“They’ll be fine.”
I straightened up and looked around the loading bay. It was much as I’d pictured while in the trunk. The stairway was against the right wall, three steps up to the next level.
“How many men did you see?” I whispered, as I fished around in the trunk for the benefit of anyone watching.
“Five,” he said. “No, six.”
“Where?”
“There’s one by the front entrance and one just inside the door here.”
“And the others?”
“One has been in the room next to us the whole time. The other prep room. The other three walk around.”
“What about Sean Daggett? Do you know him?”
“Yes. We met him when we operated on his son.”
“He in there now?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did the guy at the back see you come out here?”
“Yes.”
“He say anything?”
“He asked where I was going. I said we’d left some gear here.”
“All right,” I said. “Sit tight.” Like he had a choice. I closed the trunk. I didn’t know if I was on camera or not. I took out my gym bag and slung it over my right shoulder. It wasn’t zipped closed. I could get my hand in and get the Beretta out fast or fire the Colt right through the canvas bottom if I had to. I turned toward the rear door to open it for whoever might be waiting.
Before I got two steps, the garage door engaged and started rolling up. Headlights flared in my eyes.
“You find what you needed?” a voice called behind me.
I turned to see a man on the loading dock, his hand near the switch that controlled the garage door.
I held up the gym bag without speaking.
“Come on then,” he said. “Move it.”
The car was a pinstriped Monte Carlo—fucking Daggett’s car, idling as the door rolled up, flexing its considerable muscle. I turned my back and walked toward the stairs, zipping the bag halfway closed.
On my own now with no way to let Ryan or Victor in. No one at my back.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” the man on the dock said to me.
Don’t be in such a hurry, I thought. You could be the first to die.
I walked up the steps, not wanting to make eye contact with the man, focusing instead on the pistol in his belt. Wondering if he’d want to look in the bag. Before he could, the driver of the Monte Carlo opened his door and called out, “Denny! What’s that guy doing out here?”
I knew the voice. Daggett himself.
“He needed something from his car,” Denny said.
“Like what?” Daggett asked.
I didn’t want him to hear my voice, so I mumbled something low beneath my surgical mask.
“Didn’t catch that,” Daggett said.
I shrugged.
“I’m talking to you,” he said. “What’s in the fucking bag?”
“Let’s see it,” Denny said.
I let my shoulders fall in a big sigh, trying to play the exasperated, arrogant surgeon. I unzipped the bag and held it open. As Denny leaned in to see what was in it, I lashed out with a front kick that caught him under the chin and sent him flying backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground. I snatched the Beretta out of the bag and whirled around. Daggett was standing by the driver’s-side door, no gun in sight. A big man was pulling himself out of the passenger seat, one hand on the door frame, the other holding a pair of aluminum crutches. It was the guy Jenn had hit with her car.
I jumped down from the loading dock, keeping the gun on him, and pulled the mask away from my face.
“Fuck me,” Daggett said. “If it isn’t the Lone Canadian.”
“Put your hands on your head.”
“Or what? You know how many guys I got inside?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as I have you. Now put your hands on your head. And you,” I said to the big man, “drop the crutches. Do it.”
“How’m I supposed to walk without them?”
“You’re not.” I pointed the barrel of the gun at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. With the suppressor on, all I heard was the dry snap of the hammer striking the cartridge. And the big man’s cry as he crumpled.
“You fucking crazy?” Daggett yelled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I am a little crazy,” I said.
The big man rolled back and forth, clutching his thigh as blood oozed through his fingers. “Take off your coat,” I told Daggett.
“Fuck that, man, it’s cold in here.”
I pointed the gun at his leg and he shrugged and took off his coat. I saw a chrome gun butt in his waistband. “Take it out with two fingers,” I said. “Drop it and kick it over here. Now!”
He did as he was told. I picked it up and tucked it in my bag.
“Turn around. Lift your shirt.”
Again he obeyed. I saw no other weapons.
I kept the gun on him as I moved to the back door and pushed it open and felt a flood of relief when I saw Dante Ryan and Victor waiting there, guns at the ready.
“Started without us?” Ryan said.
“Had to.”
“This the cunt that took Jenn?”
“Yes.”
Ryan walked over casually and circled Daggett as if all he wanted to do was survey him up close. When he came around the front, he slammed the butt of his shotgun into Daggett’s gut. He collapsed with both hands around his middle. I came up behind him and put the Beretta into the soft spot where his head and spine joined. I grabbed his hair with my other hand and pulled him to his feet.
“How does that feel?” I asked.
“Is it supposed to hurt?”
I stepped away from him then shifted my weight right back in a side kick that caved his right knee in. He yelled as the ligaments tore and the leg buckled under him.
“Bastard,” he hissed, rocking on his side and clutching his leg.
“You’re lucky you’re not worth the cost of a bullet. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I drew my leg back.
“Inside,” he said.
“Inside where?”
“Prep Room B.”
“If she’s been hurt in any way, you’re dead.”
“Relax, Hymie,” he panted, “she’s been asleep the whole time. On an IV drip.”
I could only hope it was true.
I told Victor to check the big man for guns. He found a Glock under his left arm and dropped it in his coat pocket.
“Put him in the trunk,” I said.
Victor and Ryan put their guns down, took hold of the man’s arms and legs. He howled in pain as they lifted him.
“Shut your hole,” Victor said.
The man told him to go fuck himself.
They got him into the trunk. Ryan was about to slam the lid when Victor said, “One sec,” drew his fist back and threw a punch. I didn’t see it land but I heard the cold hard smack. Heard the man tell Victor to go fuck himself again. Ryan said, “We got no time for this shit,” and closed the trunk before Victor could hit him again.
I told Daggett to get up.
“I can’t walk,” he said.
“You can limp. Get up, now, before I make it worse.”
We made him go first, my gun dug into his neck, my fist gripping a tight knot of his hair, the same way he’d handled Jenn. We went up the stairs, Victor behind me, Ryan behind him. I made Daggett open the door and we started down a long hallway that was carpeted and panelled in a dark wood. Soft light from wall sconces made it gleam.
“You killed Carol-Ann Meacham,” I said.
“Wasn’t she found in Franklin Park? I’d have to say it was muggers. Probably your African-American types.”
“The cops will find something to connect you,” I said.
“Like fuck.”
“What about Harinder Patel?” I asked.
Daggett said, “Who?”
“The Indian man who
died on your table. Where’s the body?”
“On the advice of my lawyer, I—”
I pushed the gun barrel harder into his neck. “Cut the shit. You’re this close to dying.”
“We’re all close,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“Ashes to ashes, man.”
“What does that mean?”
“This place did cremations, that’s what it means. And the equipment still works.”
Shit. Poor Sammy. If Daggett was telling the truth, no body would ever be found. Sammy and his mother might have to wait years to have him declared officially dead and collect any insurance. But Jenn had to be my focus now. Only Jenn.
I had the layout pictured in my mind. This hallway led to the main foyer. From there we would turn left past the chapel to another hall where the two prep rooms were. One for extraction, one for transplantation. I listened for voices, footsteps, creaks in the floorboards as we moved as silently as we could over the carpet.
“You want your girl back, you’re going to have to let me go,” Daggett said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Just shoot him,” Victor said. “Kneecap him for real. Isn’t that what you Irish fuckers do?”
“Only as needed,” Daggett said.
“Where are the guards?” I asked.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
We came to the main foyer. It was just as Stayner had sketched it. The hall to the prep rooms on the left, through a wooden arch; across from us the hall that led to the employee offices; on our right the front entrance. Past Daggett’s head, near the entrance, I saw a man sitting in a chair tipped back against the wall, a shotgun across his lap. I pulled Daggett’s hair to bring him to a halt.
“Tell him to lay the gun down on the floor,” I hissed.
Daggett remained silent. I took the gun away from his neck and stuck the barrel behind his right knee. “Do it,” I said.
“Jimmy,” Daggett called.
Jimmy looked up, saw Daggett and brought the chair legs down with a thump and started to stand up. Ryan levelled his shotgun and told Jimmy to stop. Jimmy looked at Daggett, waiting to be told what to do.
“Put it down,” Daggett said.
“You sure?”
“The man has a gun on me, Jimmy. Put it down.”
Jimmy set his shotgun down on the floor. Victor picked it up and brought the butt down heavily on the side of Jimmy’s head. He slumped to the floor and lay there, not moving. Victor opened the breech, ejected the shells and pocketed them. Then he stood the shotgun against the wall, stepped back and broke it with a kick above the trigger guard.
“How many more men?” I asked Daggett.
“Too many for you.”
I kicked the back of his heel, one of the most painful spots in the body, and he yelped. “You’re not getting the feel of this,” I said. “How many?”
“Four.”
“All armed?”
“I fucking hope so.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
I kicked his other heel, harder than I’d done the first.
“Fucking quit that, man, I don’t know. For real. They’re supposed to walk around, make sure no one gets in.”
“Who’s with Jenn?”
“No one.”
“Which heel this time?”
“Okay, one guy.”
“The other three—call them. Tell them to come out here. Tell them to lay down their guns, just like Jimmy did.”
“If they see me in this situation, they might panic. Open fire.”
“You’ll be the first to die.”
“First, last, what’s the difference?”
“You sure you’re ready to find out?”
Daggett sighed somewhat theatrically and called out to his men: “Boys? Boys, this is Sean. Come on out here a minute.”
Silence. I could hear Victor breathing through his nose. Nothing else.
“Again,” I said. “Louder.”
He raised his voice and repeated the call. Seconds later, I heard footsteps coming from the corridor ahead. A big man who looked like he’d been sculpted from a block of granite came into the foyer, a shoulder holster over a black long-sleeved shirt and a mug of coffee in his drawing hand. Soon as he saw us, he dropped the mug and reached for his gun but Victor’s Uzi chattered first and the big man staggered back and fell.
“There goes your element of surprise,” Daggett said. He was listing to one side, keeping his weight off the ruined knee, breathing hard and looking pale.
“Call the others out.”
“After that racket? They don’t love me that much.”
“Tell them it was you shooting.”
“At what? A rat? Jesus, Geller, you’re fucking hopeless.”
“Call them.”
Sweat dripped off Daggett’s forehead and spattered on the hardwood floor. He shrugged. “Hey, Bren?” he called. “Joey? Where are you guys?”
“What was that shooting?” a man asked. We heard his voice down the corridor to our left but couldn’t see him. I jabbed my gun into Daggett’s spine.
“Me,” he said. “Shooting at a rat. You wouldn’t believe the fucking size of it, Bren. Thought it was Whitey Bulger himself.”
“Good one,” Bren said. The hall he was coming down wasn’t carpeted, and we heard his steps grow louder over hardwood. Ryan made eye contact with Victor and pointed to himself and his shotgun, and pointed him to the hallway across from us. Bren’s steps were measured as they approached the foyer. “You want a coffee, Sean?”
The words had just tailed off when he broke into a run and came charging in firing an automatic weapon of his own. Victor’s chest exploded in a shower of blood. Another gun boomed from the corridor Victor had been watching and blew out a piece of the wall just behind Ryan’s head. I pushed Daggett aside and returned fire there, five shots hitting nothing but wood and plaster. Ryan pounded two shotgun rounds into Bren, who dropped to his back, his gun clattering across the parquet floor. Daggett went for it—or made me think he was going for it. As I lunged to grab the back of his collar, he planted his good leg and whirled backwards, elbow first, and caught me with a vicious shot to the side of the head. I felt a wave of nausea surge up my throat, burning the tissue, as I reeled back. His act had fooled me; I thought he’d been too badly hurt to try anything.
“Jonah!” Ryan yelled.
“I’m okay. You get Joey. Daggett’s mine.”
Daggett staggered back down the corridor that led to the garage. I tried to fix him in my gunsight but my eyes were out of focus and the bullet only bit into the wooden arch. I took three steps to my left and fired again. A sconce on the wall shattered in a burst of glass. He kept running, hopping, zigzagging across the wide corridor, and then banged out the door that led to the loading dock.
Damn it. I hadn’t taken the gun off the guard there, Denny. If Daggett made it back there before I could stop him, he’d be armed again.
I dropped the Beretta in the bag and took out the Colt M4 and moved down the hall on unsteady feet. When I reached the door that led out to the dock, I knelt down and blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus properly. I reached up and shook the handle. Two rounds tore through the wood of the bottom half. A third shattered the glass, raining shards down on my arm and neck. I stood up, stuck the M4 barrel through the broken glass and blindly fired three bursts. There was no cry of pain, no body dropping dead on the cement. Just uneven footsteps running out into the night. I opened the door wide enough to roll out onto the dock. Denny was still lying flat on his back. No gun in his belt. I swept my gun barrel left to right, making sure Daggett wasn’t hiding behind his car or Stayner’s Caddy. But he was gone. I went out after him, feeling the temperature drop as I exited the garage. I kept my back to the wall of the building, wondering which way he had gone. Left or right. Then I remembered the north-side door, the one with the crash bar, could be opened only from the inside. He could only have gone so
uth.
As I eased around the corner, a shot rang out and bits of brick blew into my face, breaking skin and drawing beads of blood. I dropped down and elbow-crawled forward until I could reach around the corner with the M4 and fire off another burst. As the sound died away I heard a door close. He had gone back into the building. If I followed him, I’d be on his turf and on his terms. I’d seen drawings of the building but he knew it cold. He could ambush me a dozen different ways. I turned and went back into the garage instead, vaulted up onto the dock. Denny was lying on his back, breathing. I turned him onto his side, found some strapping and bound his hands behind him. Back inside, moving down the hallway toward the foyer, I stayed close to one wall, my finger on the trigger of the Colt. When I came to the open space, only silence greeted me. Victor, the big man and Brendan were dead. The one Victor had clubbed, Kelly, was dead too, his neck unnaturally loose when I felt for a pulse. There was no sign of Ryan or Joey.
That left me nowhere to go but the prep rooms. I started down the hall that led to the extension where they were housed, where undertakers had worked their magic over the years to prepare bodies for viewing. Though the funeral home had long been out of business, the air smelled different in this wing. There was a chemical taint to it, a hint of preservatives. Maybe if I breathed it in I’d live longer.
I listened for the sound of steps, of breathing, anything that might tell me if someone was lying in wait. There was no room for hesitation or error. If Daggett or one of his men crossed my field of vision I would blast away, and keep blasting until they were dead.
Even though I’m not a violent man.
Wait. A floorboard creaked ahead of me. Ahead and on the right. I stopped moving and crouched into the smallest possible target. The hall ended in a T. To the right was a storage room where supplies were kept, to the left the two prep rooms. On the right side, something came into view at eye level. The barrel of a shotgun. My breathing was loud and ragged in my ear. A few more inches of the barrel showed. I knew Daggett only had a pistol. So did Frank. Ryan or Joey? Both had shotguns. I tasted salt on my lip from the sweat that was beading there. I put a little pressure on the trigger and kept it there until I saw the stock of the shotgun.
A Mossberg.
I ran my tongue over my lips and hissed, “Ryan!”
The barrel stopped moving. I heard him whisper, “Jonah?”
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