Dark Harbor (36 page)

Chapter Seventy-five

W
HEN THE SHOOTING STARTED
, Flaherty was the first to move. The five minutes had already expired, and she, Kozlowski, and Loring were in the corridor approaching the cold stone room where Finn was being held. They could see the light filtering out from the doorway, and hear the sound of voices trickling out from the room. It had been difficult to persuade Loring to take action, but Flaherty was beginning to think he wasn’t going to be much help in this situation if things got ugly anyway. When she heard gunfire, she was running before she knew it, her heart pumping wildly as she realized something had gone terribly wrong.

“Lieutenant! Wait!” Kozlowski yelled after her, breaking into a run himself. Loring was behind the two, but moving with less enthusiasm.

Flaherty charged toward the bright light that was casting confused shadows on the stone floor outside the room. She knew it would be more prudent to assess the situation before running in, but there was no time; if she hesitated, the fight would be over before she got there, and Finn would no doubt be gone. She couldn’t let that happen. If he really was innocent, then she’d put him in danger, and she’d never forgive herself if anything happened to him.

She passed through the door and into the room at full speed with her gun drawn, yelling, “Police! Everybody down!”

Kozlowski saw Flaherty sprint into the room. She was probably only fifteen or twenty feet ahead of him—a few seconds at most—but he knew that a few seconds could mean the difference between life and death. He increased his own speed and flew into the room after her. He didn’t even bother identifying himself as a police officer. Flaherty had given fair warning and an order to get down on the ground. To Kozlowski’s way of thinking, that should be enough; anyone still standing could be presumed to be on the wrong side of the law. There’d be no time in a situation like this for deliberation.

As he came around the corner, the room was in chaos. The first thing he noticed was Flaherty on the ground to the left of the doorway.
Oh my God, she’s been hit!
he thought initially, but then he quickly realized she’d thrown herself down to avoid a hail of bullets. Just then he felt the wall next to his head explode in two small pops, kicking out stone and mortar as shots just missed him. He dove to the right, so that he and Flaherty were flanking the doorway.

As he lifted his head, the room came into better focus. A spotlight in the middle of the room had been knocked to the floor, and its reflection off the stone walls cast an eerie glow. He could see a giant figure topped with dark hair lying near Flaherty to the left—Tigh McCluen, he assumed—and he could see Scott Finn lying in the center of the room. Other than that, there were three people, and at least two were armed.
This is going to be unpleasant.

Across the room, he could see a large, balding man in his forties. He was standing calmly, squeezing off round after round.
A professional
, Kozlowski could tell instantly. His demeanor was far too controlled to be anything but, and as a professional killer, he was likely to pose the greatest threat. Kozlowski rolled onto his knees, his body reacting to the moment without thought or awareness. He brought the gun up, leveling it with his eye in a steady, two-handed grip. He sucked in a breath and held it as the muscles in his forearm tensed, pulling the trigger and firing twice, his shoulders and elbows reacting subtly to compensate in his aim for the gun’s recoil. The man went down on the second shot, as Kozlowski took him square in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

Kozlowski swung his body around to find another target. He saw McGuire drop to the ground across the room, grasping for the gun at his feet. Kozlowski brought his gun up again, aiming for the center of McGuire’s body. He had McGuire in his sights, and once again he felt the muscles in his arm and hand contract to pull the trigger, but before the gun went off, he heard a loud explosion to his right, and he saw his right elbow shatter, splattering blood over his shirt and sending his gun to the ground.

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened, and as he turned to the right, he saw a man in a suit taking aim at his head. Kozlowski threw himself to the floor and rolled to his left to avoid the shot. He winced and groaned as his broken arm connected with the stone floor, but pushed himself through the pain. Having lost his gun, he knew it was only a matter of seconds before the next bullet found him.

Flaherty was on the ground as well. She’d burst into the room only to find herself dodging a series of shots from the heavyset man at the far end. She could see Finn in the center of the room. He was moving, but there was no way to tell exactly how badly he was injured. In any case, as long as she was pinned down, there seemed little she could do. It was only after Kozlowski had taken out the professional killer that she was able to stand up and join the fight.

As she lifted her head, she saw Williams shoot Kozlowski, and a rage grew in her like nothing she’d ever known before. The lawyer was setting himself again, and taking aim at her partner, who was moving as quickly as he could to make a more difficult target. She spun around on Williams and fired without hesitation. The bullet hit him in the shoulder and knocked him back. He screamed out in pain, but stayed on his feet, clutching his gun to his side.

“Drop the gun!” Flaherty yelled. Williams looked at her with an odd expression of amusement and anger. He was barely keeping his feet as his knees buckled, causing him to stagger. Flaherty’s mind raced through her options. “Drop it now!” she yelled again. Williams refused to comply, standing in front of her with a strange smile, his gun hanging down from his arm loosely. Then Flaherty thought she saw him flinch, and she fired twice without thinking. The first shot hit him just below the sternum, and he staggered back two steps more. The second shot hit him in the center of his forehead and ended his life instantly.

She hadn’t even realized what she was doing, and the shock at her actions froze her as she looked at Nick Williams lying in a bloody heap. It was the first time she’d taken a life, and she stood there, momentarily stunned.

“Lieutenant! Look out!”

The warning came from Kozlowski, and caused Flaherty to turn to her left. McGuire had picked his gun up off the ground, and the barrel was now pointed directly into her eyes from six feet away.

What the hell am I doing here?
Loring was asking himself.

He was standing in the damp corridor outside of the room, listening to the gunshots ring out as the sweat poured down his face.
I’m a lawyer, not a cop!
It was true, and he knew it for certain now. For years he’d gone to the FBI firing range and practiced his marksmanship, bragging to agents and other lawyers alike that he was prepared for anything—the complete law enforcement officer.

But his bravado was a sham. His mastery of the mechanics of firing a gun aside, he’d never trained for an actual confrontation, and he knew now he was unprepared for one. Other than in his childish daydreams, he’d never even contemplated the notion of risking his life in a gunfight. He wasn’t sure which he was more petrified of—being killed or having to kill another person—but he knew that if he didn’t act, he’d never be able to live with himself. He could hear Kozlowski’s voice calling out between the gunshots, and he knew he couldn’t let the others down.

He came around the corner of the door with his gun drawn, and he was amazed by the scene. Tigh and Kozlowski were on the ground, as were three men he didn’t recognize. Only Flaherty and McGuire were still standing, and McGuire was pointing a gun straight into Flaherty’s face. Loring knew he was too late, that he’d never be able to aim and fire his gun at McGuire in time to prevent Flaherty’s death. He felt a rush of guilt as he realized his hesitation had probably cost Flaherty her life.

He was bringing his gun up and trying to lock McGuire into his sights when he saw one of the men lying on the ground lunge toward McGuire. The man moved quickly, kicking out with his legs and catching McGuire in the knees, throwing him off balance. A shot rang out, reverberating off the stone walls, but the bullet missed Flaherty and ricocheted off the wall behind her.

Now Loring had his chance, and he fired his gun without thought or warning. McGuire seemed surprised, and Loring couldn’t tell at first whether he’d hit him or just startled him. The U.S. attorney was about to shoot again when he saw a trickle of blood start from the corner of McGuire’s mouth. Then McGuire’s arm dropped, and the gun slid out of his hand. He stood there, hovering for a moment, as if caught in indecision, then he fell forward hard onto the ground.

All of a sudden, the room was deathly quiet.

Chapter Seventy-six

F
INN ROLLED ONTO HIS SIDE
and struggled to sit up. Every part of his body ached so badly that the pain seemed to reach into his soul and overwhelm him with an old, familiar feeling of despair. McGuire’s body lay at his feet, at the spot where Finn had thrown himself into the mob boss’s legs, saving Flaherty’s life.

He looked around the room. It seemed as if an invading army had laid siege to the place, with the dead and wounded piled around the room. A man whom Finn recognized from bar association functions as Rich Loring, the U.S. attorney for Massachusetts, was still standing with a gun in his hand, frozen for a moment, until he moved over to Kozlowski, who was just starting to sit up, his arm covered in blood. “Are you okay?” Loring asked the police detective.

Kozlowski gave a pained smile. “I will be.” He tore through the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the wound. It looked as if at least one of the bones had been badly broken, and blood was dripping down onto the floor. Kozlowski winced as he tore a long piece of cloth off his shirt and wrapped it around his bicep, tightening the tourniquet by pulling with his left hand and his clenched teeth, and tying it off. “See? Good as new.”

Flaherty was standing over the lifeless body of Nick Williams, looking down at it with an odd mixture of satisfaction and horror.

After a moment, she pulled her radio off her belt and double-clicked the handset, speaking into the unit. “This is Lieutenant Flaherty. We have an officer down and multiple casualties at Fort Independence off Day Boulevard. Request backup and emergency units immediately. Over.” Then she spoke to Kozlowski. “Don’t be a macho asshole, Koz, how are you really doing?”

Kozlowski looked at his arm. “I don’t think it hit any arteries,” he said. “It hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be all right.” He took a deep breath and blew it out through clenched teeth. “Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with your asking the EMTs to hurry just a little bit.”

Flaherty nodded, then she hurried over to Finn and knelt down next to him. “How about you, Finn? Are you all right?”

Finn opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His mind wasn’t yet able to process all that he’d been through, and he recognized that he was in shock. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as dark images floated through his brain.

“It was Williams,” he said finally, in a hushed tone, nodding over to the body of the dead lawyer.

“Who?”

“Nick Williams,” Finn repeated. “He was a partner at my firm. He killed Natalie.”

Flaherty looked confused. “I thought McGuire killed Natalie.”

“So did I,” Finn said. “But I was wrong, it was Williams. He and Natalie were …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. The lightbulb went on in Flaherty’s head and she nodded in understanding. “He was working for McGuire, and he killed her because she found out they were defrauding the state. McGuire was …” but Finn’s voice trailed off as he struggled to deal with the enormity of what he’d learned.

Flaherty nodded again. “Finn, I don’t know what to say,” she began. “I’m—” But she never got to finish the sentence. From across the room, Kozlowski was shouting into his own radio.

“We need that ambulance, now!” he was yelling. Both Flaherty and Finn looked across the room and saw Loring bent over Tigh McCluen. Loring had his hand on the huge man’s chest, and he was trying to stem the bleeding.

“Oh my God! Tigh!” Finn struggled to his knees, and then to his feet, and hobbled over to his friend, kneeling down next to his head. He looked down at him, and could see the dark blood pooling underneath his enormous body.

“Hang in there, Tigh, we’re going to get you out of here,” Finn said.

Tigh gave a weak smile. “No you’re not.”

Finn held his own hand to the hole blown in Tigh’s chest, which was still oozing freely. “Are you kidding?” he said. “I’ve seen you do worse than this while shaving.”

Tigh coughed out a laugh and a river of blood ran down his cheek from the corner of his mouth. “That’s why I grew the goatee,” he said.

“I always thought it was just to cover up your ugly mug.”

Tigh patted Finn’s hand. Then he closed his eyes and opened them quickly, swallowing hard. “It’s not that bad,” he said to Finn. “I’m lucky. I made it long enough to try to set some things straight. Not everyone we grew up with got that chance.”

“You did more than that,” Finn said. “You saved my life.”

“I wonder if Saint Peter will count that against me?” Tigh winked as he said it. Finn could hear a pronounced gurgle in Tigh’s chest as he fought to breathe. “Given my past, it’s likely to be a lengthy debate in any case.”

“You could always talk your way out of anything, you big, dumb Mick. But shut the hell up and focus on staying here. Saint Peter can wait.”

Tigh shrugged. He closed his eyes again and his breathing became shallower. “Do you remember the time we all went to that beach in Newport?”

Finn laughed softly. “Before Joey was killed?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Finn had to lean in to hear Tigh now. “We went out there in our ragged old shorts and dirty T-shirts …”

“And that guy tried to chase us away,” Finn continued.

Tigh smiled. “So we threatened to drown him and bury his body in the sand if he didn’t get out of our sight.”

Finn laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone run so fast in my life.”

“It was a grand day. Sitting on that perfect beach, looking out at the water, dreaming about all the things we were going to do with our lives … Now, when I dream, I dream about the past, not the future. I think that’s when you know you’ve run your course, Finn—when your happiest thoughts are of the past.”

Finn could hear the sirens getting closer outside. “Hang in there, Tigh, the ambulance is almost here.”

Finn could barely hear Tigh breathing anymore, and his voice was nothing but a whisper. “You got out, Finn. Let all the crap from your past go, and live your life.” Tigh’s chest hitched twice, and Finn could hear that his lungs were taking in more fluid than air. He thought he was gone for a moment, but then Tigh opened his eyes and looked at Finn with a smile that was filled with all of the life left in him. For a moment, Finn saw the Tigh he knew in his youth. His face was thinner, and there was a twinkle in his eye that was unmistakable. Finn remembered how much they’d shared, just to survive in the streets, and he knew that, as much as he’d hurt Tigh when he found his way out, the friend within him had always cheered for him.

“Where the hell are the paramedics!” Finn yelled to no one in particular.

“They’re here, Finn,” Flaherty said quietly. “They’re just trying to get to us.” Finn could hear the resignation in her voice and it angered him, mainly because he knew she was right, and there was nothing that could be done.

“Hang on, Tigh, they’ll be here any second,” he said.

Tigh waved two fingers toward his face, drawing Finn in closer so that he could hear him. “Promise me you’ll never forget one thing, no matter what happens, Finn?”

Finn nodded. “Anything, Tigh. What is it?”

Tigh smiled a mischievous smile, one last time. “Nobody fucks with the Chelsea Street Regulars.”

Tigh was gone before the paramedics made it to the dark stone room in Fort Independence. Finn watched as they pulled and prodded, trying to coax some sign of life from the huge body, but to no avail. One paramedic was taping Finn’s broken fingers together on splints as the young lawyer watched them pull the sheet over Tigh’s head. With that final statement of mortality, Finn got up to leave the room.

“I still need to examine your other wounds, sir,” the para-medic said in a slightly tired and petulant voice. “And then you have to go to the hospital.”

Finn turned around and glared at the man, who got the message quick enough. He shook his head in resignation, as if to say,
I’m not wasting my precious time on you, asshole.
Finn didn’t care. He just needed to get out of there, to be alone.

He walked out of the room and into the corridor, which was filled with police and EMTs and park rangers. Flaherty was there, too, waiting for him. She walked up to him and put her hand gently on the area between his chest and his shoulder. It struck him as an oddly intimate gesture. She looked at him sadly.

“Finn, I’m—”

But he interrupted her by taking hold of her wrist and moving it off his body, pushing it back toward her as he shook his head.

“But Finn—”

“No,” he said, and it was definitive. He walked through the sea of law enforcement personnel, which parted before him as people looked on in silence.

“We need to talk, Finn!” Flaherty called after him. “If not now, then later!” she yelled, her voice sounding desperate.

Finn kept walking. He had too much to deal with himself before he could answer anyone else’s questions.
Besides
, he thought,
nobody fucks with the Chelsea Street Regulars.