boston harbor, april 2018
There was a need for urgency now. The second assailant may have used a silencer but Terry sure as hell hadn’t. Given the thin fiberglass hull of the sailboat, he figured anyone awake at this hour must have heard something. If they had and were inclined to get involved, he figured he had eight to ten minutes before the Boston PD were sniffing around trying to figure out if the caller had been correct in their assumption of gunshots or just seen too many episodes of Criminal Minds.
He searched the body of the big guy first and came up empty. Moving to his companion, he found the same, apart from a set of car keys with an alarm fob. He slipped them into his pocket, planning to give the car a once-over as he was leaving the marina. He relieved the body of the SIG Sauer. This one didn’t have an attached silencer, which he had rightly guessed was tucked away in the waistband. He ejected the clip and put it in his pocket. Returning to the other body, he ejected the magazine from the silenced weapon and loaded a fresh one, then headed for the guest cabin. Tucked away in the corner of the room was a small hatch that led to the engine compartment. It was open.
Turning on the light, he couldn’t help but notice the explosive device stuck to the side of the diesel tank that fed the engine. I fucking hate bombs. He knelt down in front of it to get a closer look and was not at all happy with what he saw. The trigger mechanism for the device was attached to four blocks of C-4, and there was a built-in timer that was ticking down from twenty-one minutes. He reached up to see if the bomb could be easily removed from the diesel tank when he saw the mercury trembler switch tucked in behind the wires leading to the back of the trigger mechanism and what he presumed would be the detonator. It was an antitampering device. I guess I’m going to be looking for a new boat. The timer clicked down to twenty minutes. Time to fucking go, Terry.
He backed away from the device and ran toward his cabin, counting down the minutes as he went. He threw on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting golf shirt then grabbed socks and his lace-up brown leather Sketchers.
Seventeen. C’mon, move your ass before the cops arrive, dammit.
He pulled out his go bag from the floor of the closet and tossed it on the bed; then, taking a knee, he reached into the closet and pressed down on the right corner of the floor. There was a slight click, and the floor came loose.
Sixteen.
Pulling out the metal lockbox that he had stashed there when he first came to the States, he took a deep breath and dialed in the combination on the lock. It didn’t open.
Fifteen minutes, shit, shit, shit.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and dialed it in again. This time it worked, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Inside there were three slightly used passports, one from New Zealand, one British, and one Swiss—no one ever fucked with the Swiss—in various identities. With each passport there were corresponding driver’s licenses as well as American licenses from Illinois, California, and Florida. There were also credit and debit cards to match each identity. Underneath these items was twenty-five thousand dollars in used hundred-dollar bills, nonconsecutive and impossible to trace. He pulled out another Walther 9mm with a silencer along with five full fifteen-round magazines. Lastly, he grabbed a small handheld night-vision device that resembled a one-inch-diameter flashlight but with an eyepiece at one end. All this went into the go bag along with his other Walther and his attacker’s silenced 9mm SIG Sauer.
Thirteen.
He was really moving now. He snatched his phone along with the charger off the nightstand and grabbed the bag off the bed. He was already punching in the six-digit security code on the phone with his right thumb and was through the door into the main cabin when he stopped abruptly. The text message from his agent in New York shook him.
Shit! How the hell had they cottoned on to Shae?
He snapped out of the shock of seeing the message.
Twelve.
Opening the camera app on his phone, he took a couple of quick photos of his attackers’ faces. Running up on deck, he tossed his go bag on the floating metal dock and said a quick prayer before turning the key to start the engine. After a couple of spluttering tries it sprang to life. “Thank you, Jesus,” he whispered.
Ten.
He had to get the boat away from the dock and the other boats moored in the vicinity. God knows what damage four blocks of C-4 will do, but it sure as hell won’t be pretty. Jumping down on the dock he untied the fore and aft lines from their moorings and jumped back on board. Now for the tricky bit.
Eight.
Putting the gearbox in reverse, he carefully backed out of his slot that thankfully was near the far end of the dock. Then, pulling slowly forward, he moved the boat as close to the dock as possible without bumping into it too roughly and causing the package belowdecks to go bang.
Six.
He tied off the wheel so the sailboat would head straight into the open water of the main channel and pushed the throttle fully forward, then made a mad dash to jump onto the dock. He made it, barely, and rolled roughly on the metal walkway. Picking up the go bag, he ran like hell past the other moored boats for dry land and the parking lot. Despite his mad dash he chuckled. If the gunshots don’t wake the lazy bastards in their boats, then this sure will. He was crying with laughter by the time he reached the parking lot.
Four.
He pulled out the car keys he had taken from his assailant and rapidly pressed the unlock button on the fob. It took him a second, but he eventually saw the brake lights blinking on a car in the far corner of the lot. On the way he passed his own Ford F250 but gave it a wide berth. You never know, they may have left a little surprise under the hood. Reaching his attackers’ car, an ancient white Toyota Corolla, he threw his go bag on the back seat and opened the driver’s door.
Two.
The explosion lit the harbor as if someone had just thrown on a light switch. Fucking hell, guess my count was off. He took a second to watch the flames spread over the water. There was no boat to sink—it was just gone. Within seconds, the wail of the Boston PD harbor patrol sirens was waking those who had somehow slept through the explosion. He drove out of the parking lot, heading for Boston South Station to catch the next Acela high-speed train to New York. He couldn’t fly, not with all the arms and cash he was carrying, and he sure as hell wasn’t driving this piece of crap five or six hours plus; the train would give him the opportunity to make some calls to his other Parishioners and try and get to Shae. He parked the car five blocks from the station and searched the glove box. “Well, what do you know?” he mumbled as he pulled two IDs from underneath the car’s manual. Both were from New York but were unlikely to be kosher unless his now disintegrated attackers were completely stupid. He smiled. Most criminals were not high on the IQ testing scale. Slipping the IDs in his pocket, he grabbed his gear and ran for the train.