“Pretty much.”
“How in hell did we lose in Vietnam?”
“I don’t know. As you might recall, I wasn’t there. But I think the government tying the military’s hands had something to do with it. So when can you have that stuff?”
“Give me a few days to get the rifle and the Ghillie suit. The other stuff I should have late tomorrow afternoon.”
“See you then.”
Houston stopped at the door and turned to O’Leary. “How much longer you think the hood will be policing itself?”
“Hard to say. At least until the last child molester is gone and the parasites that entice six-year-old kids to shoot drugs are off the streets. You’re the expert in crime, you tell me.”
“Sounds to me like it’s going to be a long-term project . . . ”
“On goin’.”
Houston went back to his apartment and broiled a couple of steaks with baked potatoes and all the fixings for Anne and himself. He turned the six o’clock news on and half-listened to the commentators give their opinions on world events, which in Boston usually meant the liberal point of view. The local news gave way to the national news and the steaks were starting to look like beef jerky. He paced the apartment for several minutes and then called Bill Dysart. Dysart told him he hadn’t heard a word from Anne since they had left his office that morning.
Houston rummaged through the drawers of the small desk and took out an address book. He flipped it open to H where he had penciled in Susie’s name and cell phone number. His hand shook as he held the phone and he had a hard time hitting the right sequence of numbers. The phone rang three times and then went to voicemail. He cursed with impatience as he referred to the address book and found the number to her dorm and punched the numbers. He breathed a sigh of relief when someone answered the phone.
“Yo,” it was a male voice and Houston’s paternal instinct kicked in. What in hell was a guy doing answering the phone in a girls’ dorm room? Houston had bigger things on his mind though, like locating his daughter. Still, he made a mental note to ask Susie about it.
“Susan Houston,” he said, trying to keep fear out of his voice.
“Hold on.”
The guy dropped the handset, and the loud clunk it made banging on the desk almost deafened Houston. He pulled the phone away from his ear then quickly put it back. Houston forced himself to be patient and prayed until he heard someone pick up the phone. “Susie?” he asked before anyone had a chance to talk.
“No, this is her roommate, Melissa.”
“Melissa, this is Susie’s father. It’s important that I talk with her—is she there?” He prayed she was and all that had happened was that she had decided to give him the cold shoulder after the trauma of Quincy Market.
“She was, but she left.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Let’s see. I came in about two and she left not more than ten minutes later.”
“Was she alone?”
“I didn’t see anyone with her.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but then I didn’t think to ask.”
“Does she have her cell phone?”
There was a pause and then Melissa said, “No, it’s sitting in the charger on her desk.”
He heard the door open and close. When he looked up Anne was standing in the door. Houston smiled and motioned he would only be a minute. “Melissa, have her call me as soon as she gets in.”
“I’ll leave her a note in case I go out too.”
“Thanks.”
Anne looked at him; the pallid cast to her complexion told him something was wrong. “No one has seen Susie since two this afternoon.”
Mike grabbed the phone and punched in a number.
“Claddagh Pub.”
“This is Houston, put me through to Jimmy.”
O’Leary’s staccato voice came on. “Mike, my guys lost her . . . ”
Susie slammed the sociology textbook closed with more force than was required. She sighed in frustration and tried to deal with what was eating at her—her father and the way violence seemed to follow him no matter where he went. She recalled the Quincy Market shooting and an involuntary shudder raced through her. The shooting had bothered her like nothing she had ever experienced before. On one hand, she knew her father had saved their lives, but she couldn’t get past the cold anger on his face as he muscled his way through the crowd and shot the gunman without hesitation.
The librarian walked by. “The Resource Center closes in fifteen minutes.” Susie nodded, gathered her books and stuffed them into her backpack. She decided she might as well head back to the dorm. Her state of mind made studying impossible anyway. She picked up the heavy bag and slung it over her left shoulder.
The evening was warm and pleasant so she opted to walk along University Road rather than take her usual shortcut. She was halfway to her dorm when the van pulled up beside her. An attractive, blonde-haired woman rolled down the passenger window and asked, “Can you direct us to Bay State Road?”
“Sure, it’s easy,” Susie said. Under normal circumstances she would be hesitant to approach a strange vehicle, but the presence of the woman gave her a sense of security. She walked over to the side of the truck and pointed north. “Follow this street until you come to the entrance to Storrow Drive. Just before entering Storrow drive, turn hard right; that’s Bay State Road.”
She turned back to the woman to ascertain that she had understood and froze. The woman pointed a pistol at her. “That sounds confusing to me. Why don’t you get in and show us?”
Susie fought back her urge to run. She knew there was no chance she could outrun a bullet. Before Susie overcame her indecision, the woman stepped from the van, the ominous gun never deviating.
“That was not a request. It’s an order.” She grabbed Susie’s backpack, shoved her into the van and jumped in after her.
The driver turned and smiled at Susie, his face a hideous mass of burn scars. “Hey,” he said, “I know you! I’m an old friend of your father’s.”
When he laughed a deep belly laugh, Susie wasn’t sure if the distinct odors of smoke and burnt flesh that she smelled were real or imaginary. “We’re gonna be good friends too,” he said and laughed louder.
26
“Whenever possible, a sniper should work from a hide, since such a position affords a certain amount of free movement without the danger of detection and also protection from the weather and enemy fire.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Heavy dew covered the grass when Anne and Houston arrived. They got out of the car and Jimmy O walked to them. Houston glanced at Anne, hoping O’Leary wouldn’t have his usual effect on her.
O’Leary nodded and offered them a thermos of coffee. “Hell of an hour to get up,” he said. “Especially if you’re nocturnal—which of course, I am.”
Houston smiled. Obviously, Jimmy was going to be on his best behavior.
“I got your stuff in my car,” Jimmy said.
“Thanks.” Houston agreed with him about the hour. Six o’clock was early to be out in the woods. However, intuition told him that time was short and he needed to hone skills he had not used for a long time.
Gordon Winter unloaded the gear, piling it on a blue tarpaulin that he had spread on the damp grass. “Some weird-looking shit here,” he said, holding up the Ghillie suit. “Looks like something Joe Shit, the rag picker, would wear.”
Houston had not heard that expression in years—not since the Marines. “When were you in?” he asked.
“I got out in ninety-nine.”
“What did you do?”
“Army Ranger.”
“And now you work for Jimmy.”
“Well, there ain’t too many jobs you can do as an ex-grunt. It’s kind of restricted.”
“That’s a lot of bull and you know it. You could’ve become a cop.”
“Cops got too many regulations a
nd shit . . . just like the military.”
“I know where you’re coming from.”
Houston bent down and sorted through the equipment. He arranged things functionally. Weapons in one area, Ghillie suit in another, miscellaneous things, such as compass and topographical maps in a third. He saw several plastic masks that looked like the ones hockey goalies wore, except these had goggles covering the eye openings, and four jars of colored balls. He held up one of the masks and one of the jars and said, “What are these for?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to use live ammo so I got these,” Jimmy said. He held up a paint-ball gun. “I brought a mask for each of us. We wouldn’t want to have someone’s eye shot out, would we? There should be four different colors there, that way we’ll know who shot who—neat, huh?”
Houston took one of the guns, inspected it for a few seconds and then screwed a CO2 cylinder into the butt.
Anne took a red paint ball out of its jar and studied it for a few seconds. “These things look like they could hurt . . . ”
“Only if you get shot,” Houston answered. “The object of the game is simple: shoot but don’t get shot.” He saw doubt on Anne’s face. “They may raise a bruise or two, but they aren’t lethal.”
Houston put on the Ghillie suit, letting it hang like a shroud, then took out a map and a compass. Once the paint gun’s hopper was filled from a container of green paint balls, Houston charged it with CO2. “Give me a half hour, and then come after me.” He spread the map and pointed to an elevation on it. “To simplify things, I’ll be somewhere along this ridge. All you got to do is find me before I find you . . . ”
Houston noted that Winter was grinning.
“Be like old times,” Winter said.
Houston was surprised at how quickly old behavior and habits returned. He found an old logging road that led up to the ridge and followed it for just under twenty minutes. It would be at least a half an hour before his pursuit would arrive, and he needed that time to find a good hide.
Houston camouflaged his Ghillie by inserting local flora into its web-like covering. He wished he had a full-length mirror to see if he had distributed the material evenly. Deciding that given the situation, he had done as well as possible, he concentrated on finding a suitable location—one where he had a clear line of fire at the trail. Jimmy and Anne were city-dwellers, not used to moving through the woods, and he was confident that they would stick to terrain that they could traverse with minimal effort.
Winter would be his biggest challenge. Even though it had been years since he had been in the army, Rangers were highly trained and skilled. He would most likely avoid the easily traveled trails and come through the bush.
Houston found a fallen tree and approached it, checking for things such as hornet nests. The last thing he needed was to be attacked by swarms of angry stinging insects. Once he was sure there were no natural enemies to deal with, he backtracked and used a pine branch to brush away his footprints and any discernible signs of his passing. Satisfied all was as good as he could make things, he settled into his shooting position, pulled the Ghillie suit hood over his head and waited.
Twenty minutes passed before he saw Anne and O’Leary slowly working their way up the trail. Houston sighted in on Jimmy O and waited for him to get within the CO2 gun’s range. Jimmy’s eyes were glued to the ground, searching for signs of Houston’s passage. Then three things happened simultaneously. Houston shot O’Leary in the chest. The paint ball’s impact stood Jimmy up, a large green paint smear on his protective clothing. Houston’s new cell phone vibrated, breaking his concentration and Gordon Winter shot him in the ass.
Houston ignored the pain and fumbled through the loose folds of the Ghillie, searching for his phone. He wondered who could be calling. Only Anne and Susie knew the number. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. He flipped it open and said, “Houston.”
“Daddy?”
“Susie, where are you, babe?”
The familiar raspy voice came on the line. “Don’t worry. She’s in good hands, Mikey.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Calling me names ain’t gonna help things one bit.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want . . . directions to the killing ground are in your mailbox—and Mike?”
“What?”
“Don’t take forever. I’ll be looking for you in three days—no more. If you aren’t there by then your little girl and I will play hide-and-seek. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal. I’ll see you then. In the meantime—”
“She’ll be fine. I don’t have those desires anymore. It seems that at one time, my equipment got a bit overheated—another debt I owe you. Go check your mailbox. There should be an envelope there with detailed directions and instructions . . . follow them to the T or there will be consequences. Need I say more?”
“No, I got you.”
After Houston ended the conversation, he looked up to see his companions watching him.
“The sniper?” Anne asked.
He told them about the call.
“When do we leave?” Anne asked.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, after the evening rush dies down. I don’t want you going with me. This is no game.”
“You’re forgetting that I’m a cop too—not to mention the fact that I’m in far better shape than he is.” She pointed to O’Leary.
“But you’re not a sniper.”
“The last I heard neither are they.”
“This is going to be in the bush where you move a few feet in an hour. You crawl and hope you don’t make a sound. It’s the ultimate game of hide-and-seek—only, losing could be fatal. Other than me, the only other person here with the type of training and experience needed for this is Gordon.”
Anne was not to be swayed. “Let me put it to you in the military terms you’re so familiar with. Maybe then you’ll understand. I’ll go as your reserve. I can stay in the background until you send for me.”
“And if I can’t?”
“We can’t allow him to get away. One way or another he has to go down. Besides, if you’re hurt, Susie will need all the help she can get.”
Houston sat back. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“What are my options?”
“None. Like the old saying goes: when it’s inevitable, relax and enjoy it.” Houston laughed. “I never expected to hear that from you.”
Anne smiled. “I’ve been waiting years for the right chauvinist to use it on. Pack your stuff, John Wayne. We should let Dysart know that it’s going down.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll want to throw all the manpower in the department into this. Can you imagine what the political repercussions would be if a bunch of armed cops invaded Maine? Hell, it would take more than three days to get the two states to coordinate—and then Maine would want to send in their people.”
Anne remained silent.
“I’m not going to do anything that will put Susie in more danger than she’s already in. I’ve got to do this his way.”
27
“When you want to attack, you remain calm and quiet, then get the jump on your opponent by attacking suddenly and quickly.”
—Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings
Winter felt over dressed. He wore a gray designer suit with a light blue button-down shirt and tie—not what one expected to see in a gin mill in this part of Roxbury. The suit had set him back almost a grand before the additional tailoring for his shoulder rig, which cost another hundred bucks. He sat at the bar and ordered tonic water with a twist.
He turned on his stool and studied the man sitting beside him. He was grungy, filthy as a street person. His dreadlocks were grimy and matted into a gnarled mess, which didn’t even resemble hair; his knit cap was colored green, black and yellow, th
e national colors of Jamaica, and was saturated with gel and grit. The whites of his eyes looked brown and he smelled like carrion.
Winter turned back and watched the TV. The Sox were playing a day game and he smiled as he watched Big Papi hit a towering fly ball into the right field grandstand. “He sure can hit.”
The other man glanced at the game then back to his drink.
“I’m Gordon.” Winter held out his hand. The reggae junkie stared at his expensive clothes and ignored the proffered hand.
When the bartender slid the tonic water in front of him, Winter made a point of flashing his large roll of cash. He peeled a ten from it and put it on the bar. The junkie’s eyes locked onto the roll of bills and widened. He didn’t look away until it disappeared into Winter’s pocket.
“Hey,” Winter called to the bartender, “give my friend here a refill on me.”
“I ain’t your friend, cracker.”
“Hey, man, don’t get all bent out of shape, I’m just trying to kill some time before an appointment.”
“An appointment in the hood?” the junkie chuckled. “You got an appointment around here, you either a narc or a pusher.”
“Well, I’m sure as fuck no narc.”
“You selling or buying?”
“Neither, not in here anyway. Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“There be an alley out back—I meet you there in five minutes.”
Winter finished his drink, paid the tab and walked out into the bright afternoon sun. It took several seconds for his eyes to readjust to the sunlight. His vision restored, Winter turned into the alley and followed it to the rear of the bar. He was walking into a set up and relished the prospect.
Before reaching the end of the alley, he drew a
The man’s eyes crossed as they focused on the gun. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out.
“Let me guess. I’ll bet you’re Shawnte Armstrong . . . ”
A nod was all the answer he got. Winter backed up a step, grabbed Armstrong by the neck. He spun him around and smashed his face against the wall. Armstrong turned his head at the last second, avoiding a broken nose. “Jimmy O sends you his regards,” Winter said.
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