrounded them and in the distance beyond the cluster of gray buildings that made up the prison, Declan could see the smooth, twenty foot high metal walls and watchtowers that separated the prison from the residences and businesses of Norfolk, Massachusetts.
Wide concrete pathways stretched around the facility, crisscrossing each other as they led between buildings. As they walked, Declan wondered why the guard was alone. While MCI-Norfolk was a medium security prison, the inmates housed there were still violent offenders and it was abnormal for a guard to transport an inmate on his own. Looking closer at the man's uniform, he noticed the bars on the olive green collar.
"So, Captain is it? Where are we going?"
The man stopped, turned to face him and said, "To the warden's office. There are some people that want a word with you."
Declan felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He knew the United States would eventually get around to deporting him back to Ireland. He'd been imprisoned for three weeks while they worked out exactly what had happened in Boston and who exactly he was. He hadn't tried to hide it. From the onset, he'd given them his full name and any other information they'd asked for, but bureaucrats being bureaucrats, things still had to go through the official channels. In this case, the official channels didn't only involve the United States government, but the British government as well.
While he had no documented criminal background in the United Kingdom or in the Republic of I
reland, the fact that he had popped up in a US prison as an illegal immigrant and was involved in a violent series of events was sure to attract some suspicion and cause him more trouble once he was off the boat in Belfast. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He'd made a choice to help a man he considered a friend knowing full well that there was a chance things wouldn't turn out in his favor. All he could do now was grin and bear it, hoping all the while that things would somehow work out.
The captain stopped as they neared the front of the prison, arriving at a small gate beyond which a single lane cement walkway ran to a gray, split face block building with an arching roof and an architectural design that made it look like an asterisk. A metallic cling sounded as the latch on the gate was released remotely by someone in the building. The captain pushed the gate open and held it as Declan moved inside. In the two months he'd been at MCI-Norfolk, he'd never seen an inmate inside of the prison's administration building, not even to clean it as they did the rest of the facility.
At an exterior door the captain removed a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. "Set your bedroll here," he said. "You won't need it anymore." He slammed the door behind Declan as he entered. Inside, the building looked like a typical police station with desks pushed together in the center of the floor creating cubicle offices and multiple citations and awards posted on the walls. In a small lobby, a picture of the prison's warden hung over a plush leather sofa. In the far right hand corner of the square room, a set of steps led upwards to a closed wooden door with a brass shingle reading, J, Sheldon Moore, Warden.
"This way," the captain said leading Declan through the maze of cubicles to the stairwell. Uniformed prison employees looked up from their desks as he walked by. The captain knocked on the wooden door at the top of the steps as they arrived and a voice inside said, "Come in."
