The Assassin's Case (28 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Grant held out a forty-five toward Tedesco. He stared at the gun for a moment before taking it from Grant’s hand. Tedesco sighed before tucking the weapon into his waistband and hiding it beneath his shirt.

“Are you sure you’re up to this,” Grant said.

“I’ll do what I have to.”

“I’m counting on you.” Grant clapped a hand on Tedesco’s arm. The big man placed his hand over Grant’s, nodded, and turned to walk outside.

The carolers filed out of the front door behind Tedesco and Grant stood alone in the living room. He thumbed the television remote and turned up the volume. Moving to the stereo, he pushed play to start a CD. The dulcet tones of Dean Martin’s rendition of
Let It Snow
blared from the speakers.

He checked to make sure his pistols were secure and grabbed his rifle. As he moved to the back of the house he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. With his face painted black and the ghillie suit draped over him, he looked like an urban Yeti. The suit’s mix of light green and light brown strips of cloth would blend in with the dead winter grasses in the neighborhood. He had also stuffed some dried weeds into it to give it a more natural appearance.

While the group in the yard milled about, waiting to load the bus, Grant moved. He exited the house by the rear garage door and sprinted to the next yard. He ran hunched down, using bushes as cover.

Crouching in the midst of a cluster of towering pampas grass, he scanned the water behind the house, eyes on the boat he knew contained Cane’s men about two hundred yards off shore. They still appeared to be fishing.

Grant made sure his earpiece, a small self-contained com unit, was secure. No transmissions came through at the moment, which indicated no one had been seen reacting to his escape from the house. Radio silence would be observed until Cane made his play. They just didn’t know when it would come. But come it would. If not they would have to come up with a plan B.

Now for the hard part. Using a minute contour where water naturally drained through the yard, Grant crawled on his stomach. He held his gun in the crook of his arms and pulled himself along with his elbows. The cold and damp ground left dark wet splotches on the fabric of his shirt. Forcing himself to edge along with slow measured movements, he traversed the lot. He sheltered in a small copse of trees in the next yard, searching for the best path to his destination two houses down. He had chosen that particular house due to the thick brown grass in its yard and the thick clump of bushes guarding its rear door.

Utilizing every contour of the ground, the shadows of trees, and the shelter of bushes, Grant slowly and painstakingly covered the distance to the house. When he reached the yard he melted into the calf-high brown grass. He slithered to the thick row of shrubs surrounding the porch and crawled through.

Remaining on his stomach until he reached the back door, he came up on his knees and examined the lock. He reached into the pouch on his belt and removed a screwdriver. Pushing against the door with a shoulder he rammed the screwdriver into the jamb near the lock. Prying with the screwdriver and simultaneously shoving with his shoulder the door burst open. He rushed inside and eased the door closed behind him.

The kitchen smelled stale, not unpleasant, just as if no air had circulated for some time. All the furnishings were draped with dust covers, a further indication of the house’s lack of occupants. An alarm pad on the wall flashed, indicating a zone break, but no siren blared. A closer look showed the system wasn’t armed.

Grant peeled off the ghillie and dropped it to the floor before racing in the direction of the garage, the pack across his shoulders thumping against his back as he moved. He located the door to the garage and squinted through the glass. Bingo. Moving into the gloomy space, he grabbed the string hanging from the attic door, pulled it down, and unfolded the ladder.

Mounting the wood steps he climbed into the attic and grabbed a flashlight from his belt. The beam revealed rows of rafters and insulation, and none of the stored bric-a-brac usually found in such spaces. He passed the beam over the ceiling and located the ventilation fan on the far side of the roof and, if he had calculated correctly, would be beneath some overhanging limbs. Un-shouldering his pack, he carried it in one hand, the Remington in the other. Stepping rafter to rafter he traversed the attic until he stood beneath the fan. He removed his tools from the pack and started to work ripping it free and widening the hole enough for him to squeeze through. The clock in his head tick-ticked away the seconds.

* * * * *

Alternating between the scope and his bare eye, Grant scanned the area. He lay prone at the peak of the roofline on the side opposite the street. The rough surface of the shingles bit into his skin, but gave him some purchase on the steeply pitched roof. His shoulder holsters lay next to him, within easy reach if he needed them. Their bulk against the unyielding roof wouldn’t allow him a comfortable firing position, so he had taken them off. Nothing stirred but the branches swaying in the wind over his head. He was beneath the limbs of a massive oak which formed a shelter and shielded him from view. A ventilation pipe near his head aided in obscuring his profile. His hiding spot wouldn’t stand the scrutiny of an active search, but, no one expected him to be here. At least he hoped.

              Thoughts of Jaime, Charlotte, his family, threatened to steal Grant’s concentration. His emotions swirled. The thought of his sister’s hot tears on his cheek swamped him with memories, stinging like a band-aid ripped from a wound. He began a ki breathing exercise to help him force the clutter from his mind and focus on what he had to do. His heart rate slowed and he sought cold calm. He pushed out thoughts of the cost of failure. Nothing else could exist but the present. There was no past or future, only the here and now. And the rifle.

              After almost twenty minutes of waiting, Grant began to consider the possibility that he may have been mistaken. Maybe Cane’s plans weren’t as obvious as Grant believed. While he pondered, a small gray sedan pulled into the garage of the house on the corner.

              The thrumming of helicopter blades intruded on the quiet, not an uncommon occurrence, both the Coast Guard and local police flew over the area on a regular basis. The pounding of the rotors drew closer still. An
HH-65A “Dolphin” Helicopter
appeared over the tree line in front of Grant on the opposite side of the street. The chopper was painted red with the white markings of a medevac unit. The rear door was open and he could make out two men seated in the rear. 

              Grant took his eyes off of the hovering vehicle and peered over his shoulders to ensure no one was sneaking toward the back of Ms. Chamberlain’s house.

              Over the roar of the blades he heard a whoomp follow by the shoosh of displaced air. His eyes caught a flash of movement and the Chamberlain residence erupted in a plume of fire, ripping away the front half of the house. 

             
Holy mother of mercy.

             
Grant whipped his rifle up and acquired the helicopter in his scope.

              Through his lens Grant could clearly see the two men crouched in the rear of the chopper, one held the unmistakable cylinder of a shoulder-fired missile launcher, another shoved a new missile into the tube.

              Grant lined up his shot, raising the crosshairs above his target to account for distance as the man raised the missile launcher to his shoulder.

* * * * *

The church bus turned left off Canal Road into the Sportsmen’s Marina complex. The vehicle swayed and Tedesco gripped the seat in front of him for balance. The driver pulled into an empty parking lot behind Bayside Grill and parked near two black SUV’s and a small gray sedan. The group debarked from the bus and filed into the parking lot.

              Tedesco stripped out of the caroler’s costume and tossed it onto the bus steps.  

              Evans escorted Shannon Chamberlain, Tim and Robin Peterson, and Dr. and Patricia Morgan to the rear seats of one of the SUV’s, a gun in one hand, eyes searching the area. He instructed one of his men to drive, and for the other to take the front passenger seat. Evans tapped the hood and the man behind the wheel started the engine.

              Steve Jenson escorted Charlotte to the second SUV and the two disguised FBI agents took their positions in the front seat.

Evans moved to the rear door of the lead vehicle and grabbed the handle. “Tedesco, you coming?”

The idea was for Tedesco to stay with Dr. Morgan’s family and make sure they were whisked safely away. But something nagged him even though he couldn’t quite identify the source of his unease. He turned to Jaime. “I don’t guess you’ll go with them.”

She scrunched her eyebrows.

“It’s just, well,” Tedesco said. “If anything happens to you, I’m afraid Grant won’t survive.”

Jaime smiled and placed a hand on his arm. “This is my job.”

Tedesco nodded. “Okay, but I’m coming with you.” He turned and shoved Al toward the second SUV. “You watch out for them. Okay?”

Al nodded.

Evans slammed the back door of the SUV and waved the vehicle forward. Tedesco and Jaime stared at him. “What? Do you think I’m leaving now? Just when the fun’s starting?” Evans moved between them, put his hand on the inside of their elbows and tugged them toward the sedan.

Steve Jenson opened the car’s trunk and began strapping on a Kevlar vest, with FBI printed in white on the front and back. He passed a vest to Jaime, and reached back into the trunk. “I’ve only got one more.” He held it in front of him.

Tedesco shoved Evans in the back. “He’ll take it.” Tedesco glanced at Jaime’s vest. “It wouldn’t fit me anyway.”

Evans was about to offer an argument when Tedesco interrupted. “We don’t have time to argue. I’m not wearing it. Period.”

Steve passed the keys to Evans and after he pulled on the vest he started the car. Steve took the passenger side, Jaime and Tedesco the backseat. They zoomed out of the lot and sped back to the neighborhood. By the time they reached the street, no signals had come through their earpieces, so all the passengers ducked down so it would appear as if only one person occupied the car.

Evans pulled onto Shannon Chamberlain’s street and turned into the first driveway on the left. He grabbed a remote from the visor and opened the garage door. As soon as they were inside he pressed the button and the door closed behind them.

THIRTY-FIVE

Expelling a long slow breath, Grant eased the slack on the trigger. The shot went wide left, but the impact on the body of the helicopter got their attention.

Re-adjusting for wind, Grant fired again. This time he hit the target. Though still a bit wide and not a kill shot, the man dropped the missile launcher. Grant levered the bolt on the rifle and fired again. Before he could pump another round into the breach the helicopter pulled away.

While he fired, sirens had erupted and an armada of emergency vehicles sped onto the street. A convoy consisting of a police cruiser, a fire truck, and an ambulance.

Grant whispered. “Wait for my signal.” The question was whether or not the agents in the storm shelter survived the blast.

A glance over his shoulder told him the boat containing the “fisherman” was motoring toward shore, only now four men were visible on the deck. He turned back toward the street and the emergency workers poured out of their vehicles, surrounding the burning house, but instead of medical supplies and fire hoses they carried automatic assault rifles.

“Now,” Grant said. The moment he spoke FBI agents in full strike gear poured out of the house on the corner. They raced down the street en-masse, spreading out. In the rush the set of pre-lit Christmas trees in the yard were knocked over. Some of the agents advanced, others took up covered firing positions behind houses and trees. A bullhorn blasted. “FBI. You’re all under arrest. Drop your weapons.”

They didn’t.

Cane’s disguised men turned their weapons toward the agents and a vicious firefight erupted.

Grant spoke into his mike again. “Second wave. Now.”

He held his breath for just a moment, afraid no one would be able to respond. But within a few seconds the agents hidden in the storm room ran from the rear of the house, unable to exit by the front door due to the RPG’s devastation.

Reaching to his belt to replace spent cartridges so he could provide cover fire, Grant froze. His ears pricked at a whisper of sound barely audible over the cacophony below. Something, some sixth sense, spurred him to action.

He rolled onto his back as a very large knife blade burned a furrow across his left shoulder before plunging into the roof.

Cane.

Grant continued rolling to the side as the colonel removed the embedded blade from the shingles. He held a cane in his other hand. Grant’s cane. The colonel kicked the Remington, then the shoulder holster, causing the guns to slide down the roof tumble off the edge. Grant stood and his hand darted to the knife in his pocket. But before he could get the blade into play Cane was on top of him, the knife in his hand plunging toward Grant’s gut. Grant couldn’t move laterally on the steep incline, his only choice was back.

As he stepped to the rear he shot both of his hands down and grabbed Cane’s wrist. The knife still pricked Grant’s abdomen, causing him to suck his stomach in and arch his back away from the blade. He struggled to gain control of the knife and work into a disarming technique.

Cane’s hand flicked left and right, cutting the inside of Grant’s arms, and the cane smashed into the side of his face, causing sparkles to dance in his eyes. Grant pushed forward and launched a kick to Cane’s midsection, still holding the wrist for dear life.

The kick landed, causing a whoosh of air to escape his lungs. Before Grant could draw his leg back Cane used the crook of the walking stick to trap it.

While holding the foot Cane lashed out with a low kick and knocked Grant’s base leg out from under him.

Forced to release his grip, Grant crumbled to the roof and started to slide headfirst. He couldn’t stop. As he reached the edge he gained momentum. His head hung in space and he grabbed for the gutter with his left hand. His body tumbled over the edge. Gravity snapped the full weight of his body onto the arm gripping the gutter. Something tore in his shoulder and he almost screamed. Grant dangled, trying to gather the strength to swing his other arm up.

Colonel Cane stepped to the edge of the roof and knelt down. The cane hung loose in his hand, the tip near the gutter. No trace of emotion was evident on his face. He simply studied Grant like a bug in a jar. “I thought this would be more difficult. I guess you’ve just been lucky.”

“Why don’t you just shoot me and quit gloating.”

“Good idea.” The colonel gestured with the knife. “There’s just one thing I’m really curious about. How did you get the kids out?”

Grant’s fingers ached, his shoulder screamed for relief. He spoke around clamped teeth. “They’re not here. They’re safe. We brought them in just long enough to fool anybody that may have been watching.”

Cane pursed his lips and nodded. “It only delays the inevitable. But for what it’s worth, I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

Screw you, you bastard.

Grant gritted his teeth and lunged up. He grabbed for the cane and caught it on the tip. He pulled down and let go with his left hand, hoping to drag the colonel off the roof.

The colonel tipped forward a little, but let go of the cane before he could be pulled over the edge.

Grant kept his grip on the cane as he fell. He attempted to orient himself enough to keep from breaking his back on impact. He slammed into the bushes and all the oxygen streamed from his lungs. Pain bloomed in his legs and back. He realized he no longer heard the sound of agents coordinating their movements in his earpiece. Reaching with his good arm, he placed a hand on his ear, and found the earbud had popped out.

A quick look to the left told him how Cane had slipped up on him. Cane jumped from the roof to a balcony on the second floor, swung his feet over the railing, and mounted a trellis bordering the patio. The way Grant would have chosen to ascend if he hadn’t had to worry about being seen.

Someone had seen him though. Probably after he fired the first shot.

While the man descended Grant tried to extricate himself from the bushes. As he worked free he realized his left arm was useless and his legs were hurt, though how bad he wouldn’t know until he stood.

* * * * *

Tedesco sat next to Jaime in the living room filled with black-clad FBI agents. Waiting for something to happen.

              A boom resonated through the house, a nearby explosion rattling the windows.

One word came through Tedesco’s earpiece. “Now.”

              The agents tumbled from the house.

              Tedesco grabbed Jaime by the arm. “I’m going around to look after Grant.”

              Jaime nodded. She waited for the strike team to exit before following them outside.

              Tedesco moved toward the dining room and passed Steve Jenson, who hovered over the communications equipment on the table. “Where are you going?”

              “I’m going after Grant.” Before the man could offer any argument Tedesco reached the back door and ran out. He darted around the house and through the front yard. Gunfire roared along the quiet cul-de-sac. He traversed the road to the home across the street. Tedesco raced along the side of the house and poked his head around the edge. Four armed men stepped onto the shore from a boat, all of them carrying automatic weapons.

              From his position Tedesco couldn’t see Grant, but feared the men were moving toward him. Tedesco drew the forty-five and left the shelter of the house. “This is Tedesco. There’re four men moving in from a boat on the west side of the house. I think they’re trying to flank Grant.”

              Steve’s voice replied. “Grant. Do you read?”

              There was no response.

              “I repeat. If you copied that. Four men are moving in behind you.” Grant still didn’t answer and Steve spoke again. “Grant isn’t responding. I’ll get some cover back there as soon as I can.”

              Soon may not be soon enough. Tedesco attempted to remain in shadow, moving as silently as his bulk would allow. He didn’t have a chance against four of them. If he was spotted before he got close they would pick him to pieces.

              Tedesco melted into a thicket of decorative shrubs and pulled aside branches to peer through. In a yard one house up from Grant’s position the four men were ducked down behind a row of shrubbery, their backs to him. Tedesco couldn’t see the roof, or Grant.

              Sliding through the foliage, Tedesco crept forward, gun in a two-fisted grip. Within ten yards of the group, Tedesco could see into the next yard. Grant lay sprawled in a bush, bleeding. The men stood, raising their guns. Tedesco closed the distance, firing at point blank range toward the man’s back on the far left. His body armor absorbed three shots before he fell. His companions turned toward the boom of the forty-five. Without aiming Tedesco wasted several shots as he continued to move, finally scoring two hits and the man on the far right went down. The slide on the gun locked open and Tedesco dropped it. Both of the fallen men jumped to their feet.

              Right in their midst now, Tedesco grabbed the barrel of the closest man’s rifle and ripped it from his hands. Tedesco seized a handful of the soldier’s shirt and flung him into his partner. Tedesco threw the captured weapon aside. The two men untangled themselves and Tedesco went for the one still armed. Tedesco unleashed a haymaker right hand. The blow landed on the side of the skull with a thunk, sending the man to the ground in a heap.

              Tedesco turned as the last man standing ripped a pistol from a holster. Tedesco closed his fist over the weapon and tore it from his grasp. Un-phased, the soldier rained punches and kicks on Tedesco.

              Clamping his jaw to keep the blows from loosening his teeth, Tedesco bent and grabbed the smaller man by an arm. Tedesco’s other arm shot between the man’s legs and he lifted him into the air, before body slamming him to the ground. Tedesco didn’t let go, but fell on top of the soldier with all of his weight. He scrambled to his knees, lifted the man by the collar of his shirt, and put him out with a right to the jaw. The punch stung Tedesco’s knuckles. He shook the pain from his hand as he clambered to his feet.