Then Grant was on him. Priority: the gun. Grant used Worden’s momentum to grab the gun hand and swing it full circle. Grabbing the forearm and forcing it upwards. The gun went off. The explosion was loud in the open space.
A window shattered in the far wall. The desk tumbled sideways after hitting Worden. Cornejo rolled to one side, sending pain shooting up his broken leg and arm. Worden tried to regain his balance and bring the gun to bear on the fallen marine for a second shot.
Grant smothered the barrel in one strong hand. He clamped tight so that the slide action wouldn’t work, then yanked it backwards. Worden’s finger was trapped in the trigger guard. Grant bent the gun all the way back out of the bodyguard’s grip and snapped the finger. Even after the noise of the gunshot, the snapping bone sounded loud and chilling. Worden didn’t scream. He roared his defiance.
Grant moved in close and drove his knee into the side of Worden’s leg. Not powerful enough to break the thigh but hard enough to numb the muscle. The leg collapsed and Worden went down. He was fast. He didn’t break his fall, rolling instead and jabbing an elbow into the back of Grant’s knee. Both men hit the floor at the same time.
Grant had the gun but he was holding it by the barrel.
Worden had a broken finger but still had one good hand.
Two trained men. Both understanding what they needed to do. Hard men forged in the heat of battle. Different wars. Same army. Both needing two things. Eyes and fingers. No matter how tough you are, you can’t fight without both those things. Worden went for the eyes.
Strong fingers clamped over Grant’s face. Squeezed hard on either side of the skull, while two fingers found Grant’s eye sockets. Fingers hardened in buckets of sand pressed into soft flesh. The eyelids. The squishy globes of the eyeballs.
Grant dropped the gun and used both hands to ward off the attack. Two hands to one. With the trigger finger snapped out at a right angle, that hand was useless. Eyes and fingers. It was all down to one or the other now. Fingers dug into Grant’s eyes. Grant tried to get purchase on the fingers.
The pressure built.
Grant felt a finger push in behind the eyeball.
A few more seconds and the eye would pop out of the socket.
Pain. Pounding through Grant’s head.
Then a roar of anger in his ear. Worden eased the pressure just enough. Grant pried the weakest finger off his face. The little finger. He bent it backwards in one swift movement. Bone snapped. The hand came away from his face. He opened his eyes. A letter opener stuck out of Worden’s neck. Daniel Hunt fell back with the effort of driving the blade into solid muscle.
Eyes and fingers. Grant took advantage of the brief respite and grabbed two of Worden’s remaining fingers. He snapped them back and this time, Worden did scream in pain. The fingers of both hands were now a tangle of working digits and right-angle breaks. He couldn’t hold anything or grab anything. He could see what he needed to do but couldn’t do it. Eyes and fingers. Grant still had both. Worden was as useless as a man with no arms.
Grant sat back against the upturned desk. Worden looked daggers at the man who had defeated him. Not a lone man. A team effort. Grant’s eyes were sore and bloodshot. His vision swam in and out of focus. So blurred that he almost missed the sharp move of Worden’s right hand.
Hard man. Ex-special forces. Pain was a challenge, not a disability. One hand was completely useless. Three broken fingers. Out of action. But the other was simply handicapped. Trigger finger of the right hand. One out of five. Four left. The hand went to the bottom of his trouser leg and snatched a silver gun from the small ankle holster.
Forefinger broken. Middle finger okay. It was an awkward draw but Worden managed to get his other finger in the trigger guard and aim.
Grant dived to his left. The gun went off so close he could feel the heat. He snatched up the gun he’d dropped and rolled and spun into firing position. Three shots. Center mass. Worden’s chest exploded through the back of his spine. The eyes were blank before he hit the floor. Eyes and fingers. Grant still had both. Worden was dead.
Grant only allowed himself a moment. Dillman’s front man might be gone but Grant had bigger problems. He snapped upright, looking for a phone.
CHAPTER FORTY
Some scars never heal. Dillman’s plea for clemency from the victims of his atrocities. Except it had never been about the victims of his bombings but rather the victims of the British Government. Among the hardline Irish, there was still resentment at the way Northern Ireland had been annexed from the rest of their country and the killings perpetrated by the Parachute Regiment on the Queen’s behalf. Or at least that’s how they saw it. The government was an instrument of the Queen’s power. Whatever action it took was at her behest. Therefore she was responsible.
You almost ruined everything. Getting the army involved. More recent and a whole lot more pertinent. Worden’s throw-away phrase said more about what Dillman planned to do than how Hunt had almost ruined it. Because there was only one thing the businessman had done to alert the military. Shoot a flare into the flight path of an incoming passenger jet.
A gust of wind rattled the windows. Rain pelted the glass like bullets. Outside, the Boston skyline was obliterated by low clouds and sheets of rain. The trees surrounding the parking meters danced and strained so hard, they looked like they’d be uprooted. Winds this strong would make landing impossible. Surely all flights into Boston would be diverted. Surely the Queen would pull out.
The Queen doesn’t pull out. She just beefs up security. Grant’s own words came back to haunt him. The RAF had the best pilots in the world. The Queen’s flight used the best of the best. They could land on a postage stamp in a twenty-knot crosswind. An approaching storm was nothing to them. So long as they touched down before the main event arrived. It would be a close-run thing but Grant reckoned Her Majesty would be on time and on the ground before Logan International went into lockdown.
Coming in over Winthrop.
Flying low over Boston Harbor and the flotilla of yachts.
Grant pursed his lips.
“Damn it. We were right there.”
He thought about the holding pattern he’d put the yacht into. A tight circle just off the end of the runway. With today’s storm surge ripping the bay into killer white tops, there would be no flotilla of yachts. There would be no swaying deck to fire from. No direct line of sight overhead to the incoming RAF flight.
Hunt realized what Grant was saying and shook his head.
“No way. Too rough.”
Grant went to the nearest desk with a phone on it.
“Not from a boat. But right there, under the flight path.” He picked up the telephone, then looked a question at Hunt. “Outside line?”
Hunt waved a hand. “All separate numbers. Direct lines.” He held his hands out and shrugged his own question in return. “What?”
Grant was already dialling.
“The flare fucked him up because of where you fired it. But that’s not where he’s going to shoot from.”
The number he dialled began to ring.
“He’s set up on Snake Island.”
Kincaid wasn’t answering. The phone kept ringing. With the handset to his ear, Grant gestured to Hunt, then at the computers spread around the office.
“Can you get TV news on these things?”
Hunt didn’t reply. He struggled to his feet, dragging one leg, and turned the nearest computer on. It booted quickly. A few taps on the keyboard and WCVB came on in mid-broadcast. The military deployment around the airport had been beaten into second place by the hurricane sweeping up the Eastern seaboard.
Kincaid answered the phone.
Grant held up a finger for everyone to be quiet. “Sam, divert the plane.”
Kincaid’s voice was distant and crackly. “What plane?”
The TV news was replaying the storm’s destructive path from New York onwards. Transport was shut down
across the five boroughs. Long Island was mostly underwater. Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket had been battered into submission. Grant kept his eyes on the news but his ears on Kincaid.
“The Queen’s flight.”
“I’m a JP detective. I can’t divert a royal flight.”
“Get the army to do it. Invoke martial law. Whatever it takes.”
The news returned to live pictures. The storm had reached Cape Cod and was currently breaching coastal defences at Hyannis Port, Falmouth, and Barnstable. Plymouth was next in line for what the scroll bar was calling the storm of the century. The TV signal was laced with grain. Roofs were being ripped off. Cell phone towers were being knocked down.
Kincaid’s voice cut out, then came back. “Never gonna happen. She’s locked in. Coming out of the north. Should be down before the storm reaches Boston.”
“It’s not the storm I’m worried about.”
“Then what the fuck, Jim?”
Grant watched a motor yacht the size of Daniel Hunt’s drop upside down on Main Street at Sandy Neck. A school gym and a McDonald's were flattened by the hurricane-force winds.
“Dillman’s not here for talks with the Queen. He’s going to shoot her down. Right under the flight path on Snake Island.”
The line went quiet and Grant thought he’d lost the connection. The phone crackled in his ear, then Kincaid spoke in a shocked whisper. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Grant found himself shouting to overcome the static. “If you’ve got him, use him. If not, get the army on it.”
The signal crackled and died, then came back. It crackled again but Kincaid was just audible above the static. “…detachment from the airport. Meantime, get yourself back to…”
The line went dead. Total silence. There was no crackling. There was no static. No whispering voices drifted in from the background. The office lights flickered but stayed on. The computer screen went blank. An error message explained it was unable to connect to the internet.
Grant slammed the phone down and turned to Hunt.
“Where is Dillman’s delivery?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As important as Dillman’s delivery was, first aid was more urgent. If Hunt bled out before he could show Grant where the goods were stored, then he’d be no use to anyone. But there were two injured parties: Battlefield triage was required. Grant needed to prioritize. Cornejo was out of action but not in danger. His knee was crippled and one arm broken. Even if Grant reset and splinted the arm, the ex-marine would still be unable to move on the bad leg. Hunt’s wound was potentially life threatening if Grant didn’t stop the bleeding. Prioritize.
Grant snatched the first aid kit off the wall and stripped the printer paper and Scotch Tape from Hunt’s leg. He laid the businessman flat on the ground, with the leg raised on a briefcase he’d found next to the desk. He didn’t bother cleaning the wound. There was no time for that. Using gauze wadding and crepe bandages, he padded the entry and exit wounds and bound it tight. There were no morphine tabs or emulsifying powder. This wasn’t an army medic’s bag. The best he could do was stop the bleeding and hope the bullet had missed the artery. Judging by the blood flow, Grant thought they were safe on that score. Oozing, not pulsing.
“Can you stand up?”
Grant helped Hunt onto the chair. The businessman was lightheaded and pale, but he didn’t fall over. Grant turned his attention to Cornejo. The ex-marine waved his good hand.
“Repairable. Go.”
Grant nodded his thanks, then turned back to Hunt. There was nothing else to say. It was time for actions to speak louder than words.
They took the freight elevator down to the warehouse floor. Hunt could only walk with the help of a shoulder to lean on. Grant half supported and half carried him into the cage and shut both sets of concertina doors. The motor sounded loud after the quiet of the office. The cage descended, each floor rising up past their eyes until it jerked to a stop at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Grant opened the doors and helped the businessman hobble out.
At the bottom of the stairs.
Right back where Grant started.
The wooden office looked down from atop its stilts. The lights were still on but there was still nobody home. The sliding delivery doors to the jetty were still barred and padlocked. The back door was simply closed. The car was no doubt still parked outside. The driver was no longer a problem.
“Which one?”
Grant was referring to the other two sliding doors. The side rooms that were additional storage for smaller consignments. Hunt pointed to the one on the right, under the stilts. The door was partly open. Judging by the orderly nature of the warehouse, Grant didn’t think that was the norm. He leaned Hunt against the wall and drew his gun. It snagged on the belt loop on the back of his jeans and he had to twist it loose. The reason nobody ever became a quick draw specialist if they kept the gun in their pants. This wasn’t a quick draw. It was a cautious approach to a dangerous situation.
The gap in the door was two feet wide. It was a long black strip of darkness. There were no lights on in the storage room. There was no movement visible beyond the opening. What bristled the short hairs up the back of Grant’s neck was the rustling noise and the smell.
Grant stepped to one side, out of the firing line. He kept the gun aimed at the narrow strip of darkness. The voided bowels odor was almost overpowered by the smell of ripe fruit. Grant had smelled it many times when on duty in West Yorkshire. The concern-for-a-neighbor call that would inevitably end up being a three-week-old corpse. Rotting flesh and hungry maggots. The rustling noise wasn’t the knitting needle clicking of feeding insects. The smell was definitely dead meat.
Grant looked at Hunt, pointed through the door, and mimed turning on the lights. Then he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He expected the light switch would be inside the room. Hunt shook his head and jerked a thumb behind where Grant was standing. There was a bank of light switches next to the sliding door.
The rustling noise grew louder for a second, then went quiet. Somebody in there sensed Grant’s presence outside the door. Grant needed to move fast before they could do anything about it. He gauged time and distance. The gap in the door. Which way the door would slide on the overhead track. How far he was from the light switches.
Then he moved.
Keeping one hand aiming the gun, he reached to the side and flicked all the switches on at once. He extended one foot and shoved the door on its track. Well-oiled wheels carried the door fast and hard to the left. Grant stepped through the opening and ducked right. Gun raised. Eyes questing.
The rat didn’t like the light.
The dead man on the floor wasn’t bothered.
Hunt was shocked when he followed Grant into additional storage. No matter how many dead people you see in the movies, there is a nasty jerk when you see your first corpse in the flesh. Grant reckoned this was Daniel Hunt’s first dead man. He couldn’t worry about the businessman’s feelings at the moment though. He was looking at the torn packaging that was strewn across the floor.
The voided bowels smell was fairly obvious. Violent death invariably released the shitter muscles and filled your pants. The ripe fruit smell only came when the corpse was old and warm. This guy had only been dead a matter of hours. The blood had only just started to congeal. The ripe fruit smell was from the rotting apples that had spilled from the torn packing case. A smell that would keep the sniffer dogs from smelling what was really in there.
Grant had expected the delivery to be long and narrow. Either a tube or a long box containing something you could shoot an airliner down with. The box that had been torn open was short and square. Apart from the spilled fruit, it was empty. Whatever had been in the box, the dead guy didn’t have it. The dead guy had bigger problems, apart from being dead.
Grant ran the description through his head, committing it to memory. Standard procedure for the first cop on the scene. If this had bee
n an on-duty response, he’d be making notes that would form the first report, recording body position, scattered evidence, and common path to the corpse for all who came later to follow.
White male. Five foot six. Slim build. Scruffy dark hair streaked white down one side. Not young, but hard to guess the age with his head splattered red with blood. Grant ignored the clothing and went straight to the cause of death. Not usually the first responders’ call, but in this case, fairly obvious. The neat slice across his throat had emptied him of blood in less than thirty seconds. The body was curled in the fetal position with one arm tucked under the chest and the other cocked near the head. The pool of blood was so deep and widespread it hadn’t fully congealed, only grown viscous and sticky. It made viewing the injury difficult and masked the defensive wounds. The defensive wounds were massive. There were numerous tiny cuts down one side of the face, like stab marks. And three fingers of the left hand had been cut off.
Hunt turned away and was sick on the floor. Grant ignored him, looking for the severed fingers. There was no sign of them. Maybe the rat had been hungry or they were hidden under the body. The blood was so thick and tacky, they could be anywhere.
Grant turned his attention to the box. It hadn’t been torn open as he’d first thought. The tape had been cut with a sharp knife and the flaps folded back. A curled sheet of bubble wrap was still formed in the rough shape of whatever it had contained. Nothing obvious but definitely not a rocket launcher. Most of the space had been taken up with the fruit. There was no packing slip, and the address label was on the underside, submerged in the pool of blood. Grant tried to think what the contents might have been. A gun could have fit in there but this was America. There was no shortage of guns. Then he considered who the killer was. He waved a hand at the corpse, then spoke over his shoulder.
“Worden?”
Hunt dry heaved a couple more times, then stood doubled over, holding his stomach. Grant turned an enquiring look on him and the businessman held up a hand and nodded. Grant scanned the storage room. Like the rest of the warehouse, it was neat and tidy. Hunt obviously ran a tight ship. Nothing out of place apart from the opened package and the body on the floor.
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