Patriots & Tyrants (8 page)

Shifting into reverse, he backed the SUV out of the driveway and drove west on East 7th Street for two blocks before cutting south onto East 8th and continuing west in the direction of the Andrews MBTA station about a mile from South Boston. As they entered the parking lot a few minutes later, Regan asked, "Are you sure it was a good idea to tell him where you were going? Won't he tell the police?"

"Most likely, but we'll be out of here in less than three minutes. C'mon."

Getting out of the car Declan and Regan crossed Dorchester Avenue and entered the station. Descending two flights of dingy concrete steps into the underground terminal, they waited for the train to arrive. "Where do you live?" Declan asked.

"Got an apartment in Jamaica Plain."

"Right, we'll take the northbound to Downtown Crossing and hook up with the orange there."

Regan nodded his agreement as the northbound train skidded loudly to a stop in front of them and an electronic voice began announcing the train's next destination. Stepping onto the train along with a throng of other passengers, Declan kept an eye on the station's multiple entrances until the train was underway. Taking a seat next to Regan, he said, "Sorry I got you involved in all of this."

For several seconds Regan's face showed no emotion. Finally, he shook his head and said, "Hell, probably would've happened sooner rather than later anyway. If you swim with sharks eventually you'll get bit." Declan nodded and they rode the rest of the way in silence. He knew all about swimming with sharks.

As the train slowed at the Downtown Crossing station, Declan stood, preparing to exit. When the doors hissed open he stepped off the train and waited for Regan to follow. "You know how to get to the Orange line from here?"

"Yeah, where are you going?"

"If I were you I'd get to Jamaica Plain as quick as possible and pack your things. O'Rourke's going to be out for blood when he finds out what happened."

"There's nothing at my place I want that bad. I think I'll just keep going until I get to my sister's house in Philly. What are you going to do?"

"I'm not leaving Boston yet. Abaddon Kafni's a friend of mine and I'm not going to let him die."

"Hell man you'll…" Regan stopped talking as he realized no one was listening. Declan was gone, his departure cloaked by the melee of commuters advancing towards the terminal's exits.

The Saint Malachy's Revenge bobbed gently in its mooring area a few blocks east of where Interstate I-90 crossed under Boston Harbor and separated the busy downtown area from the seedier, working class docks. Across the bay to the north, planes roared into and out of Logan International Airport, the Approach Lighting System flashing over head to guide landing pilots onto the proper runways. Declan looked carefully at the Revenge, inspecting it for any signs that O'Rourke was still aboard. Seeing no sign of anyone, he turned and walked south towards the derelict warehouse where O'Rourke stored his cargo.

Located on a one hundred yard long side street among the breweries, energy distribution facilities and labor union offices, the warehouse was a tattered reminder of the kind of people he was dealing with. A rusted and half trampled chain link fence prevented anyone from entering the property. Outside, there was no sign the building was even inhabited. The rear yard was full of burned out cars with weeds growing around and throughout them. For a moment, Declan looked, fascinated by how the once paved parking lot and the automobiles had so easily and so permanently been overtaken by nature. Things like that had never ceased to amaze him. Ireland, his native home, was full of centuries old reminders that the earth ultimately reclaimed that which belonged to it.

Refocusing his mind, he walked the perimeter of the fence keeping to the shadows and looking for a way in. In the far corner of the baseball diamond shaped lot he found a section of fence butted against a metal out building and secured with a rotted two-by-four. Despite the normally deserted nature of the docks at this time of the evening, he looked up and down the street for any passersby that might call the police if they saw a darkly clad someone tampering with a fence. The few radio reports he'd managed to overhear throughout the afternoon indicated the Boston Police Department was very interested in finding the remaining men who'd fled the scene of a South Boston gunfight and he had no interest in attracting their attention, at least not yet. According to the reports, two men had been apprehended at the scene and a third was confirmed dead. While he couldn't be sure, he suspected the two men apprehended had been McLeish and the second lookout at the car. He was sure that Sean Reid had made it out of the area and that he would probably be encountering him inside the warehouse. It was a meeting he was looking forward to.

Seeing no one about, he tore the board loose and lifted the fence enough to slide under. In the shadows of the outbuilding he loosened the backpack he was carrying and placed it on the ground. Like he'd been taught in Afghanistan, by the Russian Special Forces team known as
Vympel,
the backpack was an insurance policy that he'd kept stored in a train terminal locker for an emergency situation. Inside was everything he would need to survive for a full four days in either a natural or an urban setting. Opening it up, he withdrew a Clock 19 and a sound suppressor along with three extra magazines. While he was sure there would be resistance once he entered the warehouse, Declan was counting on O'Rourke's arrogance to give him the edge he needed. It was a gamble, but he felt like he knew the man well enough to know that he'd assume his enemies had run and wouldn't be brazen enough to come after him on his own turf. Declan smiled knowing the captain would be wrong.

Securing the suppressor to the end of the pistol and placing the extra magazines in a holder on his belt, he reached back into the bag and removed an eight inch tactical knife and a sheath. Securing the specially designed sheath around his right wrist, underneath the sleeve of his coat, he placed the knife inside it and moved away from the outbuilding.

The exterior of the warehouse was made of brick and its age was evident in the amount of discoloration from the harsh seaside air. Looking up, Declan counted a total of six stories as he moved into the shadows created by the building. Keeping his back to the wall, he arrived at a door with a broken out window. He leaned in and slowly peered through the window into the darkness beyond the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust. Once they had, he couldn't see or hear anything that looked like a threat. He tried the door latch and to his astonishment it wasn't locked. Gently, he pulled, hoping the metal hinges had enough moisture left to avoid making loud as he opened the door. Natural light from the full moon stabbed the darkness and revealed a small machine room. The floors were covered with dust and it was obvious it had been a long time since anyone had passed this way. An aged and sloppily greased air compressor occupied the room next to the exit, which lacked a door. Pulling the outside door closed behind him and returning the room to darkness, Declan stayed low and button hooked into the doorway leading out of the machine room, clearing the room ahead of any threats.

The warehouse opened in front of him, yellow moonlight piercing the darkness from the few dingy windows that hadn't been boarded up. The air was damp, the smell of mildew and rot invading his nostrils. Looking up, he saw that the second and third floors consisted only of wide catwalks with a large rectangular opening in the center overlooking the first floor. While the building had appeared to be six stories from the outside, on the inside it was only three floors with tall ceilings designed to allow the free movement of whatever freight the warehouse was to hold. Looking through the open ceiling he could see the second floor was filled with crates, some of them he recognized as ones he'd helped unload from the Revenge in recent days. Parked just inside a two car garage door along the warehouse's street entrance was O'Rourke's pride and joy, a late model Lotus Espirit, half covered by a canvas tarp. Declan laughed silently as he caught a view of the vehicle's license plate from a dim bulb that hung from the ceiling,
Luk E 1.
That was a lie if ever he'd heard one, in the last month alone O'Rourke had probably lost more money betting on horses than Declan had ever seen in one place at one time.

Moving further in he saw a forklift parked in front of a freight elevator along the rear wall. Next to the elevator, a rusted metal staircase lead up, switch backing several times as it climbed to higher floors. At the base of the staircase, he paused and listened for voices. Hearing none, he took the stairs slowly, inching up two at a time and being careful to make as little noise as possible. At the second floor, he button hooked into another doorway with his pistol aimed, finding nothing but dusty crates.

Suddenly the sound of the first floor garage door opening drew his attention and he bolted out of the doorway into a small alcove created by double stacked crates. Overlooking the first floor, he watched a silver Mercedes enter. The garage door closed behind the vehicle and its driver sounded the horn in three short bursts as an apparent signal to the buildings occupants.

"Hey! He's here!" Declan heard a voice echo from the third floor, he was pretty sure it was the voice of Cameron Kelly, but with the echo, he couldn't be certain.

The Mercedes' engine turned off and the driver's door opened. An older man with white hair and a goatee stepped out. Wearing a tan trench coat over a three piece suit, the man's appearance screamed mobster. As he passed under the dim bulb in front his vehicle Declan got a full view of his face and recognized him as Richie Sheehan, a boss in the local dockworkers union and one of the men O'Rourke often made contact with. What exactly Sheehan's position was in the mob, Declan wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find out Sheehan was involved in Abaddon Kafni's assassination. The man's blood ran in shades of gray and green and Declan was sure that if you looked close enough dollar signs could be seen in the pupils of his eyes. His attention shifted as a man appeared on the third floor balcony. Even in the low light, he recognized the bulbous frame of Ethan Boyle. In a thick Boston accented voice Boyle announced sarcastically, "Well if it ain't, Mr. Sheehan! Hold on your majesty… I'll send down the elevator." The man below walked briskly towards the freight elevator as it rumbled down to the first floor landing.

Staying put in his shadowy alcove, Declan waited until Sheehan rose to the top floor and was met by Boyle and Kelly. After exchanging some brief niceties, the three headed away from the balcony and out of sight. Looking around to be sure no one else was present, Declan rose from his hiding spot and moved quickly back to the staircase, climbing methodically to be sure he remained unseen.

The third floor was completely empty except for a room which stood in the far right hand corner. With the exception of a piece of frosted glass in a door that faced the balcony, the square room was windowless, hastily constructed of plywood and two-by-fours. Seeing nowhere else the men could have gone, Declan crossed the wood planked floor towards it. He quickened to a silent sprint as the door was opened and a bright light shot out of the room, chasing away the gloom of the warehouse. Declan pressed his back to the wall of the room around the corner from the door and waited.

"Where the hell you goin'?" Boyle's voice called from inside.

"To get a smoke," Cameron Kelly answered as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Moving sideways, Declan crept up the wall towards the corner as he heard the sound of a Zippo lighter. Risking a glance, he leaned around the corner and watched as Kelly took a long drag from a cigarette and walked towards the edge of the balcony, looking out over the two floors below him. Keeping a watch on the door, Declan crouched low and moved up behind him. Sliding the Glock pistol into the holster on his belt, he reached up as Kelly lowered his cigarette and exhaled, filling the air with a blueish haze. A gasp of surprise erupted from Kelly as Declan wrapped an arm around the goon's head and pulled him harshly to the floor. With a forearm wrapped tight around the man's neck and pushing his head forward with his other hand, he applied pressure until Kelly stopped struggling and went limp.

Dragging the goon away and laying him beside the wall, Declan waited for any indication that his assault had been heard from inside. Hearing only a few low voices and no movement, he moved towards the door and bent down, keeping his back against the wall. Leaning forward, he listened through a mail slot below the frosted window.

Declan smiled as he heard O'Rourke's voice. "Alright, Richie you're dealin' this game — where the hell you goin', Boyle?"

"To get Kelly."

"Screw him. We'll deal him in when he gets back."

A scraping sound filled the room as chairs pulled up to a poker table. Declan listened intently, focusing on each individual voice and trying to discern how many people were in the room. After waiting a full round, he was sure there were four men; Boyle, Reid, O'Rourke and Sheehan.

As the round ended, O'Rourke said, "Go and get that idiot and tell him to get in here. He's been out there for ten minutes. How the hell long does it take to smoke anyways?"

A chair scraped across the floor and Declan assumed it was Boyle standing to head for the door. Drawing the Glock from his belt, he stood up and opened the door, entering with the gun leveled in the direction he'd heard the voices coming from.

Inside the room was barren, a ramshackle desk, a filthy sofa and a dormitory-sized refrigerator were the only furniture. The card table stood in a far corner and papers littered the floor near the desk.

"Jesus!" Boyle said with a shocked look as he stopped, seeing the raised pistol. The other men at the table looked up suddenly as if they hadn't realized what was happening.