Brewster said, “Sorry officer, I don’t speak French.”
“Ah,” the cop said. “American?”
Better fucking believe it, he thought. Aloud he said, “Yes, sir, that I am.”
“Very good,” he said. “May I see your license and registration, if you please? Then I’d like to take a look inside your trailer.”
Brewster smiled. “Of course.”
He turned in his seat, went to his leather carrying case.
Albert stepped back as the driver went to get his paperwork, and in the afternoon sun, he noticed something about the half-trailer. He could make out letters underneath the paint job. Mextel. He touched the side of the trailer. The paint was still sticky.
He turned back to the driver, saw him step down from the truck.
In his hand he was carrying a pistol.
Albert slammed his hand down to his holster.
Brewster brought up his Colt .45 Model 1911 semiautomatic pistol, pulled the hammer back, and fired off a round. The boom! was ear-splittingly loud and the darkie fell like a sack of potatoes. Not known among many of the PC fag-types out there was that this pistol was designed to knock down crazy Muslim darkies out in the Philippines back in the late 1890s, and it sure did its job back then.
Just like now. The darkie cop was flat on his back. Brewster walked up to him and—
The darkie rolled over and quickly scrambled under the trailer!
The fucker!
Brewster knelt down, peered under the trailer, and—
A gunshot blew him back.
Albert saw the flash of light, heard the boom of the shot, felt a hammer blow to his chest as a bullet struck his protective vest. He fell flat on his back, banged his skull on the pavement, and, moving quick, he rolled and crawled underneath the trailer.
Baise! He scrabbled at his holster, grabbed his Glock 9mm, and when the driver knelt down to look at him, he popped off a round.
The guy fell back. Albert kept on crawling.
Brewster got up, his ears ringing. Fucking darkie managed to get off a shot, and nearly took off his right ear. He rolled over, saw movement, and fired three more times under the trailer.
Albert screamed as something tore at his foot. Rien! He moved up, held himself up by his elbows, looked over under the trailer, saw …
Nothing.
Brewster trotted around the front of the truck, the diesel engine still idling, and he saw the cop on his belly, one of his feet a bloody mess, and he aimed at the darkie’s head and pulled the trigger again.
Albert jerked as another hammer blow slammed into his neck and shoulder. His arms lost strength. He was on his back. His mouth was full of fluid and he spat it out, his chin wet, and he closed his eyes. Thought of Gracie. Thought of his unborn child. Thought of sweet mamma and poppa, a white couple who had rescued him from a bad life, and—
Somebody was near him. He coughed and choked and spoke up.
Breathing hard, hand shaking, Brewster got over the darkie, saw his last shot had torn into his shoulder where it met his neck, and blood was drooling down his chin. The cop gurgled and looked up and started talking.
“Monsieur,” he whispered. “Laissez-moi seul. Laissez-moi vivre. Je vais être un père. S’il vous plais.”
Brewster put the muzzle end of the Colt .45 against the darkie’s forehead.
“Sorry, don’t speak the lingo.”
He pulled the trigger.
Fuck, he thought, as he got up. He’d have to wash his hands before he started up again and got out of here, and fast.
twenty-nine
Tom Leighton was working his shift at the Irving service station when Gus Spooner came in, face white, his left hand still bandaged. “Did you hear what the fuck happened?”
Tom was rubbing the counter with a wet cloth. “No, what’s
going on?”
Gus looked around to make sure they were alone. “I don’t know the details, man, but some heavy shit went down at the Crowley house yesterday. Some gunplay, and later on, you know that van with the Quebec license plates that was here earlier? Well, it got drove off and there weren’t no Canadians driving it. Your uncle Dickie was driving it.”
Tom felt like he was going to shit his drawers. He took off his Irving jacket and tossed it in the corner. “That’s it, I’m quitting, I’m outta here.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Shit, don’t you see? All it’d take is somebody telling Duncan or Cameron that those Canadian guys were here yesterday, and man, it’ll take about one second for them to put it together. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Out of Turner?”
“Hell no,” Tom said, pushing past Gus. “I’m getting out of the state. Hell, maybe even New England. What do you think’s gonna happen to me or you when Duncan finds out those guys got directions from here? Remember when they bought some coffee and doughnuts, I gave them a receipt? Suppose that receipt is found in the van, hunh?”
Desperation was now in Gus’s voice. “Shit, I didn’t think about that. Look, please, can I come with you? Hunh? Just take me by my trailer so I can get some things.”
Tom hesitated, and then said, “Fine, shit, whatever.”
Outside they got into Tom’s Chevrolet T10 pickup truck, and he sped quickly to Turner Farms, a mobile-home park outside of town. As he drove he kept his head moving about, looking for a maroon Chevrolet Colorado or a dark green Honda Pilot, the Crowleys’ vehicles. He still felt like shitting himself. Tom pulled up to Gus’s mobile home and Gus scrambled out and said gratefully, “Tom, I’ll be right back. Thanks, bud.”
“Sure,” he said. He waited until Gus got into the light blue trailer and then he shifted his truck into reverse, roared out of the tiny driveway, and got the hell out of the park. He glanced up in his rearview mirror, saw Gus burst out of his trailer, run after him, waving and yelling.
To hell with it, Tom thought. Every man for himself when it came to going against the Crowleys.
He wondered if California would be far enough.
Prior to her early-afternoon drive to New Hampshire, Tanya Gibbs was in her office in the Federal building in Boston, when there was a hesitant tap-tap on the door, like some deranged woodpecker looking to find insects in a telephone pole instead of a tree trunk. Walter Dresden, once again exploring the outer limits of men’s fashion by staying with black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, and black necktie.
“Walter, I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you, but I’d be lying,” she said impatiently. “I need to leave here in three minutes. What is it?”
“Ah, that matter involving the … er, missing shipping container in Quebec. It seems there’s been a development … not earth-shattering, but a bit of information. It appears that there’s been a brief intelligence interception … no further data available … that the container will be crossing the United States border sometime tomorrow.”
She no longer cared that she had to leave in three minutes. “Really? How reliable is this information?”
“Fairly reliable,” he said, voice apologetic. “Came from the domestic Canadian Signals Intelligence Services … alas, they were unable to pinpoint the crossing point. It could be Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, or er, New York …”
Not very likely she thought. Not with Duncan Crowley’s name attached to that container. Only one place to come over, and that was New Hampshire, Duncan’s home turf. For place and time, she was relying on her rogue Coastie to pull through.
“And there’s no change in status? No raising of the Alert level or putting the Customs stations on standby?”
“No, nothing like that at all.”
“Walter, thank you very much.” She got up and gathered her soft leather carrying bag. “Feel free to go to the building cafeteria, buy yourself a cookie, and charge it to my expense
account.”
In her government-issued Crown Victoria, she was heading out of the city with Henry Wolfe, her driver and bodyguard. Another lovely perk of the job was not having to navigate or worry about the paved meandering cow paths that were Boston roads. Sitting in the back like this, she let Henry worry about the stressed maniacs out there who thought green lights meant go like hell, red lights meant go even faster, and that yellow lights were for wimps. She, on the other hand, could review paperwork, strategize, and think things through. Street gangs could be outside her Crown Vic, tossing Molotov cocktails at each other, and with Henry at the wheel, she could give a crap what was going on outside.
When they finally made I-93, heading north to New Hampshire, she said, “What news of our independent contractor?”
“Our tracking devices show that not only has he been in the Turner area, we’ve also been able to narrow down a resident location,” Henry said, not referring to any notes or cheat sheets, talking clearly. “The home of Duncan Crowley. He’s been at that location for at least eight hours, according to the latest data dump. Plus you got a voicemail message from him last night. It appears the shipment will be arriving sometime tomorrow.”
“Really?” she asked, thrilled. “He said it was tomorrow?”
“Actually, when he made the call, he said it would be arriving in two days. Hence, tomorrow.”
I’ll be damned, she thought. Walter’s information from about ten minutes ago had just been confirmed. Two sources, then, that it was going to happen. She felt her heart race at the anticipation of what was going to happen next. Oh Emily, she thought, I’m going to do it this time. Going to do what others failed to do more than a decade ago.
“Did he say anything else?”
“He indicated that, quote, he was now in the employ of the Duncan Crowley criminal organization, and that he would contact you sometime today, unquote.”
“Wonderful.”
“But there’s one other thing. He also said that a Quebec biker gang was also interested in the shipment.”
“Canadian bikers? Gee, I’m really worried.” She laughed. “Henry, you work and work, and gamble and gamble, and sometimes, both the work and the gamble pay off. Damn. All right, when we get up to Manchester, drop me off at the Radisson at the Center of New Hampshire. You’ll be released for the rest of the day. Pick me up tomorrow at nine a.m. Any questions?”
Henry said, his head staring straight ahead, “Anything you need from me tonight, ma’am?”
She said, “Have as much fun as one can have in Manchester, Henry.”
Tanya looked out the window, smiling, arms crossed. Henry glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You seem quite pleased, ma’am.”
“I am,” she said. “You know your history?”
“Some.”
“The Pashtuns of Afghanistan have a saying that’s been picked up by everybody from the British to the Sicilians, that revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”
Henry said, “Who are you getting revenge on, ma’am? The ones behind the trailer coming in?”
“No,” she said, thinking again of the burning twin towers. “The ones letting it come through.”
Tanya was working on her third glass of wine, looking at her date sitting across from her at J.D. Tavern’s restaurant at the Center of New Hampshire, a large Radisson hotel in the middle of the state’s largest city. He was Carl Kenyon, a major in the New Hampshire State Police. On this night, he looked afraid of her, a feeling that should have been pleasing, but which instead she found depressing. She was sure that in most ways, the good major did a fine job for the State Police and its citizens, but tonight, she was going to use a weakness of his to get what she wanted.
Other times, other places, she would go through channels to get what was needed, but this wasn’t other times or places. Something bad was coming across the border, and she was going to use the man across from her to make sure it was stopped. A distant part of her was sickened and ashamed for what she was about to do, but it had to be done. There was no other way. That distant part … at night it would come out in full fury, sometimes making for some long, sleepless nights, internal discussions about the ends justifying the means … and at some point, just before the sun came up, she would finally fall asleep.
Tanya said, “Carl, it seems this unannounced drill is starting earlier than I thought. It’s going to be happening sometime tomorrow night. Place confidential, but I’m sure I’ll be able to give you specific information later. Let’s just say it’s going to be in the northern reaches of Washington County.”
Carl was about ten years her senior, with close-cropped gray hair, a large pock-marked nose, and wide shoulders. He wasn’t dressed in standard uniform of the N.H. State Police—green uniform blouse, Sam Browne belt, and striped trousers with the unusual color of military pink—but was in a dark blue blazer, blue striped shirt, and red necktie.
“Tanya, that’s … you know that’s impossible. A drill like this takes weeks to set up.”
She nodded. “Which is why it’s going to be unannounced. You take weeks of preparation, then it isn’t a readiness drill. It’s a predetermined three-act play where everyone knows their lines and their positions. This way, its much more realistic, much more useful for all concerned.”
He frowned. “What’s the drill scenario?”
“Unauthorized shipping container coming in from Quebec to New Hampshire, being smuggled across the border. Your folks will take primary; anyone else you can scrape together will serve as security and backup.”
“Tanya …”
She put her wine glass down. “Carl, really, I need your full cooperation. Please don’t force me into doing something I don’t want to do.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do it. It’s impossible.”
Tanya sighed, opened up the purse at her side, took out her BlackBerry. She toggled a few switches and passed over the BlackBerry to Carl. He took one glance at the tiny screen and his face drained of color, such that it was nearly the shade of the tablecloth. He tossed the phone back at her. “Shut that fucking thing off and put it away.”
She refused to look at the picture that was on display. Bad enough she had carried it all these years, just in the unlikely event that she would need to use this angry man sitting across from her, but it was like some cursed jewel that was in her possession, that she could never get rid of.
Carl leaned over the table. “You fucking promised me, back in Virginia, that you’d never say a word to my wife about … about that night. So where the hell did you get that photo?”
Tanya suddenly felt queasy again and had to take a deep breath. Even the thought of avenging her dead friend wasn’t helping. She finally pulled herself together and said, “I know you remember that night, Carl. I had my BlackBerry up to my ear, checking messages. When I got into your hotel room by accident … I saw what was going on the bed. It was nearly automatic, just in case something untoward happened. So I took that photo of you and the other officer. A bit blurry but both of your faces are quite clear.”
The color roared back into Carl’s face. “You fucking bitch, you promised—”
“I did promise,” Tanya said. “I promised that I wouldn’t tell your wife a word. Which I plan to keep. But I didn’t make any guarantees about not releasing that photo to the colonel who runs the State Police. Or the governor. Or a newspaper reporter or two.”
It looked like he was struggling not to leap over the table and strangle her. She pressed on. “So please don’t put me in a box, Carl. Be a good boy and cooperate. Or—if I may be excused for using such rough language—people of prominence you know in this state will soon be looking at a photo of you with your dick up another man’s ass.”
Now her stomach was really queasy, and Tanya put her hands on her lap so Carl couldn’t see how they were shaking. Carl’s hands, however, were clenched on top of the table,
the knuckles nearly glowing white.
“You fucking bitch,” he repeated in a rough whisper. “You’ll get your drill. But that’s it.”
She nodded, hoping the relief flooding through her wasn’t showing. Tanya said, “Fair enough, Carl. And to show there are no hard feelings, when the drill is over, we’ll get together and I’ll show you my BlackBerry as I delete that photo. Heck, even if you’d like, I’ll even give you my device, so you know the photo will disappear.”
Carl took a hefty swallow from his water glass. “How do I know there’s not other copies floating around, on a thumb drive or a DVD?”
Tanya smiled, again feeling sorry for the blustery major sitting across from her. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
Carl snorted. “They’ll be making snowmen in hell before I ever trust you.”
Tanya picked up the check. “Truth be told, I don’t blame you.”
At the Slinky Pussy Gentlemen’s Club in Laval, Quebec, Francois Ouellette got up from his desk as his deputy and second-in-command,
Michael Grondin, came in, dressed in jeans, a Montreal Canadians hockey team sweatshirt, and as always, wearing that ridiculous
ponytail.
“Are we all set?” Francois asked calmly.
“Yeah, boss, we are. He’s in the basement back quarter. Bruised a bit, but he’ll be all right.”
“His name again?”
“Manny Beaudoin. An intelligence officer and liaison with the Sûreté du Québec. We’ve exchanged favors over the past year. He’s the one that gave us the original information on the shipping container and Duncan Crowley.”
Francois stepped around his desk. “Then let’s see what additional information the good officer can provide us.”
Through a back stairwell in the club that was only used by him and Michael, he went down two flights, to the basement. There, the two of them walked across a cement floor packed high with cases of beer and hard liquor, along with some hot electronics that were in the midst of being transported across Quebec and into Ontario, and a couple of pallets filled with cardboard boxes of stolen cold medicine, to be eventually cooked into crystal meth. In the far corner of the basement was a steel door with a combination lock, which Michael spun open. A heavy click, and the door opened up. Michael pressed ahead and Francois followed, smiling in satisfaction at what he was seeing as the door closed behind them.
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