Jerry lay on a hospital bed. He’d been the oldest member of the platoon, dangerously close to the maximum age before they put you out to grass. Now he looked ten years older, almost like a senior citizen. The ER room was like a battle zone. Doctors, nurses, and medics ran around. Relatives and friends shouting questions and screaming in tortured anguish. Uniformed cops standing around looking bored, waiting to question wounded and bleeding victims. His friend was submerged beneath a forest of tubes and wires that hung down over the bed. Behind him, a series of monitors were tracing the path of his vital signs, and a monitor beeped its electronic note. As long as the beep continued, Jerry was at least alive. If the beep went silent…
Taylor put his head close to Jerry's, which was covered in bandages like an Egyptian mummy.
"Jerry, this is Jack. Can you hear me?"
He didn't reply, and Taylor looked closely at his eyes. They were vacant, open wide, but showing no sign of any understanding. He looked around for the nearest nurse. She was attending to a patient in the next bed, putting a dressing on what looked like a gunshot wound. He'd seen enough of those in the field to recognize the signs. She was an older woman, with deep, shadowed, tired eyes, probably hitting the nightshifts to help pay off the bills after her husband was laid off. Or maybe he'd gone away to screw the younger woman. Jack ended the speculation.
"Ma'am, could you tell me how my friend is? He doesn't look so good."
"It's Miz."
"Excuse me?"
"Miz, not Ma'am."
"Right, sorry.”
So much for speculation, he smiled inwardly.
“How is he doing? He looks to be unconscious."
She glanced at him and back to the patient she was attending. He waited, and eventually she looked back at him and decided to speak.
"Mr. Yates is on life support. He’s in a coma. You're wasting your time trying to talk to him. At least you are if you want a response. I doubt he can hear you. It’s by no means certain he will recover."
"You mean he could die?”
"That's right. He's real bad; they sure did a number on him. It's a miracle he made it here alive. The cops brought him in, and they said to let them know if he ever woke up, but I wouldn't hold your breath on that one."
He nodded and looked back at Jerry. The injuries to his body were covered in bandages and dressings, but he could see they were extensive, and that was just on the surface. God only knew what internal wounds he'd suffered. He sat for the next hour by the bed, murmuring quietly to his unconscious friend, hoping he may hear him. Maybe if he heard a familiar voice it would help. It was the only thing he knew how to do. An unfamiliar voice made him look around.
"Who are you?"
He glanced at the new arrival. A guy wearing a battered brown A2 flight jacket that Taylor recalled he’d seen last on Jerry Yates. He was twenty or maybe twenty-one, short and powerfully built. Under the jacket he wore a creased blue button down shirt, with khaki pants and stylish brogues. His hair was long, cut with a parting over one side. He had fine youthful features; decorated with a small beard he’d grown in the modern way, just a wisp of hair on his chin. A good-looking guy, he was almost a ringer for Leonardo DiCaprio. The similarity was striking, and he knew Jerry had a son of about this age. He stood up and offered his hand.
"Name's Taylor, I served with Jerry in the Service. You must be his son."
The man relaxed and put out his hand. "That's correct, Levi Yates. Any word on my father?"
How the hell can you tell a kid his parent is hovering on the cusp between life and death? There’s only one answer to that question, with extreme difficulty. But I won't lie to him, no way. He deserves the truth.
"It's not good, Levi. They gave him a real hammering."
He looked scared, and his eyes crinkled as he fought back the tears.
"Will he live?"
"I honestly don't know. Right now, it's a tossup. There's no way of knowing the extent of his internal injuries. I guess the best that can be said is the docs are doing their best. They’re good people."
"Those motherfuckers!"
Taylor was taken aback. "The doctors? Why would that be?"
Levi shook his head, "No, not the medical staff. I'm sure they're working hard to save him. I mean those guys who beat him. I guess they're putting pressure on all of them to get out of their apartments."
He shook his head and explained about the punk they'd clashed with in the street. "In some ways, it may have been my fault. I'm real sorry, Levi. If there is anything I can do to help, I will."
Jerry's son looked at him strangely. "You don't get it, do you? Those gangs that run around loose in the streets like packs of wild dogs, they’re not doing it for nothing. You've heard of gentrification?" Taylor nodded. "Yeah, well think about it. If they can redevelop some of these sites, they make millions of dollars. All that’s standing in their way are the tenants of the buildings they want to remodel. There's a kind of chain I've noticed, the way it goes down. The gang bangers and big dealers boot out the small-time pushers. The area deteriorates, and the cops turn a blind eye. Eventually, most people get out one way or another. A few of them are bought out. Then, hey presto, some smarmy corporate executive chalks up a few million more dollars in his offshore accounts when they redevelop."
"I’m helping out one of our guys right now, Wes Harper. That’s what’s happening to his place in Dorchester."
Levi nodded. "It’s a racket, and it's not just in Boston. Anywhere the demand for quality apartments has pushed the prices through the roof. Cities like Boston, New York, and I guess a few others are ripe pickings. They're like the carpetbaggers who raped the South after the Civil War. They move in and pick over the bones of people's smashed and ruined lives."
"I hear you. There's a company called MMP. They’re involved with some of these scams. Ring any bells?"
Levi shook his head. "Not really, no. I haven't had much to do with it. I only picked up little bits of the story from Dad, but he was always too proud to tell me everything. It could be the same outfit. I don't know."
Taylor sat with Levi for two hours, both men keeping a watch over Jerry, talking to him, trying to let him know they were there. Who knew what he could hear and what he couldn't?
"You never know, people in a coma often hear and remember everything while they were out.” Taylor explained. “It could help him if there’s any chance he may recover consciousness."
But even as he said the words, he knew it didn't look too good for his friend. Jerry was only breathing through a ventilator that hissed and sucked air in and out of his body, aided by a forest of wires and tubes feeding him nutrients and monitoring his vital signs. His face was pale and clammy, devoid of any life or apparent feeling. There was always hope, but both men knew the truth was staring them in the face. Levi stared at him for a moment and then nodded, "Yeah, right."
Finally, Taylor got up to leave. He jotted down his cell number on a piece of paper and handed it to Levi.
"Call me if anything changes, anytime. And if I can help, you only have to say the word. I mean that. Your father and me went through a lot together, and we don't walk out on each other when things are bad. Not ever."
He took the paper. "I'll let you know, and thanks for being here. I know if he can hear us, it'll mean a lot."
Taylor left and climbed into his Camaro. He didn't start the engine at first, just sat there mulling over the events of the last twenty-four hours. Was it survivor's guilt? He didn't have an answer to that question. He wasn't a psychologist. All he did know was they'd all suffered badly in the blast that had destroyed the careers of so many fine Navy Seals. He’d started to get his own life back on track, but now he found his buddies had lost out too, in different ways.
I have Dr. Hermann van Rhoos on my side. Who do they have? Until now, no one. That’s about to change.
As he sat there, he got a few odd looks from cops coming and going to the ER room, probably they thought he was a drunk sleeping it off before he drove home. But he finally started the engine and drove home. He edged the car into the parking lot, nodded to the attendant, and walked back to his apartment. He felt sore and knew the pain was returning. He’d have to do something about that, and soon. He put the key into the lock of his front door, tensing as two men came up behind him. He turned his back to the door, checked the area for any more threats, and then glanced at the two strangers. One, the older man, was an Arab. The other was white, blonde haired, with the face and build of a Californian surfer. His clothes had the crumpled surfer look too, but he still looked like a cop.
"Mr. Taylor? Jack Taylor?"
Cops. The way they speak, that pseudo-polite tone is an immediate give away. Do they honestly think because they called you Mister, or Sir, they’re being polite? That you won't realize they see the public as hostile, interfering busybodies, who neither appreciate nor understand them?
"I'm Taylor."
The man who'd put the question, the Arab, held up a gold shield.
"I'm Detective Wasim Malouf. Major Case Squad. This is my partner, Detective Brad Stutz."
"What can I do for you, Detectives?"
He watched them carefully. So this Detective Wasim Malouf was the guy investigating Evie Harper's murder, or was supposed to be investigating. So far Taylor had less than total confidence in the ability of these cops to locate Evie’s killer. Wasim Malouf looked as Arabic as his name sounded, with smooth, coffee colored skin. He was of medium height, with a stylish haircut, and dark eyes that looked at him with a look of intensity. Maybe suspicion. After all, he was a cop. He was also well built, with the hard appearance of someone who worked out.
Probably he works out by beating up on his suspects, Taylor smiled to himself.
He was also a snappy dresser. He wore a sharply tailored suit that looked like Armani, together with a shirt and tie that were enough to complement the suit. On his feet, he wore fashionable black brogues that would have done justice to Prada.
Obviously, the pay of a Boston PD detective is enough to fund that kind of lifestyle. Armani, Prada, does he have, an apartment in Beacon Hill?
He smiled, showing neat white teeth that had to have been capped.
"You're a friend of Wes Harper, I believe?"
He shrugged. "Yes, I'd call Wes a friend. We served together, U.S. Navy."
"You were both squids," Malouf commented.
Taylor nodded. The term 'squids' was incorrect. It was a slang reference to officers and men in the regular U.S. Navy. Taylor and Wes Harper both belonged to the Navy Seals. Technically, a part of the Navy, but the slang term for a Seal was a frog. He didn't correct the cop.
"We're concerned you may interfere with the investigation into the murder of Mr. Harper’s wife. I understand you went to visit a company called MMP.”
Taylor waited a few moments while he got his thoughts together. There was no immediate threat, and he wanted time to phrase his answers carefully.
"Yeah, I went to see them. How's the investigation going?"
"We're looking into it. Why did you visit MMP?"
Taylor stared at the Arab detective, meeting his eyes to convey a silent message.
You're full of shit. You know it, and I know it.
"I asked you how the investigation is going. I went to see MMP to ask them to stop the foreclosure. I appreciate you looking into Evie’s murder, Detective. Have you made any progress?"
"That's police business, Mr. Taylor. I talked to the folks at MMP, and they said when you called round, you threatened them with violence. Is that true?"
He thought back to that visit first thing in the morning. The way he recalled it, they attacked him and pulled a gun on him. All he'd done was defend himself, but there was no point in telling these cops. Whatever the agenda of this swarthy detective, Taylor doubted that any facts would interest him. Not, where MMP was concerned.
"No."
The younger man, Brad Stutz, stepped forward, his face hostile.
"What does 'no' mean, Mister? Are you screwing us around?"
Taylor looked at him long enough for the guy to understand he wasn't intimidated in the least. These two were cops probably armed with 9mm Glocks.
Try staring down ten or twenty ragged-assed insurgents armed with AK-47s and RPG rocket launchers. That sure is a lesson in life, and often in death. You have a lot to learn.
"Your friend asked me a question. It sounded like a yes or no question. I gave him my answer. Or were you guys looking for some conversation?"
Even as he spoke, he cursed himself for winding up the two detectives. He had two old friends who were in need of help, and it may just be that these two cops may be able to do something. Unlikely, but possible. Rubbing their noses in the dirt wouldn't make things any easier for Wes or Jerry. He hurried to smooth things over.
"Look, Detectives, it's late, and I'm tired. I’m sorry, but one of my friends was hurt tonight, and I've just been to visit him in Boston General. He's pretty bad."
Malouf nodded and did his best to look sympathetic. He almost succeeded.
"We're sorry about your friend, but that's another matter. We'll catch the guy who killed Evie Harper, I can promise you that. Just stay away from MMP, otherwise you could wind up spending time in a cell, should they decide to make a formal complaint. I understand Mr. Hussein returns next week, and he may not be so forgiving as his manager."
So he knows the name of the owner of the development company. Interesting! Do they go to the same mosque together? That would be worth checking out. I bet I already know the answer.
"I hear you, Detective."
Malouf nodded. "Leave police business to the police, Sir. We'll get our man." He turned to his sidekick. "Let's go, Brad. I think we understand each other."
Taylor watched them leave and then went inside. It took him a long time to get to sleep that night. His career had meant working with men who took care of one another. It was a lesson that was written in tablets of stone as far as he was concerned. And now two of his friends were in trouble. Serious trouble. It would take more than a few harsh words from an Arab detective and his surfer buddy to warn him off. Was it his imagination, or did the junior detective look embarrassed with Malouf's obvious threats? Taylor got the impression that when the younger man pushed hard, he'd been trying to impress his superior. Maybe he was wrong, but it was information worth knowing for the future. He went inside and managed to root around to find an unopened bottle of Bourbon and a part-used packet of Oxycodone. He was exhausted, too tired to go looking to score. He washed the tablets down with booze and fell into an uneasy sleep, fully dressed. In the morning, he felt like hell.
He showered, dressed, and started to eat breakfast. He had the impression today was going to be busy, and he almost smiled when his prophecy was proved true, and his cell phone rang even before he’d poured his second coffee of the day.
"Jack, it's Wes."
"Wes, I was going to call and see you later. Is everything okay?"
"I'm not sure. That guy, the one who was putting up the sign when you called round, he just arrived, a few minutes ago. He's got the sign again. He’s about to put it back up."
These guys didn't waste any time. They think they have Wes and his friends on the run.
"I'll come right around, but don't try and tangle with them on your own. We'll deal with this together. Have you contacted Kate Donovan from the law center?"
"Yeah, I called her before I called you. I was hoping she might have some way of stopping them, doing this legally. She said her car is in the garage today, so she'll get here as soon as she can get a lift from a neighbor."
"Give me her number, Wes. I'll pick her up on the way."
He made a note of Kate's cell number and saved it to his phone. He called her, and she answered straightaway.
"This is Jack Taylor, Wes Harper's friend. I'm going there now, and he told me you might need a lift. If you give me your address, I'll pick you up."
She didn't reply for a few moments.
Maybe she’s trying to work out if there was anything in my words that might have a double meaning. Jesus Christ, but she’s some girl. Way out of my league.
A few seconds later she came back to him and gave the address.
Evidently, she decided I present no threat to her. She was right.
"I'll be there in ten."
He locked up the house, almost ran around to his parking lot, and got into the car. He gunned the engine of the Camaro, screeched out past the startled attendant, and drove her hard towards Kate's address. When he braked to a halt outside her apartment block, she was already on the sidewalk, talking to another girl of a similar age. She glanced at Taylor, turning her attention back to her companion. They chatted for a few moments, and then Kate put her arm around the other girl and kissed her.
So that's the way it is. Well, well, that’s one that got away, not that it’s any business of mine. So why do I feel so angry and frustrated?
He watched as she broke away, opened the door, and climbed into the passenger seat. He didn't wait for her to fasten her belt, just slammed his foot down hard on the gas and raced away. She looked sideways at him, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
"You in some hurry, cowboy?"
He shook his head. "Not especially."
She shrugged at his brusque reply and fastened her belt. He kicked himself for being so childish. After all, he already knew he stood no chance with a girl like that. A couple of years with a poverty law center, and then she would no doubt be snapped up by some blue-chip Boston outfit and spend her time doing expensive lunches with wealthy corporate clients. At least it would keep her and her girlfriend in the style they were doubtless accustomed to. For the first part of the journey, they sat in silence, and Taylor could sense she was working something out. Maybe his rudeness, and he made a note to apologize sometime. Finally, she chuckled and when he looked at her, she was smiling.
No, Jesus, she’s laughing, at me.
"What? What is it?"
"She's my older sister. She's a year older than me, and she came to stay in my apartment for a couple of days while she was visiting a friend who lives just outside the city."
He tried to play cool. "Uh huh.”
She was still smiling when she continued, "You thought I was a lesbian."
"It's not my business."
"Maybe it isn't, but now you know."
He nodded. "Okay. Now I know."
He could sense her continuing to look at him as he drove, but he kept his eyes on the road, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment he knew had spread over his face.
As they drew up outside Wes' place, it was obvious that trouble had arrived in spades. The sign was up in the front yard, and a couple of burly men were dragging Wes' possessions out of the house. Taylor recognized them as the two guys he’d tangled with at the offices of MMP. He looked around for Gunter, but there was no sign of him. As he and Kate stepped out of the Camaro, another car door opened, and two men got out; the two detectives from the night before, Malouf and Stutz. They ignored them and walked up the path, just as Wes came out. He wore an expression of bitterness and anger, his face suffused with blood.
"They're taking my home! Everything I've got! They won't listen to me. I tried talking to them, but they said it's the law."
Before he could reply, Kate went up to Wes and put a reassuring hand on his arm.
"I assure you, Wes, it's not the law. Don't do anything stupid. I'll deal with this."
As she was talking, the two cops walked up and stood by them.
"I've told all of you,” Malouf said sourly, “Stay out of this. You have to let the law take its course."
Kate Donovan was ready for him.
"I'm pleased to hear that, Detective Malouf." She handed him a printed document. "This is a court order asserting the right of Mr. Harper to occupy the property until such time as a final decision is made about the legality or otherwise of the foreclosure. As you are so keen to let the law take its course, perhaps you would arrest these two gentlemen who are obviously in breach of that law. I assume that is what you’re here to do,” she said calmly, “To arrest the criminals who have broken the law."
Malouf didn't say a word. He snatched the paper out of her hand and read it through. Finally, he flushed red with anger and stared at her.
"How did you get this?"
"I don't think that’s any affair of yours, Detective. Surely, your business is to make sure the order is obeyed."
He murmured a curse under his breath. Taylor couldn't hear it, but it sounded something like 'fucking whore'. He turned to the two men from MMP and shouted at them.
"You men, get out of here. You’re trespassing. This house is covered by a court order order, forbidding you to take possession."
They looked astonished and glanced at Malouf for clarification. He gave them a brief nod, and they turned and walked away. They clambered into their vehicle, a minivan with MMP Developers painted on the side. As the vehicle sped away, Malouf looked at Taylor.
"If I were you, buddy, I’d help your friend find another place to live. These guys will be back as soon as that order is rescinded.”
He was trying to make it sound like friendly advice. It came out more like a warning.
"Thanks for the tip," Taylor nodded.
He stood with Kate and Wes, watching the detectives clambering back into their car. They roared away in a cloud of exhaust smoke from their unmarked Dodge sedan. Taylor smiled when he saw how someone had previously graffitied the trunk, and it had been sprayed over to hide it. But the original lettering was still visible when the sunlight struck it at the right angle. Four letters, P I G S.
They helped Wes take his furniture and possessions back inside. When he assured them he would be okay, Taylor offered to take Kate Donovan to her office where she needed to prepare more legal documents for filing. They drove in silence, and he found himself enjoying the brief journey. Just being with her was a pleasure. He found a parking space on the street, about a mile from his place in the North End. The law center was a former storefront, and part of the original owner’s sign was still in evidence, ‘Fine Drapery and Yarns’. He went in with her and found it was a single room cluttered with scratched desks and sagging chairs. The computers were vintage, probably the rejects from some wealthy local company who gave them away in a moment of philanthropy. She introduced him to a guy who came forward from his desk right at the rear of the room. He smiled at Kate.
Or was it something more than a smile?
"This is my boss, Jeff Martins. He's the center manager."
They shook hands, and Kate explained to him the events of the morning at Wes Harper's place.
"Does Mr. Harper want to move? I mean, if he plans on getting out, we could be putting time and resources into this for nothing."
Taylor felt a faint dislike for the man.
You're talking about a man's home! It's not like a used car he might be trading in for a different model.
He was about his own height, good-looking, even handsome, although a little pasty and pudgy, his shoulders slightly hunched. Probably the result of too much time spent at a desk, with not enough fresh air or exercise. He had carefully combed blonde hair, held in place with gel to give him a faintly preppy appearance. An appearance he fostered with cord pants and a tweed coat. A Ralph Lauren blue button-down and heavy, brown brogues completed the image. He looked more of an academic than a lawyer, and Taylor smiled inwardly. He’d decided not to like the guy before they’d exchanged more than a couple of words.
Maybe it was the way he’d looked at Kate. That’s crazy, it’s none of my business.
"He wants to stay in his home, Jeff," Kate assured him. “Remember, they killed his wife. If he moved out now, they'd have beaten him."
Martins grunted, "Okay, go ahead and put together a new filing, but run it past me before you take it over to the court."
"I'll do that, Jeff."
He walked away, and she smiled at Taylor, "What do you think of the place?"
"I've seen worse," he grinned, "but I guess it's good experience before you move on to a real law firm."
He knew instantly he’d said the wrong thing.
"A real law firm? What the hell do you think this is? Our clients come from the poorer section of the community, and we can make the difference between them keeping or losing everything. This is as real as it gets, buster."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
She ignored him and walked over to her desk about twenty feet away. He followed her and watched while she expertly prepared the new court documents. At the same time, he listened to the conversation at a nearby desk. It was unintentional, but the room was so small and so crowded, it was impossible not to overhear.
They were a couple who looked to be in their forties. Apparently, they were due to attend court in connection with the outstanding debt on their home, another foreclosure, and the same company was involved, MMP. The guy was a former Marine Corps noncom, Lincoln Moss. He'd left the Corps early and settled in South Boston where he had a small house in the area of Andrew Square. His job as a welder had ended when the company ceased trading, and now he worked part-time as a short order chef in a downtown burger bar for minimum wage. Another vet. Taylor worked out he’d probably seen service in such theaters as Grenada, Iraq, and probably Afghanistan.
What the fuck! It's like this corporation has declared war on former servicemen.
Kate finished working on her court filing, got to her feet, and walked over to him. She followed the direction of his gaze.
"They keep coming; sometimes it's all we see."
"Are many of them from the military?"
She nodded. "Quite a few, yes. Too many."
Then she gave him a smile, and Taylor heaved a mental sigh of relief. It seemed she'd shrugged off her earlier coldness.
Maybe it was my fault. I jumped to stupid assumptions when I should have waited.
" How will you handle Wes' problem?" he asked her.
"Apart from this filing, which will give him a little breathing space, I guess it's time to contact the media. I have a friend who works on the local paper, and I just called him. He should be here soon, and with any luck, he'll drum up some interest with our politicians. How about some coffee, or did you have somewhere to go?"
So I’m definitely forgiven.
"I'd love some coffee." As long as it gives me some time with you.
They sat at her desk; sipping the coffee she'd had an office junior bring in from a nearby coffee house.
"The coffee in here is like horse piss," she grinned.
He nodded. “That manager of yours, Jeff Martins, he seems a nice enough guy.”
“He’s okay, yeah. He works hard, and does a good job. Not really my type, though.” She stared at him, “if that’s what you meant.”
“No, of course not.”
She relaxed, and they sat chatting while they waited for the reporter. She told him she had a burning ambition to mend many of the wrongs that cursed poor people to a life of misery.
"I'm not trying to help people evade their responsibilities," she said quickly. "From time to time we get obvious deadbeats in here, and I send them packing. But when someone is busting their gut to pay their way, and a crooked corporation is doing everything in its power to take their home off them, I get angry."
"So there are more companies like MMP in the Boston area?" he asked.
"Not really, no, they’re the worst," she replied, "but when we do come across these cases, it takes a massive effort to counter the underhand tricks they get up to. And worse."
"Like murdering Evie Harper?"
She grimaced. “I don’t know if they were behind her death, but it's not the first time it's happened. Where millions of dollars are at stake, people are prepared to go to extreme lengths."
A man came in. He was about forty years old, short, maybe five feet four, and wore the unmistakable stamp of a news reporter. A laptop bag carried on a shoulder strap, a warm lined windcheater enabling him to stand around chilly crime scenes while he hunted for witnesses to interview, and well worn boots that had trudged through many a cold and rainy street in the quiet hours of the night when many crimes and other newsworthy events occurred. He came over to them. Taylor would have called his appearance ‘rumpled’. His sandy hair was overdue for a haircut, his skin freckled, and his face bore several days stubble. But his dark eyes were sharp and curious.
"Hi, Kate, how's things?"
"I'm okay, Dan. Dan Blass, meet a friend of mine, Jack Taylor."
They shook hands, and Dan sat down with them. Kate explained what had happened with Wes Harper. When she finished with the murder of Evie, he was about to comment when Taylor interrupted.
"It's not just Wes. Another friend of mine who was with me in the service is on life support, right now. While the cops stand by and do nothing, his neighborhood is turning into a clone of Helmand Province. Like that couple that came in to the law center,” he turned to Kate. She nodded, “He’s a Marine Corps vet with similar problems. It's a crap situation."
"Yeah, I agree, it’s bad. A man gives everything for his country, so he deserves more. But these crooked corporations are not easy to deal with. Some reporters I know have tried in the past, and they wind up with broken legs and their houses torched. I'm sorry, but I have a living to make, and I can't make it from a hospital bed."
He stood up to leave, and Kate looked at him through astonished eyes.
"You mean you won't do anything? You won't even write an article in your paper and draw attention to what must be a huge scandal?"
He shook his head. "Won't? Can't, would be more like the truth. Even if I tried, my editor would pull it. Some of these companies, they're big advertisers, and they'd pull their business if they got wind of it. I'm sorry, Kate. I wish I could help." A slight expression came over his face. He stared across at Taylor. "Hey, is that right, you're helping these people out and you haven't got any legs? I mean," he added hastily, "you have got legs, but false ones, you know. That would make a great story, if you'd let me write it up."
Taylor stared at him. With an effort, he stopped himself from reaching across and slamming the reporter’s head down on the desk. Maybe Blass understood he’d taken a step too far. He got up, made for the door, and left. Kate looked across at Taylor.
"I’m sorry, I felt sure he'd be interested in helping us."
"Maybe he had his reasons. Listen, Kate, I have to get to the ER room and check on Jerry, see if he's conscious yet. I'm worried about him."
"I'll come with you, if I may. I just need to collect some documents.”
He looked at her, surprised, and more than a little pleased, "Sure."
They walked out into the street, and he led the way to his Camaro.
"Jesus, you must have worked hard to make that car look the way it does," she exclaimed. “It must be really ancient.”
But Taylor wasn't listening. His senses were on alert since the enemy had showed their intention to play dirty, and he'd spotted a couple of guys leaning against a battered Dodge parked a few yards away. He recognized the vehicle and one of the guys, Gunter, Grant Williams' chief muscle. He stood leering at them. Taylor looked toward the other end of the street and saw Gunter's two assistants, the ones he put down in the offices of MMP.
"Kate, get in the car."
She gave him a strange look, then looked up and down the street and understood immediately.
"Do you think they mean to start trouble?"
"They're not here to admire the scenery. Get in. This is something I have to deal with."
“No!" she objected. "If there's going to be trouble, I'm staying right here."
Taylor nodded, measuring the options, and then everything changed as Gunter pulled aside his jacket to reveal a big automatic he had tucked away in there.
So that's the way they’re going to play it.
Taylor was still carrying the gun he'd taken away from Williams, but the unknown pistol would not be in the same league as the Sig Sauer P226 he had in the glove compartment of the Camaro. He swiftly unlocked the car, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the Sig, making sure to keep it out of sight under his coat. Then he climbed back out onto the sidewalk. If there was going to be gunplay, he didn’t want to be trapped inside the car, an easy target. He was about to push Kate to the ground when he heard a faint noise, and a bullet kicked up dirt from the sidewalk inches away from his feet. They were using a sound-suppressed pistol, and as he looked back up the street, his assessment was confirmed when he saw a fifth man inside a minivan, with the large fat barrel of a silencer stuck out through the window. They wanted blood, and then another shot whistled through the air and creased his arm, taking a huge rip out of the sleeve of his coat. The shooters flanked them, and there was no option but to fight back.
This is a gunfight. In a Boston street, for Christ's sake!
He turned to Kate. "You know how to use a gun?"
She smiled grimly. "I had three brothers, and none of them were Democrats. I grew up with guns."
He thrust the spare gun in her hand. "You may need this, and you'd better find some cover. These people mean business."
The distance to the law center was too far. If either of them tried to make it, the hidden gunmen would likely shoot them down before they were halfway. It was a simple plan. The two men either side had shown they were carrying, yet they wouldn't shoot. It was too public and too risky. So their mission was to corral them, to contain them while the hidden shooter with the suppressor did the damage.
Does he plan to kill us, or is this another warning? What the hell, it’s a firefight. Time to do battle.
He pushed Kate toward the doorway of an empty store where she was hidden from incoming fire. Another shot had buried itself in his left leg, his artificial leg. He didn’t know if it damaged the electronics or the sensitive servos and cables that made it all work, but naturally he didn't feel any pain. It still worried him. If the shooter knocked out something vital, it could stop his legs from functioning completely. That would make him an easy target for these scumbags. He ducked behind the Camaro, regretting having to use it as a cover. He knew what was coming next, and a volley of shots drilled holes through the shiny red bodywork. At least it could be repaired. A shot to a vital organ would be the end for him or Kate. Two shots fired unnaturally loud, very close, and he glanced across to where Kate had stepped half out of the doorway and snapped off two rounds at the shooter. The bullets buried themselves in his minivan, and the man stopped shooting to take cover. Taylor realized it was raining again, a heavy shower that soaked the street, but he couldn't see any way it gave him an advantage. Visibility was good despite the rain, much too good to hide him while he flanked the shooter. He glanced up and down the street, and the two men still covered either end. He knew if he and Kate tried to leave, they'd be cut down in a fusillade of shots. He heard a scream as a bullet ricocheted in the doorway where Kate sheltered.
"Are you hit?" he shouted.
"No, I'm okay. How can we meet these bastards?"
He smiled to himself. One thing’s certain; she’s full of spunk. She may be a liberal-minded lawyer, but when it comes to fighting back at these people, she’s ready to take them on.
"The four guys in the street may hold their fire. They'll be worried it's too public for them to start a war in plain view of every passerby. All they’re trying to do is drive us toward that other guy. As it is, those two shots you fired may be enough for someone to call the cops, but they might not make it in time. Check your clip, and tell me how many rounds you have left?"
He waited a few seconds, and then she called back to him.
"There are four rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. Tell me what you want me to do."
"Fire off three shots, that’ll still leave you with two bullets. Try and hit the hidden shooter. He’s keeping his head down, so the chances are you'll miss. But while he's behind cover, I'm going to take him."
"No, it's too risky."
"It's too risky if I don't. I'm ready, Kate. Do it!"
Three shots cracked out. She spaced them evenly, about two seconds apart, enough to keep the shooter's head down, and to give him time to reach the minivan. He jumped to his feet and started to run. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. His left leg was dragging slightly and not coordinating with the right. It slowed him down, but he still had time to roll behind the vehicle as Gunter and his partner noticed the threat he posed, and snapped off a couple of shots that almost creased his hair. The guns they used were not sound suppressed, and Gunter's big pistol sounded like a cannon going off in the street. If the cops hadn't been called already, they sure would be now. Then a thought crossed his mind.
Malouf and Stutz. If those two detectives turn up, and it’s certain they’ll come when they hear I’m involved, they'll likely run me in, maybe Kate as well. No way they'll be interested in any explanation. Malouf made it pretty clear whose side he’s on, and it isn't the side of the law. Time to wrap this up and get out of here.
A movement caught his eye. About forty yards away Gunter was racing toward him. It was like watching a charging tank. He'd have to move fast. He heard a slight movement inside the minivan. The shooter was close to where he lay on the wet tarmac. Then the handle of the rear door started to turn.
The guy’s coming out!
As the door opened just a fraction, Taylor raised his gun and squeezed off four shots from the Sig. He had the satisfaction of hearing a scream of pain inside the vehicle. The door opened wide, and the shooter tumbled out, falling to the street where he lay still.
Score one for the good guys.
But when he glanced up, Gunter had almost reached Kate. Taylor catapulted to his feet and raced in a limping run toward where she was concealed in the doorway. He shouted to divert the racing man, and Gunter looked up, alarmed. He reached the doorway and grinned, just as his feet slipped on the wet sidewalk, and he went sprawling on his ass. His gun skidded under a parked vehicle, and the curbstones seemed to tremble as Gunter’s massive skull made contact with them. Incredibly, he was still conscious but sufficiently dazed to be out of action. Taylor surveyed the street, but the other three men were staying well back. What had seemed like an easy hit had turned into a nightmare, and he judged they’d offer no more threat, not while their leader was down. Their priority would be to help him up, clean up the evidence of the shootout, and get away before the cops arrived. He grinned; it was his and Kate's priority too.
"Get in the car. We're leaving now."
She obediently ran out and climbed into the passenger seat. He jumped into the car and sped away, noticing with dismay the rain coming through the bullet holes. As they raced along the wet streets, his mind ran through the options they had left to them. He realized his clothes were soaking wet. There was also the problem with his left leg. The bullet that went through it had done serious damage to the sophisticated mechanisms, which made them work. He needed to get home, change his clothes, and talk to Hermann about the damage. He turned to Kate.
"I need to get home and change my clothes, then get the leg seen to. I wondered if I could take you somewhere first."
"I'm okay, but I'll stay with you. I'm afraid I've underestimated them. They're much more dangerous than I guessed."
"I’m to blame for this. I underestimated them too, and I should have known better. Someone needs to do something about those bastards."
"You made something of a dent in them," she smiled.
He nodded. "We may not be so lucky next time. It's time to take care of our defenses."
He drove into the parking lot and waved a greeting to Chuck.
"Parking is nigh on impossible in the North End," he explained. "I like to keep the Camaro in here, and it has the added benefit of being away from scumbag car thieves and graffiti artists. Not that it did me much good today."
She nodded. He saw she was shivering. "Jack, I was scared today. Really scared. I felt that if you hadn't been with me, I might have been killed. Thank you for taking care of me."
He looked across at her. "It's no problem, always happy to help."
She smiled at him, a warm smile that sent a tingle up his spine. Lately, most of the smiles he got were of pity, but this wasn't that kind of a smile. Her eyes met his.
“That’s okay then.”
They walked around the corner and neared Taylor's place. A fire crew was damping down the building, spraying a hose through the front window. He walked closer, stopped, and stared. Everything he owned. They’d torched it.
“The bastards," he muttered.
"Jack, I'm sorry," she said gently.
"I'll get over it."
"Yes, I know you will. You're that kind of guy."
He turned to stare at her. "No, you don't understand. I'll get over it, but they won't. They've declared war, and war is my business."