Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  The flare should have got the authorities’ attention.

  The fireball should get them moving.

  Grant couldn’t wait to find out. He crossed the parking lot in a crouched, loping run while Dillman was still examining his handy work. He jogged past the tankers parked next to the storage tanks. The fuel smell was strong. Like the refuelling station at the Boston Yacht Haven. It shouldn’t be smelling like that. This was a glorified sewage works, it should have smelled like shit and rotting vegetables. The fumes wavered in the air above the inspection hatches. One of the lids was open where Dillman had been checking.

  Grant kept away from the hatch. He didn’t want the fumes clinging to his clothes. He knew from past experience that fuel is dangerous, but the fumes are what catches light first. He glanced up at the covered walkway from the control tower to the main building. Rain lashed windows revealed what Grant wanted to see. Dillman was coming back over for one last check of the tanks.

  Grant took the plastic bag out of the back of his jeans and checked that his loads were dry, then he followed the route the drivers would have taken into the building. Part of him was thinking about Dillman. The rest was wondering where the drivers were. He didn’t want to shoot innocent truckers. Not if all they did was make a delivery.

  Waves crashed against the seawall. Rain was driven across the parking lot by the wind. It stung Grant’s face and he was forced to shelter his eyes with one hand. He listened, trying to tell if he’d be able to hear the roar of the RAF engines above the seething ocean. He remembered the deafening noise under the flightpath at Oceanview Street. He reckoned there’d be a couple minutes of build up before the flight came in overhead. There was no engine noise yet.

  Grant found the side door and paused against the wall. The drivers were either innocent pawns or Dillman’s gunmen. There was no way of telling which until they either drew on him or said hello. The only thing he was certain of was that they hadn’t left. The trucks were still parked in the lea of the treatment plant.

  He distributed his weapons across the back of his belt. Considered if that was a good idea. Decided against it. No matter how much he hated guns, it wasn’t a good idea to go through a door into uncharted territory with his dick in his hand.

  He kept Worden’s gun protected from the rain against his body, then threw one last glance up at the walkway. Dillman was nowhere to be seen. The fuel-gorged storage tanks were one floor up and to the right. The delivery that Dillman had collected from Sargent’s Wharf Warehousing and Storage would already be in place. Hard wired or wi-fi.

  Grant considered that. It would make a big difference. If the device was connected by cable, then he could cut the wire. If it was wi-fi, then Dillman could trigger it from anywhere. Like the trash can bombs on Birmingham High Street. There’d been no indication of cabling at the warehouse. That suggested wi-fi. Grant patted his pocket, then remembered he’d dumped his cell phone at the Odyssey Grill. Good. Cell phones and radio signals were deadly around radio-controlled explosives.

  He looked at the door one last time and settled the gun in his hand. He wondered if the drivers would be waiting for him, then dismissed the thought. Concentrate on the things you can control. Prepare for the rest. He pulled the door open. A sharp gust of wind almost tore the handle from his grasp. Then he stepped inside, away from the wind and found out just where the delivery drivers had gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The bodies were laid in an untidy heap against the far wall. A tangle of arms and legs. Exactly where they’d landed when Dillman had shot them. Three truck drivers who had been waiting to be paid. Never done anyone any harm. Paid in lead.

  Grant took a slow breath to calm his anger. It appeared Dillman hadn’t changed his spots, he’d only disguised them to fit into the political landscape. Killing anyone that got in his way. Or having them killed. The little old lady and her grandson. The scarred bomb maker. The tanker drivers. It must have seemed odd to them when Dillman had the fuel pumped into the sewage tanks. Dillman wasn’t about to risk them telling anyone before the job was done, so he’d shot them. Not single shots. A burst of machine gun fire. Blood and bone splattered all over the concrete.

  Three tanker drivers. But not the ones Grant had seen the other day, passing him at the gas station opposite Belle Isle Seafood. That fuel had already been delivered. Unless this was a second delivery, suggesting there was even more fuel than Grant originally thought. Six tankers' worth. Seven. Because there were four parked outside: Three big trucks and a smaller one.

  Grant nodded his understanding. He remembered the smaller truck pulling out the back of Sargent’s Wharf Warehousing and Storage when he was scouting the warehouse. Dillman, having collected the bomb that was going to change history. The bomb and seven tankers of fuel mixed with the recycled shit of Boston. An ironic way to end the reign of a Queen that Dillman blamed for pouring shit on Northern Ireland for decades.

  Machine guns and high explosives. Grant hated them both. Explosives could cause mass destruction. Machine guns could hardly miss. Dillman wouldn’t need to be a marksman to outshoot Grant’s stolen gun. He wouldn’t need to see the Queen to blow her out of the sky. Just hear the RAF fly overhead and press the button.

  Grant listened to the storm outside. Still no engine noise, but time was running out. He threw one last glance at the blood splattered corpses, then found the stairs up to the walkway.

  The corridor windows gave a view across the bay on one side and over the treatment works on the other. The Flying Swan smouldered on the rolling waves, burned down to the waterline but still afloat. Rain lashed the corridor windows. Storm winds threatened to breach them. The glass rattled in its frames. The world outside was barren and motionless. There was no charging cavalry coming across from Snake Island. The army hadn’t been redirected from its original target. The flare hadn’t worked. The burning yacht had been wasted. He was on his own. It all came down to this. Mano-a-mano.

  Grant against Dillman.

  Grant looked across the bay towards the airport. The runways were shut down. There were no planes taxiing for take-off. There was nothing coming into land. One set of runway lights shone out in the gloom. The east-west runway lined up towards Winthrop. Emergency lights flashed on the rescue vehicles preparing for the worst. If the RAF had to make a hard landing. If the Queen’s flight slewed across the runway. They were ready to put the fire out. They weren’t ready enough. The fireball that Dillman planned would take out most of Winthrop and half the airport. The emergency rescue teams would be just so much melted flesh and plastic.

  The rescue vehicles began to deploy. Moving away from the shelter of the terminal buildings and out towards the east-west runway. They must know something Grant didn’t. He looked towards the north, then turned east. He still couldn’t hear anything. The plane would be swinging out over the sea to get a line for final approach. The storm was getting nasty. It was going to be a bumpy landing.

  Grant turned right and ran along the corridor. The walkway came out at a smaller office that overlooked the storage tanks. The large industrial containers were laid out in groups of four. Twelve in all. The inspection hatches were open on six of them. The smaller tanker had obviously just been for transport. A shadowy figure was kneeling over the nearest hatch, a machine gun laid on the ground beside him. He was lowering something into the opening on a length of wire.

  Damn. Grant had been hoping for a wireless remote. Now he’d have to cut the wire or stop Dillman pushing the button. The wind was tugging at Dillman’s clothes. It almost knocked him over and he put one hand down to steady himself. The storage tank was almost full. The wind formed waves that splashed across the top. Dillman wiped his eyes clear of rain and fuel. He fastened the wire to the handle and left the bomb hanging just above the surface. He only needed to detonate one tank and the rest would follow. Chain reaction. Domino theory. Like Jamaica Plain to Beacon Hill to Winthrop. If Grant’s covering of Kincaid’s night shi
ft started it all, then facing off against Dillman would end it. For better or worse. Shit or bust. Literally.

  Grant measured angles and distances. He was a good shot, but a handgun isn’t the best target pistol. Not good enough to sever the spinal cord of a suicide bomber before the bomber can push the button. A head shot would kill Dillman but there was always the danger of residual movement. A twitch or a motor function even after death. That’s why snipers aimed for the base of the skull at the back of the neck. Cut the transmission. Nothing moves below the neck. But snipers didn’t take a snapshot in a howling gale with a gun that they’d be lucky to hit a barn door with.

  That left two problems. If Dillman pressed the trigger, the bomb would go off. Kaboom. No more Winthrop and hardly any Logan International. The Queen would be safe, but the cost would be too high. If Grant fired and missed, then Dillman would loose off a burst with the machine gun. Standing right over an open hatch that was giving off fumes like a gas pump on steroids. Muzzle flash would ignite the fumes. Same result. Kaboom.

  Grant edged towards the office at the end of the walkway. Dillman stood up. The bomb dangled from the loop of wire but there were no wires leading from it to Dillman’s trigger.

  Good: No wire cutting required.

  Bad: Grant would have to stop him pushing the button.

  A hooter sounded across the bay. Grant spun round. A Coast Guard boat was leading three marine corps attack dinghies from Snake Island. The cavalry was on its way, but they were going to be too late. Dillman heard it too and picked up the machine gun. He wouldn’t need it against the marines but it was best to be safe than sorry.

  He staggered towards the office, fighting a head wind that threatened to toss him into the fuel lashed storage tank. Grant stepped behind a filing cabinet near the door. Dillman almost reached the office when he stopped and looked up. Grant heard it too. The distant roar of engines out over the sea. An airplane lining up for its final approach.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Dillman came through the door, gasping for breath. The storm was turning ugly and nearly ripped the door off its hinges. He managed to pull it shut behind him, then leaned his back against the wall. The office had windows but didn’t have the 360-degree view of the control tower. Dillman could see the treatment plant and the storage tanks. Grant could see the jetty and the road coming in off Tafts Avenue.

  Low grey clouds boiled across the sky. They were torn and twisted and mixed into a portrait of death and destruction. Strings of clouds were pulled downwards forming individual twisters that spiralled across the bay. Some touched down in the harbor, sucking funnels of water into the air like gigantic drinking straws. Low cloud cover and storm force winds. The worst conditions for making your final approach. Even for RAF pilots. The engine noise was building out to the east but the plane was hidden in the clouds.

  Dillman looked out of the window. He couldn’t see the plane either, but he knew his time was near. He leaned the machine gun against the desk and took the remote detonator out of his pocket. It was no bigger than a mobile phone and worked on the same principle.

  Grant looked out of the other window. The Coast Guard boat skirted the jetty but the marines aimed for the beach just to the left. An easier landing. Run the boats up onto the sand, then sprint across the loading area. It didn’t matter; they were too late. Grant’s only hope was the three patrol cars that sped along Tafts Avenue from Winthrop. No flashing lights. No sirens. Silent approach. Exactly what Grant would have done when approaching a suspect you didn’t want to scare off. Exactly what Sam Kincaid would do once the flare and explosion signalled a change of venue.

  More twisters touched ground, not in the water this time, but amid the outbuildings on Deer Island Road, the wood and metal structures that housed workshops and repair bays for the storage facilities outside the office. A roof was torn off and flung across the lower parking lot. A tree was ripped up, roots and all, and sent spinning into the covered walkway. Glass shattered as the corridor was breached.

  Dillman jerked his head towards the noise. His trigger hand hung limp at his side. The damp clothing smell and petrol fumes clung to him like an invisible mist. Another roof was torn apart and debris spiralled into the sky. Splintered panels flew towards the office and hit the windows. The glass held, but hairline cracks began to spread across the panes.

  The engine noise built to an approaching roar in the east. The marines crossed the parking lot from the beach. Police officers entered the treatment plant from Tafts Avenue. Jim Grant stepped out from behind the filing cabinet and nodded towards the perfect storm building outside.

  “Looks like you’re going to get wet again.”

  Dillman brought his hand up in case Grant was going to try and wrestle the detonator off him. Grant stood still, arms held out to his sides to show he was unarmed. His preferred method of approach. Dillman’s machine gun was out of the equation. Even if he snatched it up, he wouldn’t be able to aim and shoot while still holding the detonator. No, the machine gun wasn’t the problem. It was the wireless remote, and the gallons of fuel and shit in the storage tanks.

  Once Grant had shown his empty hands, he lowered them and relaxed. He flexed his shoulders as if working the stiffness out of his muscles. He bent his neck one way and then the other. Bones cracked in his neck. The gentle movements helped relax him. They also got Dillman used to Grant moving in a non-threatening way. When Grant made his move he didn’t want it coming from a standing start. Better to introduce movement right at the beginning. Grant sniffed the air.

  “You want to be careful about that. There’s a reason they have those signs at the petrol station when you’re filling up.”

  “Gas station over here.”

  “We’re not from over here.”

  “The ones about not smoking at the pumps?”

  Grant shook his head. “The ones about not using your mobile phone.”

  Dillman held the remote up. “This isn’t a mobile phone.”

  “Same principle though. You know? Send a signal. Receive a signal.”

  Dillman didn’t speak.

  Grant smiled. “You had any calls lately?”

  Dillman still didn’t speak but Grant could see doubt creeping into his eyes. The Yorkshire cop lowered his voice as if keeping a secret.

  “You have noticed there’s a storm out there?”

  Dillman smiled. “Not as big as the shit storm I’m about to unleash.”

  Grant nodded towards the storage tanks. “Shit storm. That’s very good. This other storm though. The one out there. Been causing havoc all up and down the Eastern seaboard.”

  The engine roar was getting louder. Eclipsing the storm. Grant put his hands on his hips and let out a sigh.

  “Flood defences breached. Shit ripped up.”

  He pointed at the flying debris outside, then put the hand back on his hip. A bit further towards the back this time. He was gauging how fast he could draw from the belt of his trousers. Not very fast, with the sights of Worden’s gun snagging in the waistband.

  “Cell phone towers knocked out.”

  This time the doubt furrowed Dillman’s brow but he still kept quiet.

  Grant relaxed his fingers.

  “When was the last time you got a call?”

  The plane roared out of the clouds and came in low over Winthrop, just north of the treatment plant. It was swaying and sideswiping and bucking like a bronco. The landing gear was down. The flaps were deployed. The RAF flight was practically coming in sideways.

  Dillman looked at the remote in his hand and his fingers opened briefly. Grant moved fast. One hand tugged the waistband away from his body while the other drew and aimed. Not with Worden’s gun but the secondary flare gun from the Flying Swan. No sights. Nothing to snag. No safety catch. Just point and shoot.

  The flare blazed like a flashbulb going off. The tiny office was suddenly filled with light. Brilliant phosphorescence that left spots dancing acro
ss Grant’s eyes. There was no point trying to sever Dillman’s spinal cord. This wasn’t a target pistol. Center mass. The body. The petrol fumes did the rest.

  The shocked look on the Irishman’s face was comical. The realisation that cell phones worked completely differently from a wireless remote. Cell phones uploaded their signal to a tower and then were forwarded across the network until a tower at the other end sent it to the receiver. Wireless remote just went from the sender to the receiver directly. Not an option when your body’s defences did what they do naturally. Released their grip and voided your bowels.

  The flare hit Dillman square in the chest. The fumes clinging to him ignited first. A yellow and orange fireball that was a smaller version of the yacht exploding. Then the flare deployed. It exploded into the bright white light designed to be seen for miles. Dillman had no control over what his body did next. Natural instinct is to flex outwards. His arms flew wide. His fingers released their grip. Then Michael Dillman, ex-IRA bomber and killer of innocent people, exploded like a Chinese firecracker. The office windows blew out. The desk disintegrated. The roof collapsed and caught fire.

  And Jim Grant dropped behind the metal filing cabinet and hoped for the best.

  He was lying amid a heap of smoking debris when the plane hit the runway. Sideways. The undercarriage collapsed. The emergency vehicles shot across the tarmac. The bigger explosion could be heard all across Boston, but the only thing Grant could hear was a ringing in his ears.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Marines stormed the office from the covered walkway. The police came in from the treatment plant. The roof of the corridor had been smashed by the flying tree. The roof of the office had disappeared altogether. In fact, if you looked at it objectively, the office didn’t exist anymore. Grant was simply sheltering beneath office furniture and a shit load of smoking debris. Well, not so much sheltering, as trapped under the battered filing cabinet.