Eye of the Storm

by C. J. Lyons

  Jimmy and Andy joined them as Jacob pulled out his phone. Drake realized they were the only detectives on scene—the patrolmen were more concerned with securing the scene and starting the manhunt than reviewing evidence.

  Denise asked Adeena to take the kids upstairs with Tessa then she joined them as they watched Jacob’s video. It started with Hart’s arrival, followed by Adeena tugging her up the steps, a scene of the priest surrounded by the children, finally Hart descending the steps dressed in a wedding gown.

  “You can’t see that, it’s bad—” Denise’s hand went to her mouth before she could finish. “Sorry,” she said, reaching a hand to squeeze Drake’s shoulder.

  Then the doorbell rang and everything changed. The two heavies with Kasanov; Hart at his feet, her face bloody, his hand twisting her hair; Kasanov with Colton on his knee, his eyes locked with Hart’s; Hart pulling the boy from Kasanov; Muriel and Kasanov in the center of the room; Hart and Kasanov leaving with Muriel.

  “That’s Kasanov? He was at the Fairstone,” Drake said. “He was there when they burned Steadfast.”

  Drake rewound the video and watched it again. He didn’t care about the last part—seeing that once was more than enough. Instead, he lingered on the beginning, the part with his mother and Hart laughing and happy, whole and alive. Those images he carved into his heart.

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Jimmy asked. “And what’s he want with Hart and Muriel?”

  “He’s an Eastern European mobster,” Nellie answered Jimmy. “I tried to do a story on him several years ago—one of the people who spoke to me was named Russo. The story died after I couldn’t get anyone else to confirm what Russo told me, and a few days later, I received a package with a note from Kasanov.” She cringed and Drake knew where this was going. “It was a human tongue—I gave it to the FBI in Cleveland. They confirmed it as Russo’s and said it had been removed while he was alive. He’s never been seen again.”

  Jacob wrapped an arm around her, but that didn’t stop her trembling.

  “Maybe he’s using Hart to get to you?” Andy asked Drake.

  “Why?” Drake clutched the phone, frozen on Hart’s smiling face as she and Muriel hugged. “I have nothing to do with Kasanov—if he’s with the mob, he’s a federal problem, not local. I never even heard of the man before today. Why target Hart or me?”

  Drake’s questions went unanswered. The knot of despair tightened in his gut but he refused to give up hope.

  They were alive—they had to be.

  <<<>>>

  ONCE CASSIE FORCED her panic away, the ride became surreal. Kasanov’s men had prepared the trunk, bolting sheets of metal over the vulnerable spots like the tail lights and electrical connections as well as barricading the space in front of the back seat with a length of plywood, giving her no escape route and no light. The space was so small that no matter how she twisted her body she ended up folded, her weight pressed on the delicate joints of her wrists and ankles. Once they became numb, any new movement sent electrical jolts of pain through her—bad enough that the car’s erratic bumps and turns did that, so she gave up trying to reposition herself and simply focused on being… elsewhere.

  Deep, calming breaths, forcing her muscles to relax, clearing her mind…at first she heard Drake’s voice, reassuring her that he was coming for her, that everything would be all right. Then another voice, equally strong and comforting, came through: her grandfather’s.

  After her mom died, Cassie had spent a lot of her childhood with Padraic and Rosa on their farm in St. Augustine. Cassie loved both her grandparents deeply, but Rosa with her gypsy curses and impossible standards was too formidable for a little girl to approach.

  Paddy never minded her tagging along with him, called her his shadow, never tiring of her endless questions or begging for stories from the war he and Rosa had fought. A natural storyteller, he was delighted to oblige, filling their hours of chores with tales that cemented Rosa’s image as larger-than-life, often downplaying his own role in events. But Cassie knew better—her grandfather was a hero.

  She treasured every moment spent with him; he was her closest friend, and the one person she could trust with her feelings. It wasn’t until years after he was gone that she realized he must have felt the same about her, entrusting her with the truth of what he and Rosa had done, things she never fully understood until she was older and wiser.

  As much as she loved her father and worshiped her grandmother, it was Paddy she adored without reservation. His strong, hairy arms, thick as small tree trunks; his large, calloused hands; the scent of cherry pipe tobacco that followed him everywhere; the lilting Irish accent and occasional lapse into Gaelic; his easy grin and the laugh that would rumble out of him like a volcano erupting. His was a presence solid, warm, comforting, and loving.

  “Tell me a story,” she’d beg, cuddling into his embrace. He’d already told her how he and Rosa met during the war. In November of 1940, his ship had been torpedoed by U-boats off the coast of France, but Rosa and her group of Maquis had rescued Paddy. “Tell me about how you and Rosa saved your crew.”

  Paddy puffed on his pipe, and then nodded his agreement. “It all started with a root cellar and a bushel of turnips.”

  Chapter 14

  IN HER MIND, Cassie was safe and sound at Paddy and Rosa’s farm, far away from the pitch-black pain of the endless car ride to an unknown fate.

  “I quickly realized I’d been rescued by a crazy woman.” Padraic continued his story. “Just as fast realized she was the leader of this crew of French brigands who seemed as like to toss us back to the mercy of the storm as drag us onto dry land once they realized we were none of us officers.”

  The scent of cherry pipe tobacco softened his words. “Course, I had a secret weapon. I was the radio operator and the officers had taught me German and a bit of French, so I could report anything I heard. Turns out languages came as easy to me as did mimicking old Father O’Brien’s Latin or the nuns’ mincing tirades. One thing I’ve always been good at—be it a birdcall or a whiff of a tune, if I hear it once, I can repeat it. Good thing, too. That gift of gab and playacting saved our lives more than once.

  “Rosa didn’t care we weren’t officers, but her men complained that the Brits only paid them to rescue officers. She quickly had them in hand with only a word or two I didn’t understand, some language not German nor French, but the men—all of them ages older than her, mind you, I didn’t learn it until later, but she was barely seventeen at the time, already fighting the Nazis years longer than any army, already blood on her hands—the men jerked their heads up at those words, searching the storm clouds as if waiting for lightning to strike, and bent their backs to their oars, bringing us into shore.”

  “I’ll bet she cursed them,” young Cassie whispered into her grandfather’s shoulder. She knew how the men felt—Rosa could turn her bones to jelly with just a stern look, didn’t need to resort to using any of her Romani curses.

  “There was one thing they kept repeating. La tempête. The storm, I thought they meant. Figured out the truth later that night after we’d dragged the boats ashore and hid them. Nine of my mates had been saved by Rosa’s crew, another twenty-two by her other boats. No officers, but one of Rosa’s men who’d stayed on shore, monitoring the radio, said the Vichy had taken seven British officers prisoner after their launch landed up the coast near Bayonne.

  “Rosa and her men marched us inland, the storm still lashing us, our limbs weighed down by exhaustion and sorrow at our mates lost and killed. Finally, we reached a farm where we were hurried inside a barn and down a ladder to a root cellar. Only after we were shut in, guards posted, did we risk lighting a few lanterns and got our first good look at each other.

  “We were a motley crew, half-drowned and shredded by the storm and ocean. Remember, none of us were true Navy—we’d been merchant sailors pressed to service by the Royal Navy without training, our ship was a supply vessel, no arms at all. Only thing true Navy about
us were our officers and there were none among us now, which gave the rabble-rousers a chance to rise up.

  “The Irish of us—myself excluded because I had good reason to hate the Krauts after my sis died on the Athenia—they favored the Germans, thought if the English lost the war, they’d leave the north and our fight would be won as well. The Scots and Brits, a rough lot gathered from docks across England, most of them no fans of the government and Navy who’d taken our ship and livelihood as their own, were easily swayed by thoughts of leaving the war behind once talk turned of escaping both France and their service.”

  Cassie closed her eyes, Paddy’s words coming to life as if she watched a movie.

  <<<>>>

  PADDY AND HIS men helped themselves to wine their rescuers provided and apples from the baskets lining the dirt walls of the root cellar. There were also bushels of potatoes, turnips, rutabagas, pears, and onions, a harvest safely stored for winter.

  “After all, we’re none of us real soldiers,” Maguire, a socialist from Galway, stood up, leading the debate. No surprise there. Maguire was a loudmouth in all things from berating Cookie for lousy rations to planning the future of Ireland.

  The smell of the cellar reminded Paddy of home, of a life led safe on land, no U-boats or curfews or blackouts or weeks of tinned food, the same morning and night, tales of the officers’ gourmet fare brought back by the stewards who stole what they could from the upper galley.

  Perfect atmosphere for Maguire’s talk of mutiny. “Why shouldn’t we scamper off, blend in with the civilians, turn our back on this god-forsaken war? The Germans will be winning it soon enough, no reason to put a target on our backs. We didn’t ask for this, none of us, right?”

  The men sitting at Maguire’s feet, crowded into the cramped cellar, nodded and grunted their agreement. Paddy had positioned himself as close to the ladder and escape route as possible, even if it meant missing out on the wine being passed hand-to-hand. He stood, propped against the hard-packed dirt wall, exhausted enough to fall asleep, his head nodding against his chest. On the ship he’d trusted these men, they were his mates, good at their jobs. But they weren’t on board the ship anymore, they were alone, stranded, and without officers to lead them.

  Rosa and two of her men stood beside him, near the exit. Protecting them or guarding them? It was clear Rosa spoke English—enough that he could see she followed the debate. It was equally clear that she was disgusted by Maguire’s talk of desertion.

  As Maguire paced before his rapt and besotted audience, shadows from the lanterns flickering around him, Rosa reached past Padraic to a bushel of turnips, scrounging among them until she found one small enough to fit her hand, almost perfectly round, its body a deep shade of purple, barely a dimple or crease marring it.

  Paddy, despite his fatigue, was intrigued enough to shake himself alert. Maguire’s speech had reached some impassioned high point that led to cheers from the assembly. He stopped pacing, standing tall as if he’d just been elected Pope, beaming at the men crouched in the dirt before him.

  Rosa edged to one side and with a swift movement veiled by the shadows launched the turnip so hard and fast it careened from the side of Maguire’s skull with a loud crack.

  Maguire, stunned, buckled as his knees gave way. Before his body hit the ground, Rosa was there, an arm around his neck, knife held to his throat.

  “Is this your idea of loyalty?” she asked the suddenly silent crowd. “Are you all cowards? Not a man among you ready to fight the bastards who killed your comrades?”

  The men stirred, a few having the good grace to look sheepishly at the ground. But there was just Rosa and two of her men between them and an end to their war—at least that’s what Maguire had promised them. After being half-drowned, almost dying for a crown they served reluctantly, who was this girl to stand between them and freedom?

  A few stood, towering over Rosa. Paddy glanced at her men who stood beside him. Both remained relaxed, one of them chuckling as he handed a jug of wine to the other. Did they not realize how dangerous his shipmates were? Perhaps they didn’t understand English?

  Paddy stepped forward into the light to stand beside Rosa. She glanced at him, assessing his threat then dismissed him to focus on the others. Maguire moaned and squirmed in her grasp until she tightened her grip, angling her knife against his jugular. He froze, his eyes dilated with fear, gleaming in the lamplight.

  “I will not keep you here,” Rosa continued. “Even as my men and I risk our own lives to save your comrades before the Vichy swine sell them to the Nazis. I will not threaten, I will not ask you to stay and fight with us. We do not fight alongside cowards and traitors. You are all free to go.”

  She threw her arms open, releasing Maguire with a shove that sent him sprawling into the laps of the men before him.

  “Now?” an anonymous voice came from the crowd. “Into the storm?”

  “With no food or water?”

  “Or map? We’ve no idea where we are.”

  “Come on, mates,” cried another. “Forget this French bitch. We’ll make our own way.”

  “There’s sure to be provisions in the farm house,” another said. “Look around. They obviously had a good harvest.”

  “Not to mention weapons, clothing.”

  “Women,” another suggested, his tone jovial.

  “Why wait?” Maguire said, spinning to face Rosa. “Why not start with this wench?”

  Rosa stood straighter, her smile an unpleasant sight that sent the hairs on the back of Paddy’s neck tingling. He couldn’t believe these were the men he’d served side by side with, now talking rape and pillage of the very people who had just saved their lives.

  “So, now, you’d be contemplating raping this girl, Jimmy Maguire?” Paddy demanded. “And what would your good wife and your own daughter say to that, do you think? Your gal, she’s what, eleven? Wouldn’t she be proud of her da? And you, Donald Kraven, wasn’t it you who told me how thankful you were that your ole mam was being taken care of by neighbors while you were gone? You’d repay the charity of these who risked their lives to save yours by turning on them?” He strode forward, positioning himself between Rosa and the crowd. “I’m ashamed to know any of you, talk like that.”

  “You’ve no love of the English yerself, Paddy Hart,” Maguire said. “Why should we risk our lives to save a bunch of officers? We didn’t sign on to fight nobody’s war.”

  “Then do as the girl said. Take your leave. But you leave here and now and without a fuss, hear me?” Paddy held his arms out wide, fists bunched, making himself appear bigger. One man against thirty; wouldn’t be much of a fight, but it would give Rosa and her men time to get up the ladder and escape.

  The ladder behind him creaked as someone climbed it and rapped on the door hidden in the barn’s floor. A few minutes later, a gust of night air blew into the cellar. The men cowered, raising their arms high in surrender.

  Paddy glanced behind him and saw why. While he’d been chattering on, trying to reach the numbskulls with his gift of gab, Rosa had taken a far more practical approach. She’d sent her men up the ladder and out into the barn while she climbed onto the upended bushel of turnips. In her hand she held one of the kerosene lanterns aloft. Not to light the low-ceilinged cellar draped in shadows. Rather, she gripped the lantern by its base, ready to hurl it into the huddle of suddenly silent men.

  “You,” she nodded to Paddy. “Padraic Hart. You go. Now.”

  Paddy backed up until he was against the ladder. “Don’t do anything rash. They’re just exhausted, scared. Give them a night and they’ll be right.”

  “Go,” she repeated, never glancing his way, her gaze focused on the men.

  “No. I’ll stay with my mates.”

  That earned him a glare. He stood, his bulk blocking her own exit. Above him her men called down, asking if she wanted help, but she waved them off. “You come with me. Hostage. You behave, nothing happens to them. They behave, nothing happens to you.” />
  Clever girl had an answer for everything. Up close, the lamplight making her features glow, he finally realized how young she was—and how absolutely fearless. He stepped back, giving her a courtly bow—the product of the nuns’ class on deportment—and gestured his surrender.

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle. I am at your command.”

  Chapter 15

  “STAY WITH DENISE, the kids,” Drake told Jimmy as he headed to the door. If Kasanov was a federal problem, then he sure as hell was getting the feds and all their resources on board. A personal appeal would be more effective than a phone call. “They’re safe. Keep them that way.”

  Unlike his own family. He had no idea why Kasanov had chosen his family as targets or what he wanted from Drake. But one thing Drake was certain of: Kasanov wouldn’t live to see the inside of a courtroom if he touched Hart or Muriel.

  He’d spent eleven years of his life working to rebalance the scales of justice, to bring some semblance of sanity to the chaos that threatened to drown the world. His father before him had spent over twenty years doing the same thing, died on the job while chasing down a petty thief who’d stolen thirteen dollars and change.

  Kasanov had taken much more than that from Drake. And Drake would sacrifice everything he believed in to see Kasanov rot in hell—even if Drake ended up there alongside him.

  The certainty burnt like frozen steel twisted in his gut. Cold, hard, implacable truth.

  Denise circled her arms around Jimmy’s waist before releasing him with a quick peck on the lips. “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Meet us back home.”

  Drake heard the undercurrent in her voice and knew what she meant—she wanted her entire family home and safe. That included Hart. And Drake. He wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought if Denise was assigning Jimmy to him as a watchdog.