The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

Paulie nodded and turned to the back door. That was my chance. I quickly walked four steps, ready to bring my gun up against his head, but Jerry jumped out of his chair and barreled into Paulie before I could reach him.

  “Crap!” I yelled just as Paulie turned and connected a gun punch into Jerry’s head. With Jerry face down in his captor’s chest, Paulie had a second to re-grip his gun and point it at Jerry. I couldn’t take the risk of firing my weapon, so I dropped my gun and leaped onto the pile, aiming to knock the pistol out of Paulie’s grip.

  “Let go of me, bitch!” he yelled.

  Just then, Jerry tripped and stumbled into a rack of coffee mugs. A second after the splintering crash, porcelain chips and slivers rained all around us. I actually had to shut my mouth so I wouldn’t inhale a piece. What a way to die—a sliced esophagus from the inside out.

  Both Paulie and I shuddered for a quick moment, slowing my momentum. I saw a hairy arm coil back, and then an elbow rammed the contusion on my head.

  The mind-blowing pain blurred my vision. Now I was pissed. I used my rage as an adrenaline boost, throwing elbows as I churned my legs harder and harder, hoping to tip over the man who could ultimately be responsible for killing the priests, and possibly others.

  “Get the hell off me—”

  Just before he called me that name again, Paulie lost his footing on coffee-mug fragments. I made another push into his chest, and we both toppled over a random box. Without any way to break our fall, we hit the unforgiving concrete floor. My elbow happened to land on Paulie’s wrist, and the handgun flipped away.

  I blinked my eyes to make sure I was still in one piece, then I peeled myself off the ground and shoved a knee into Paulie’s back.

  The curtain swooshed open. Lewis and Hitzges shuffled in with their guns in the ready position. Boston PD uniforms barreled in through the back door.

  I twisted Paulie’s arm behind his back and moved closer to his greasy hair so that he could hear me.

  “First of all, the only bitch in this room is you. Got it, bitch?” My jaw muscles ached from clenching my jaw so hard. I was fuming.

  “Police brutality! Police brutality!” he yelled out while squirming on the floor like a snake.

  I tightened my grip on his arms and immediately felt his baboon hair slithering between my fingers. He was simply gross.

  With cops swirling all around the scene, Jerry climbed to his feet behind us. “You piece of crap, I already told you we weren’t cops. You just don’t listen very well.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “FBI, bitch.” My temper was still redlining. Sweat coiled down my forehead. I quickly swiped if off and noticed smeared blood on my wrist. That only made me increase the pressure on his arm.

  “Police brutality!”

  “No one hears you, Paulie,” I said, looking up and seeing Lewis and Hitzges with their jaws open. “Get to the back corner and arrest Dante, his sidekick. If he’s moving, he’s dangerous, so cuff him first.”

  “Got it,” Lewis said, and he sprinted off while Hitzges waddled behind him.

  I glanced up at Jerry, who’d found an old towel and was pressing it against the side of his bruised and bloodied face.

  “You okay?”

  “Only if we get what we came for.”

  I nodded, then adjusted my grip on Paulie’s sweaty arm. “Okay, Paulie, we need you to tell us everything you know about your plot to kill these priests.”

  “The priests that got blown up the last week?” The pitch of his voice was higher.

  “Yeah, those. Do you know them from your past? When you were a kid, did some priest take advantage of you? Spill it, bitch,” I growled through my teeth.

  “If that’s what this is all about, I’ll be open for business, ready to sell another diamond to a young couple by dinnertime. You’re fucking crazy. I got nothin’ to do with killing those men.”

  “And we’re supposed to believe a pathological liar? You’re full of shit!”

  “Hey, check out this Academy Award!” I heard Lewis say off in the distance.

  I tried to ignore the fun and games going on around me, and noticed Paulie shaking his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  He let out a gasping breath. “There ain’t no way that I did this crime. I’m no saint, but I don’t kill priests.”

  “Is that your company’s mission statement? Come to Paulie’s A1 Pawnshop, where we don’t kill priests.”

  “Very funny. Easy for you to make jokes about my...my moral character as you ram your knee into my kidney.”

  I removed one hand off his hairy, sweaty limb, wiped it on my pants, then grabbed his arm again and cocked it another inch.

  “Ahh! You’re going to break my fucking arm, b—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Listen,” he wheezed, “you can ask my wife, you can ask my mother, I actually go to Mass every Sunday. You can ask anyone if I was there. In fact, I went to confession last week. You can go talk to the priest.”

  Glancing up at Jerry, he shrugged his shoulders. It was hard to believe someone who essentially lied for a living.

  “Your little bomb-making operation. We have a team of agents over at Leonardo’s house right now, and they found a treasure trove of material. We’re almost certain that’s where the bombs were made, the ones that killed the two priests, Brennan and Fahey.”

  “What?” He tried lifting his head. “Why would Leo be doing that kind of shit?”

  “From your orders, right, Paulie? He was just a kid.”

  “You said was. What’s going on with Leo, dammit?”

  For the first time since I’d seen Paulie munching on a cigar, a hint of fear entered his voice. But I couldn’t forget that he was a professional scammer or, even worse, possibly the head of a domestic terrorist cell.

  “Your employee was killed when a bomb sitting in the front of his car blew up just a few hours ago. Kaboom. Gone.”

  “What the hell...?” his voice trailed off. He began shaking his head. “This can’t be. You must have the wrong guy.”

  “Nope, it’s Leo, all right. I already told you they found bomb-making material at his house. But I’m sure you knew that. Was that part of your plan? Put all the risk on the young kid, then nothing is connected back to you?”

  His back heaved even under the pressure of my weight, then he let his forehead drop to the floor. “Not Leo. Such a great kid. Loyal. Hard worker. He actually had real promise to get out of this hell hole and do something good with his life.”

  “Feeling guilty, Paulie?”

  “For what? For caring about this kid? I had nothing to do with this. Are you listening to me?” he barked.

  “I’ve been listening to your bullshit since the second I walked in that door. Back in the corner when we were getting the weapons demo from Dante, you said that you could get Jerry and me anything, including explosives. You said that, and you can’t deny it now.”

  “Okay, I said it. But I only said it because I thought you guys had deep pockets. I thought I could probably find someone—hoped I could find someone—but this is not my area of expertise. I’m not even fond of explosives.”

  “I would have thought you were the kid who torched everything that was flammable.”

  “Me? Shit no. I had a fireworks accident when I was ten. I got a scar on my chest to prove it. Take a look.”

  I’d seen and touched enough of Paulie’s body. I’d take him at his word for now, let the uniforms do the dirty work.

  “I’ll pass.”

  The more Paulie spoke, the more he chipped away at my earlier conclusion that he and Leo were in the bombing business, whether it was for money, retribution against these priests, or working for someone else. Now I wondered if Leo was acting alone, and more importantly, whom the bomb that killed him was actually meant for.

  I pushed off Paulie’s back, and he grunted one more time as I lifted to my feet.

  “Suit yourself. By the way, whatever it is you
think Leo did or was about to do, it’s just not possible. He’s not the killing type. And there’s no way he could have even thought of such a thing. He was a pretty simple kid. I’m going to miss him.”

  Jerry leaned down while blotting his face.

  “Listen here, you hairy beast, we’re going to scour this entire building, and then we’re going to search your home, Dante’s home, any warehouse you might have access to, and your cars. If we find a speck of bomb-making material anywhere, then you’re going to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Go ahead and search. Anything to get you guys out of my life.”

  A uniform cuffed Paulie and kept him on the floor while Jerry and I shuffled into the front room.

  “I think he’s finally telling the truth, Jerry.”

  He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I thought we had the bombers. Really did. Hearing what Nick found at Leonardo’s home, on top of how Paulie and Dante operate, it’s almost impossible to think they aren’t involved. Drake will be up my ass now.” He threw his blood-soaked towel to the floor and traipsed across the room, stopping near the guitar he’d ogled earlier.

  Jerry’s mental state seemed on the edge, although he had legitimate reasons for being upset. Facts and opinions collided in my brain, which only led to more questions: if Leo didn’t act on his own—and we’d need to check his history more thoroughly—then who was he working with...or for? Was there some type of movement that would endorse this type of targeted killing?

  My thoughts shifted forty-five degrees as I recalled the high-dollar suit, pungent aftershave, and serious tone from the FBI assistant director. Given the intel that Holt had shared about this known terrorist, Ahmed Shaheen, was there any way Leonardo could have been carrying out a plan that was concocted by Shaheen...with Jerry as the go-between?

  I snorted out a breath and stared at Jerry, figuring my wild imagination could be my greatest impediment in simply following the evidence and wrapping up this covert investigation of my SSA. Wasn’t there some type of study to show that ninety-nine percent of conspiracy theories on any case were bogus?

  But dammit, something tugged at my instincts, as if it were being pulled to the forefront by some invisible force. The more I tried to determine its origin, the more I doubted myself. And then I wondered one thing: if I’d been asked to investigate another FBI agent with whom I had no ties or friendship, where would my instincts be pointing?

  I found myself leaning over the glass case full of diamond rings—most likely they were all fake, or just real enough to fool those who wanted to believe they were real. I turned and looked at Jerry again. Was there any way that Jerry’s participation in today’s raid could have been nothing more than a ruse? That he had conspired with Shaheen on this entire operation, only to throw the real investigation off track?

  If so, then Jerry definitely was the one who deserved to take home Matt Damon’s Oscar.

  The urgency to speak with Holt’s MI6 contact had just became priority one.

  8

  Windowpanes rattled, echoing throughout the first floor of Patrick Cullen’s modest row home. Setting his readers on the tattered fabric ottoman that often served as his makeshift desk, he could hear knuckles rapping against the front door.

  Moving with the same debilitating hitch that had limited his movement since the construction incident ten years earlier, he plodded up the two wooden steps and into the tiny foyer. Through the frosted glass, he could make out a man’s shadowy figure on the other side.

  Before Patrick could unlatch the deadbolt, the visitor quickly knocked again, about a dozen times. “Patrick, open up, man. We need to talk. Are you there?”

  The nervous anxiety by his younger brother had been expected, but Patrick still paused for a split second before opening the door, conjuring up the necessary fortitude for the forthcoming discussion.

  “Dermot, get your ass in here. We don’t need the neighbors watching you have a tizzy on the porch.” Patrick pulled in his taller sibling so fast he stumbled as he crossed the front threshold.

  “Sorry, Patrick. I know we’re trying to keep a low profile in the old hood, but this is earth-shattering news.”

  Dermot clutched his cap in both hands as he rocked from side to side, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Patrick watched his brother’s head flinch toward his shoulder every few seconds. Even at the age of thirty-six, the youngest Cullen brother had the same nervous tic that been his companion as long as Patrick could recall. Actually, the more Patrick thought about it, the involuntary movement became much worse when the middle Cullen brother, Jeffrey, died in an accident at the rail yard. Dermot had seen the entire thing, and watching his brother die had forever changed him, made him adverse to any kind of risk. Convincing him to do anything outside of the norm was difficult at best, which meant that this evening’s conversation would put Patrick to the test.

  Resting a calming hand on Dermot’s shoulder, Patrick guided his brother into the living room. He flipped on the lights from the overhead fan.

  “Patrick, you won’t believe what happened. It’s devastating...to you, to us, to our...movement.”

  “Okay. No reason to build it up, brother. Let me hear it.”

  Dermot muttered something, but choked before the words spilled out. Two more nervous twitches, and then he said, “It’s Pescatore. He’s dead. His whole fucking car blew up right outside the Ted Williams Tunnel.”

  “Dear God.” Patrick feigned bewilderment, and he dropped his arm to his side, then inhaled a single, deep breath.

  “I know, I can’t fucking believe it. I saw the pictures all over social media, including one from some fireman who took a picture of his arm that had shrapnel covering almost every square inch. Said the whole body looked like a pincushion. There was blood everywhere.”

  Patrick nodded, licking his lips, occasionally locking eyes with his brother.

  For a moment, silence engulfed the room, then a barking dog from somewhere outside made Dermot flinch again. Patrick gave his brother a confident nod.

  “Okay, I think we’re going to be okay on this one, brother. I had anticipated something like this occurring.”

  “Who are you, fucking Jesus or something? Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Pescatore is dead...a good man, a dedicated man. But worse than that, he connects back to us, dammit!”

  “I hate it as much as you do, Dermot. But with our cause, you know as much as I do that sacrifices are inevitable, and frankly must occur for the greater good.”

  “But he never even—”

  “Dermot, it doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s mourn his death, but also seek vengeance.” Patrick raised a tight fist, his rolled-up sleeves showing the veins in his forearms.

  With a slow but steady nod, Dermot relaxed his grip on his cap, and the edges of his eyes let go of their crow’s feet grip. “Vengeance. That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

  “So right, little brother.” He gave Dermot a smack on his back as he walked into the kitchen where a couple of bottles were stashed inside a cabinet. He pulled down his two nicest glasses—a pair that he’d received on his one trip overseas—and poured Jameson up to about a third of each glass.

  “Damn, big brother, you’re breaking out the expensive stuff. Didn’t think you could pour money down the drain like this.”

  A wave of heat brushed over Patrick as a hint of anger tugged at his ego. “I live within my means, Dermot. We all do the best we can, given where we came from. But there are some things more important than money.”

  Dermot released a gnarly smile. That damn kid never had a chance with the women with that set of chipped teeth....well, not until Marla and her three desperate kids rolled into town just looking for a sucker to fund their livelihood. Dermot never looked at another woman after Marla arrived on the scene, even though she might be the homeliest woman Patrick had ever laid eyes on. She was the only person who worried Patrick, given her short temper and the short leash she had on
his brother.

  “Here’s to a good man and a loyal friend. To Leonardo.” Patrick raised his glass, and Dermot clinked the side, then they each downed the whiskey in one quick tip of the head.

  Dermot thumped his chest. “I love that burn. Makes me feel alive...and connected, you know, to our heritage.”

  “You got that right, Dermot. Now you’re talking.”

  Patrick poured another round, then rested his aching hip by leaning against the counter. They sipped their drinks. The same barking dog interrupted their silence as Dermot swirled whiskey against the side of his glass, his eyes abruptly sullen.

  “What were you saying earlier about how you anticipated Pescatore’s death?” Dermot raised his sights until he locked eyes on his older brother.

  Patrick took in a full breath. “It’s not something I’ve wanted you to worry about. But you know I have this sixth sense, where I can feel when people are getting too close.”

  “Yeah, I know all about your psychic powers, bro.”

  Patrick gave him a steely glare. “I know you’re kidding.”

  “Uh, of course I am,” he said with a nervous twitch.

  Patrick had no intention of pushing him in that direction, so he stepped over and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder and spoke in a quiet tone. “I’d gotten word from one of my contacts that they were on to Leonardo.”

  Dermot stopped all movement, then slowly shifted his eyes to his brother. “Holy shit. What the hell are we going to do?”

  Patrick smiled inside, knowing the steps he had taken to ensure an investigation into Leo would show an obsession with bomb-making. Any evidence authorities would find would be contained to Leo and no one else. He had known all along that they would need a patsy to take the fall and divert attention away from those who truly carried the cause in their hearts.

  “It’s already been done. We’re covered. And our leader is covered.”

  Dermot swallowed just once. “Seriously? But how? You’re just one person, and—”

  He squeezed his brother’s neck. “Like I said, I didn’t want you to worry about it. Remember, we’re family. We stick together no matter what. And I’ll always have your back, Dermot. Always.”