Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (27 page)

thirty-nine

There was no time
to go through official channels. Grant had to improvise. It was what he did best. He searched Miller's pockets and took out his handcuffs, keys, and detectives' shield. The cuff key was on the bunch. Grant pocketed them all. He patted Miller on the shoulder, avoided the clichéd “Hang in there, kid,” and nodded Cornejo towards the hallway restroom.
“Field dressing. Get Delaney ready for transport.”

Then he stuck the .45 down the back of his belt and went out the front door.

The first thing he noticed was that the wind was now strong enough to bend the trees. The second was that the media cordon had disintegrated. TV cameras and news reporters were swarming over the parking lot out front of the lodge. There were no uniforms to hold the line; they were all engaged securing the crime scene or guarding prisoners. Dust swirled like mini tornadoes, the noise almost drowning the sound of the WCVB helicopter that was still hovering over the lake. He was glad it was still there. Improvise. What he needed next was Kimberley Clark. He spotted her among a huddle of reporters talking directly to cameras.

He walked straight up to her, slapped a hand over the lens, and dragged her away by the arm. He nodded at the cameraman, the same one he'd first seen sitting in the reception of E-13 with the camera across his lap. “She'll call you back.”

She was about to protest when she saw the look on his face and the three bullet holes in his T-shirt. He led her towards the porch steps and shouted above the noise of the wind and the helicopter. “You're affiliated, aren't you?”

“Channel 5 with ABC, yes.”

“Satellite links. Hi-tech shit and stuff?”

“Yes. What—”

He held a hand up. “This is bad. I need fast, with no questions. Later, I'm all yours.”

She shut up and listened.

“Don't know how, but you can block mobile phone signals, can't you?”

“Not personally.”

Grant pointed at the sky. “Up there. Your connections. They can, yes? Radios too?”

“Yes.”

“There's a bomb at the convention center. I need every signal blocking.”

“Oh my God. The Hynes? Can't you give them a warning call?”

“That would use a signal. I want them blocking. Can you do it?”

“I think so.”

“Good. And I need your helicopter.”

They both looked out across Jamaica Pond. The WCVB helicopter was bobbing and weaving over the choppy waters. Tree branches were whipping into a frenzy.

Not good.

Kimberley Clark looked doubtful. She took a radio handset out of her pocket.

“Carl, come in. It's Kim.”

The radio squawked static, then a voice that sounded like it was in a spin-dryer shouted a reply. “Go, Kim.”

Grant left her talking to the pilot and went inside. Miller was being wheeled out the side door as he entered. There was no emotional farewell. There was no time. He strode across the room. Cornejo had taken his
police
overjacket off and was finishing a field dressing that consisted of sanitary towels, whiskey for anaesthetic, and wadded dishcloths. Grant didn't ask where he'd got the sanitary towels. Cornejo secured the dressing with strips of kitchen towel from under the washbasin. Delaney had more color in his cheeks but still looked wide-eyed and panic-stricken. Grant ignored him and stood facing Cornejo. “Okay, John. Time to 'fess up.”

He pointed at the square of sticking plaster showing beneath the sleeve of the ex-marine's T-shirt. “What theatre were you in?”

Cornejo tensed. “Don't matter which war I fought in. So long as you know I fought.”

Grant waved Cornejo's reluctance away. “Your theatre of operations determines your specialist training.”

Cornejo nodded his understanding. Grant reached forward and took hold of the bottom of the plaster. Cornejo didn't resist. This was important. He looked Grant in the eye without blinking, then nodded once. Grant ripped the plaster off in one swift movement leaving hairless flesh, an inflamed rash, and two tattoos.

The first one was the traditional US Marine Corps insignia in faded blue ink. It was the second one Grant was interested in. A narrow strip of ink running the width of the main tattoo but separated from it. The curled wire and dynamite clock of the improvised bomb disposal team. IEDs. The biggest killer of troops abroad in the last two major conflicts.

Grant smiled, but his face was deadly serious. “Glad I was right. We're gonna need your expertise.”

He took the
police
jacket from the back of the breakfast barstool and tossed it to Cornejo. “Don't want you getting shot by mistake.”

Cornejo put the jacket back on. “What about you?”

Grant took out Miller's handcuffs and pointed at Delaney. “I'll have him.”

He was about to snap one cuff on Delaney's wrist when Kimberley Clark came into the kitchen. She looked windswept and dusty. Her makeup needed retouching. A quick glance at Delaney's bloodstained bandage was enough to convince her she shouldn't ask. Instead she turned to Grant. “I've got good news and bad news.”

Grant kicked the stool
across the kitchen and thumped a clenched fist on the breakfast bar. Salt and pepper shakers bounced. A neat pile of folded napkins fell to the floor.
“Limp-dicked motherfuckers get everywhere.”

Kimberley Clark pursed her lips but didn't explain about motherfuckers and limp dicks not being compatible. She held a hand up for Grant to calm down.

“It's blowing a gale out there. No way it's safe to fly. They've called him in.”

Grant paused to reconsider his options. He thought back to his police driver training in West Yorkshire. Emergency response driving. The aim was to get where you were going fast, but the important thing was to get there safely. Going full speed to an emergency was fine, but if you crashed on the way you couldn't help the people you were supposed save. Helicopter in high winds was a recipe for disaster. Crash on the way and he'd be no use to anyone at the John B. Hynes Veterans Memorial Convention Center. “Plan B.”

He took Miller's keys out and quickly checked them. Car keys for the Crown Vic were on the ring. He handed them to Cornejo. “Dump Oddjob. Bring the car around back.”

Cornejo was down the hallway and out the front door before Grant turned to the WCVB anchorwoman. “What's the good news?”

“Head office has shut down the airwaves. They can only give you half an hour before every media authority and watchdog makes them reconnect.”

“Great. Thanks.”

He grabbed a shaky Delaney by the arm and forced him towards the back door. The Crown Vic came around at speed and skidded to a halt out of sight from prying cameras. Grant paused in the doorway and looked back towards the reporter. “I don't need to tell you that this bomb thing is not for broadcast yet. Panic in a closed space. The triggerman's going to see it. I want that bastard waiting for the signal to push the button.”

“I understand. But later—you're mine.”

“Gotcha.”

He dragged Delaney across the rear porch and slapped the trunk of the car. Cornejo popped it open, and Grant bundled the wounded gangster inside. He slammed the lid shut and went to the driver's door. “Slide over.”

Cornejo slid across to the passenger seat. Grant leaned an arm on the back of the seat and looked over his shoulder. Reversed along the secondary drive until there was room to spin the Crown Vic around. When he was facing front, he glanced at Cornejo. “You do know the way?”

Cornejo nodded.

“Fastest route.”

Grant flicked the warning lights on in the front grille and gunned the engine. The wheels spat gravel and dust as it sped along the drive towards Jamaicaway. “You hum it, son, I'll play it.”

“What?”

The PG Tips chimpanzee advert went right over Cornejo's head, but Grant was in no mood to explain. It was time for some aggressive emergency response driving. This was one time where getting there late would be just as bad as not getting there at all.

forty

The Crown Vic
blasted
through the JP traffic, horn blaring and warning lights flashing. The Saudi prince would be arriving about now. The signal blackout would last maybe another fifteen, twenty minutes. It was going to be tight. The unknown factor was Kincaid's reaction to the radios and cell phones going down. The Saudi security team's reaction. His experience with the Hot and Duskies was they could get very hot very quick. Restraint wasn't in their nature.

Grant dodged lanes on the narrow roads until they hit Columbus and headed north. The wide, straight road allowed them more speed. Cornejo kept the directions coming fast but found time on the straight for a question. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the trunk. “You really think he's going to ID the triggerman?”

“Won't need to. Haven't seen a Delaney thug yet won't stand out like a sore thumb in McDonald's.”

“You think?”

“Doesn't matter. When I walk Delaney through the food court after, he's gonna avoid looking at his man like the plague—
guarantee
you. The look his guy is going to give Delaney? Won't be able to hide that.”

“How'd they get the bomb through security?”

“Security's for everyone attending out front. Clayton's girl is with the dignitaries. When the president shows up for a speech, they don't strip search the first lady.”

Grant concentrated on the timeframe. Maybe ten minutes left before the communication signals were unblocked. The Hynes was on the right, just along Boylston Street. Two minutes, tops.

Cornejo tensed.

Grant relaxed.

They flew towards the long scenic walkway and sidewalk in front of the John B. Hynes Veterans Memorial Convention Center. The longest name in Christendom. No wonder everyone called it the Hynes. The Crown Vic screeched to a halt in the parking lane outside the Boylston Street entrance. Grant popped the trunk and was dragging Delaney out before the engine stopped. Cornejo dumped the shotgun in the luggage space, grabbed the tool bag, and slammed the lid.

Eight minutes to go.

Delaney was groggy and
sluggish,
but Grant was big and strong. Delaney did whatever Grant wanted. To make sure, Grant slapped one cuff on Delaney's wrist and the other on his own. He took out Miller's shield and held it above his head as he charged through the main doors towards the bank of escalators.
“Police. Police. Emergency. Coming through.”

Cornejo was right behind him, the
police
sign on the back of his jacket flapping with the speed of their entrance. It was a good job. The cops on the door looked edgy and trigger-happy. The radio blackout had obviously had an undesirable side effect. The temporary metal detectors beeped.

The lobby was enormous.

The escalators looked like something out of
Star Trek
.

The floor names were all to pot. Neither the English nor American way. Why the fuck couldn't they make their minds up? The street entrance was the lower level, even though it was on the ground floor. The next one up was the plaza level, not the first or second floor. Then it was the second level and third level. The ballroom was on the third level. The oil delegation was using the ballroom.

Grant reached the up escalator going full-tilt. He took the steps two at a time, dragging Delaney with him. His and the escalator's forward movement doubled his speed, but it was still a long way up to the top floor. Faces looked over the balcony surrounding the enormous circular vestibule that reached all the way to the roof. Each level had its own balcony. The escalators climbed to each floor, then there was another escalator to the next floor. Everything was bright and clean. Potted plants and creeping ivy adorned the lobby of each level.

Grant kept the detectives' shield held up. SWAT officers leaned over the rail on level two and level three. Deadly black snipers' rifles pointed down at the trio of gatecrashers. Grant shouted at the faceless cops. “Police. Emergency. Coming up.”

The shouted warning, the shield, and the
police
jacket kept them from getting shot out of hand. The threat level was high. Radio and phone communication cut off. Everyone was jumpy. The trio reached level two before anyone tried to stop them. Two BPD cops, guns raised, blocked the top of the escalator. “Halt.”

Grant kept taking two steps at a time. Delaney was flagging but was dragged along. Cornejo kept an easy motion flowing. This was second nature to the ex-marine. He could do this in his sleep. One of the cops kept touching his ear, as if that would magically bring the radios back. Delaney gave him a confused look. Grant waved the shield. “Police. Urgent. Where's Detective Kincaid?”

“Stop or I'll shoot.”

Grant didn't stop. He was almost at the top of the second escalator. “Then shoot or get the fuck out of my way. Radios are down 'cause I shut 'em down. You've got a bomb in the ballroom.”

The BPD cops wavered. One lowered his gun; the other tapped his ear again.

“And they aren't coming back no matter how much you tap your ear. Where's Kincaid?”

The ear-tapper jerked a thumb up the final escalator. “Ballroom lobby, sir.”

Grant flew past the cops and hit the last stretch of moving staircase. He was beginning to think that dragging Delaney with him had been a mistake. Grant was fit but flagging with Delaney's weight. Cornejo looked like he could climb another three floors. Grant called back to the BPD cops. “Where's the food court?”

“Plaza level, sir.”

“Secure it. Nobody in or out. You've got a remote triggerman in there. Could be armed.”

“Doubt it, sir. Detectors and x-rays on all entrances today.”

“Get SWAT down there anyway. And stop calling me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Delaney was out of breath. Grant could see his leg had stopped bleeding, but he'd already lost a lot of blood. He was pale and shocked and worn out. Grant didn't care. He reached the top of the last escalator and held the badge up for everyone to see. Everyone included several more BPD cops, guns raised, in a semicircle around the mouth of the moving staircase.

Grant kept his voice calm and lowered the shield. “The ballroom. Kincaid?”

The semicircle didn't move. Nobody lowered their guns. “Identify yourselves.”

Grant was getting annoyed at all the delays, even though he understood the officer's caution. There was a US senator, assorted foreign dignitaries, and the crown prince of somewhere-or-other inside a security cordon that had lost all communications. No wonder he was jumpy. Grant cut him some slack and didn't bite his head off. “I'm the Resurrection Man.”

He pointed at Delaney. “He's the guy set a bomb to go off in there.”

Then at Cornejo. “And he's the guy going to diffuse it. Now, where's Kincaid?”

Grant checked his watch. Five minutes to go.

The semicircle fell back
half a pace and opened a gap in the middle. The lead officer nodded over his shoulder towards a wide corridor. The ballroom foyer and the prefunction area. The ballroom doors were closed and recessed, with two more cops on either side of them. A giant figure stepped out of the recess, looking strange in his dress blues. Sam Kincaid.

“Hold up over there. Let them through.”

Grant didn't waste any time. He went straight over to Kincaid and gave him the short version. Bomb strapped to Senator Clayton's mistress. Remote trigger in the food court downstairs. Radio blackout. Speed racer. That was all he needed to say. Kincaid didn't even blink. He thought on his feet and didn't waver. A half-turn towards the doors as he spoke over his shoulder. “Let's get it done, then. Natives are restless, so be careful. The Saudi team are armed with itchy trigger fingers since the radios went down.”

Delaney got his breath back and tugged on the handcuff chain. “You can't go charging in.”

Everyone looked at the JP gangster. “She's got a trigger too. Told if anyone tries to stop her”—he made the fist again and flexed his thumb—“or her sister's toast.”

Grant yanked the cuff. “You slimy bastard.”

Delaney looked more worried than shamefaced. “That's not all. When you cut the signal, you started the secondary protocol.”

Kincaid's shoulders sagged. “This can't be good.”

Grant glared at Delaney. “And what's that?”

“Delayed activation countdown.”

“How long?”

Delaney shrugged. “I don't know. That was Sullivan's job.”

Cornejo stepped forward, the tool bag hanging from one hand. He tapped his watch with one finger. “Doesn't matter how long. Anybody makes a call once the signal's back—”

He didn't need to continue. Grant checked his watch again. Three minutes to go. He hoped Kimberly had been right and the network might be able to give them more time. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Preparing for the worst meant bursting through the door and disarming the bomb before the girl set it off or the Saudis started a fire fight.

Grant dragged Delaney towards the door. “Fuck it. Whatever happens,
you're
getting a front-row seat.”

He opened the door and entered the ballroom.