The Guardian (24 page)

Before she could say anything, the man reached down and put his hand on her mouth. He said loudly, “Baby, where the hell have you been?”

He spun her around and wrapped his arm around her belly, pinning the gun to her stomach. “Let’s go home, honey.” He picked her up, and shoved her through the door.

“Sir?” Mrs. Cranston called. “Sir? Did you find her?”

“Thanks, we’ve got her!”

The woman beside him was saying quietly, “Don’t hurt her, don’t.”

Janine got past her shock and started screaming then.

Because the woman was Natalie.

The man, she had no idea.

Chapter 41

The guy sitting across from Ross was bald except for a blond ruff along the center of his head. His eyes were brilliant green, so much so that Ross suspected he was wearing tinted contact lenses. That, and he was wearing green leather from head to toe.

Crockett said, “Tell us about your experience.”

“Tell me about yours.” The man glanced around the room quickly and then snapped back to Crockett. “Keep it in this century, huh?”

“Aw, you’ve got a sense of humor.” Crockett leaned in close. “But I’m on a deadline, asshole, and what I need to know is what you’ve robbed with a gun and how did it turn out?”

“Places.” He blew smoke back at Crockett. “Call me an asshole again, I’ll shove your head up your own.”

“What kind of places?”

“Stores. You ever do time?”

“Yeah, I’ve done time.”

“Then how good can you be?”

Ross watched the man while he and Crockett continued to spar. The man’s nose was running a bit; he clearly was on something. Probably coke. He wore silver studs on his belt and on his wrist guard. Alligator boots with silver heels and toes.

“Are you ready to go this afternoon?” Ross interrupted.

“Right now.” The guy slapped his jacket pocket. Ross had noticed the bulge there earlier.

“I told T.S. I needed someone with a shotgun,” Ross said.

“Got that in the car.”

“Tell me about the stores,” Crockett repeated. “You cap anybody?”

The guy sniggered like a teenage boy. He rubbed at his nose. “Uh-huh. You could say that. Look, T.S. said we’d be going in on an armored car.”

Crockett snapped, “T.S. has got a big mouth.”

“So you’re ready now?” Ross said.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. The sooner the better.”

“Wearing that?” Ross nodded to the boots, the jacket.

“The jacket stays in the car. It’s too distinctive, you know? But the boots, I wouldn’t go in without them. Lucky boots. Laid out a guy with them once, too.” He pointed to a faint dent on the right toe. “Guy’s front teeth. Bastard.”

Ross grinned. “Never go on a robbery without them?”

“No way.”

It took them a little while, but they got rid of him.

A half hour later, Ross let the last man into the room.

His eyes were deep-set, his face skull-like. He was as tall as Ross. Although he appeared to be losing weight, his build was still very powerful. Pale skin over muscle and sinew. Even though the day was warm he wore white cotton gloves—the kind Greg had described. His right hand was in the pocket of a black trench coat, but Ross could see he had gauze taped on his wrist, going under the glove. The sawed-off shotgun glinted as the man held it pointing to the floor.

“T.S. gave me this address.” The man’s voice was quiet. He stood stock-still, his eyes moving about the apartment, taking it all in.

Ross gestured to the bandage on the man’s hand and asked what had happened.

“Nothing serious.”

“Nothing that’s going to hurt your shooting, right?” Ross asked.

“Let’s get to it,” the man said, pulling the chair away from the table. He sat down so that his weight was forward.

Ross was frightened. There was a coiled power to the man that was hard to define. Ross told himself that the guy before him with the Mohawk could have killed him just as dead.

“Tell me about the job,” the man said. “And tell me it’s what I want to hear.”

“Which is?”

“That it’s for serious money, and that it’s going down today.”

“You’ve got an appetite,” Crockett asked. “Coke?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Crockett shrugged. Crockett’s manner was more deferential than it had been with any of the other guys. But he gave just enough information on the robbery for it to be plausible—he acted as if they needed to hear the man’s commitment before actually giving him all the details.

Ross observed the man quietly. He was the right height and weight. The right build. The cotton gloves. The shotgun was a pump-action, like the one Greg’s killer had used.

Ross felt this might be the man.

Crockett told the man they’d split the take evenly.

The guy sniffed and said, “It better be even. Or I’m willing to cut it down to a one-way split. You get what I’m saying?”

“Got it,” Crockett said. “Let me tell you how we’re gonna pull this off.”

Ross’s mouth went dry. That cocaine sniff, and the phrase the kidnapper had used before.
You get what I’m saying?

It was the man. Ross was sure of the voice. His heart pounding furiously, Ross worked to keep his tone casual as he said, “You guys want anything? We’ve got Pepsi in the fridge.”

There was a creaking sound from the hallway.

The gunman’s head snapped around.

The floor creaked again right outside the door. It was a stealthy, slow sound. Not the sound of someone walking down the stairs at a normal pace, but someone sneaking up.

Olsen.

“How about a beer?” Ross asked.

But by then, the gunman was already in motion. He shoved the table over onto Ross and Crockett. He whirled and the shotgun was out and he put a blast through the door. There was a scream from outside, and then Byrne kicked open the closet door, revolver in hand. But the table was in the way, and the gunman shot him, too. The blast spun Byrne around.

As the man ratcheted another shell into the chamber, Ross rolled to his feet and charged him. He didn’t do what Greg had done, grabbing for the barrel. Rather, he took the man in a bear hug and pinned the gun so the shortened barrel stuck out to the right. He ran the gunman back against the wall, breaking through the plaster. He pulled him out and did it again, this time bouncing the man’s head off the doorjamb.

The man grunted, and tried to turn the gun up to Ross’s face.

Ross slammed him up against the door again, fighting to keep the shotgun aimed off to the side.

And then Crockett was behind him with a knife, and Ross saw his opponent’s eyes flicker.

“Crockett!” Ross screamed, knowing it was too late, that Crockett had approached them on the right.

The shotgun blasted again, and Crockett was gone.

Instinctively, Ross loosened his grip, and the gunman elbowed him in the face. Ross held onto the gun, keeping his hand wrapped tight around the action to keep the other man from pumping in another shell.

Ross had a flash of his brother, of his brother’s ribs. He squeezed his hand tighter, determined that the pump-action would have to be dragged through bone before another shell could be jacked into the chamber.

But the man let go of the gun altogether.

And with one kick to set Ross up, and another to provide the power, he kicked Ross through the window.

Chapter 42

Ross didn’t let go of the gun.

Glass rattled through the grates of the fire escape landing as he rolled onto his hands and knees and looked back into Crockett’s apartment. Ross was dizzy. It took him a few seconds to take it all in.

The gunman was gone.

Byrne was kneeling on the floor, his right arm bloody. He was saying into the walkie-talkie, “He’s coming, Jamison, he’s coming. He’s got Olsen’s gun.”

Crockett.

“Oh, Christ,” Ross said.

Crockett was on the floor, not moving. Ross’s stomach rolled when he saw what the shotgun blast had done to his friend.

The gunman had shot high.

Ross started down the fire escape. The steps were far apart, and it was awkward climbing down with the shotgun in his hand. Ross banged hard against the side rail on the next level.

The gunfire started just as he reached the ground.

By the time he was past the garbage cans in the alley to the front, the man was pulling out in a green Chevy, tires smoking. Jamison was on the sidewalk, clutching his leg. Blood poured through his fingers. He swore steadily while rocking slightly, “Goddamn, Goddamn.”

Byrne staggered out of the front door. He called to Ross, “How bad is he?”

The Chevy rounded the corner three blocks up.

“His leg.” Ross ran across the street to the motorcycle and swung aboard. He shoved the shotgun into the right sidebag.

“Ross, hold up!” Byrne knelt beside Jamison and began pulling his own belt off to use as a tourniquet.

The radio squawked, and a woman’s dispassionate voice said that an ambulance and backup were on the way.

Ross kick-started the bike.

“Wait, goddamn it!”

Ross took off.

Ross twisted his right hand hard, and let the engine scream. By the time he made the corner, the Chevy was out of sight. Ross made up the distance fast by winding the bike up in first and second gears, and then slowing just enough as the intersections came up. The bike had a good-sized fairing—big enough to block his sweatshirt, he figured, if the gunman looked in the mirror.

At the next intersection, Ross hit the brakes and let the bike roll forward so he could see around the corner. It was a main street. No green Chevy to the left. To the right, three blocks ahead, the gunman was forcing the car through a red light. Horns were blaring from oncoming traffic. Ross took a few seconds to take one of the helmets off the clip alongside the bike and strap it on. It had a full-face visor, tinted.

As he wound his way through traffic, Ross searched his memory for the plan Crockett had outlined to the gunman. He couldn’t remember Crockett getting to the part about the motorcycle. The word hadn’t even been mentioned. T.S. might’ve mentioned it to the gunman … but there was a reasonable chance he hadn’t. And, therefore, Ross was going to assume the man wouldn’t be expecting a bike to be following him.

The Chevy took a left a few blocks ahead.

Ross had been keeping his speed just a bit over the limit. Once the car was out of sight again, he put the bike on the center line and let the tachometer needle sweep up to red. Car horns wailed as he passed between an oncoming panel truck and a Buick, leaving mere inches on either side.

By the time he was approaching the left turn, he was up to just over a hundred. He downshifted, braked hard, then tucked the bike into a tight turn. The bike wasn’t made for that type of performance, and sparks flew as the side pipe met the pavement.

Ahead, the Chevy was rounding another corner.

Ross kept the car in sight for the next two turns. As it crossed over the bridge into Boston, he noted that the Chevy was going more slowly now. The gunman even stopped for the red light without trying to crowd past the cars ahead of him.

Ross let a few more pass him, so he wouldn’t be sitting right on the Chevy’s bumper.

And he considered what to do.

The man apparently didn’t think he was being followed. Ross could sidle up alongside him and shoot him.

Ross wanted to do it.

His blood was up—he didn’t want to slow down and think. He didn’t want the fear to have time to creep back. He just wanted to get back at this man. Exact some revenge for Greg and Crockett. He told himself that the gunman wouldn’t have been looking into the armored car deal if he had Janine to trade in for $1,500,000. He told himself that the gunman either didn’t have her, or he knew he’d already killed her.

Ross twisted around and reached into the sidebag with both hands and pumped another shell into the shotgun.

As it made its ratcheting sound, he thought,
What other explanation is there?

And that last question was one he couldn’t answer.

Reluctantly, he settled down to following the gunman.

The Chevy rolled onto the expressway, going north. Ross followed a half dozen car lengths behind and stayed in the middle lane while the man pulled quickly into the left. Together, they wound through the heart of Boston, passing the towers of the financial district on the left and the North End on the right. Ross played the tourist on the bike, taking time out to turn his head toward the aquarium; he even raised his hand off the left handgrip in a small salute as another biker rode by.