by Ian Graham
Kafni removed his glasses, cleared his eyes of the tears that had gathered, and said to the man at the door, "Levi, my friend, you are making me nervous. It is only a car alarm going off. Please come back and have a seat with us."
"I am sorry," the stout man said, turning from the windows. His salt and pepper beard coupled with his short, stocky frame and thick glasses gave him a professorial look. His intense eyes softened at the sight of Kafni's family. "I only want to ensure your security."
"I doubt my enemies have followed me so quickly to America," Kafni said. "Give them a few years to catch up, please."
Like Kafni, Levi Levitt had been an agent in Mossad and one of Kafni's most trusted allies. Having no family of his own, Levitt had insisted on coming with them as a security measure when he had decided to immigrate to the United States.
"I am sorry," Kafni said turning back to his family who continued to look to him from their seats. Cleaning his glasses on the edge of his suit coat, he replaced them on his nose and said, "I know that this celebration is less than what we had planned at home. For that I am sorry. There are many things that I am sorry for. My absences, the constant threats you have had to endure, living with the knowledge that I may not come home. 1 am sorry for it all. But 1 am so very thankful for you David and for all of you. Without you I would not have had the strength to proceed. I want this celebration to not only be a celebration of your becoming a man, but to be a celebration of a new beginning for our family here in America."
Kafni's family clapped politely at the conclusion of his toast. He beamed at each of them. His wife, Zeva, had stood by him for nearly twenty years as he had worked as a spy for the Israeli government. His duties had taken him across the world to such diverse places as Belgium, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Northern Ireland and Cyprus. At times, he felt as though he barely knew the younger members of his family. He had spent so much of their lives at work and had not even been present at two of their births. He regretted it more than he could ever put into words, but he believed then, as he still did, that the state of Israel was under constant threat of annihilation and needed men like him to ensure its continued existence.
Kafni continued, "As we begin our journey here, 1 hope that we will enjoy many years together in America. I tell you today that I will never leave you again. Today, I want to become the father and husband you deserve."
The kitchen doors swung open and a lone figure entered. Kafni looked up at the face of Daniel Perliere as he entered. Immediately upon seeing his host's crestfallen face, Kafni's instincts kicked in. The feeling of a threat hung suddenly and clearly in the air. When Perliere was half way to their table, the kitchen doors swung open again and the threat became visible. A broad man with dirty blonde hair, an unkempt beard and a bulbous nose entered the room. He was wearing a camouflage jacket over otherwise black garb. In his hand, held at his side, was a forward curved knife that Kafni recognized as a Nepalese Kukri. As Kafni's eyes met with his, the newcomer raised the Kukri and hurled it forward with an audible growl. The blade sliced through the air with a whistle and lodged itself between the shoulders of Daniel Perliere. The middle aged restaurateur stopped walking as the blade struck him. Blood pooled at his mouth as he fell, first to his knees and then to the floor where he lay face first. Levi Levitt stood suddenly from the table, his hand entering his coat to draw a pistol he kept in an underarm holster. The kitchen doors burst open again and two black clad men in masks entered with suppressed machine pistols. The guns made two soft clicks and Levitt fell backwards over his chair, his gun clattering to the tiled floor.
Zeva Kafni and her younger children screamed and huddled together. Kafni and his eldest son David looked on, horrified as the newcomer began clapping politely. "Very sorry to inform you that you will not be spending very long together in the United States," he said in a thick Slavic accent.
Chapter Eight
9:10 p.m. Eastern US Time
West Cedar Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Staying in the shadows created by the circular beams from the torch-like street lamps, Declan walked towards the intersection of Revere Street. Up ahead, The navy blue awnings that covered the first floor windows of the upscale French seafood restaurant known as La Jetee came into view. The building was separated from its rear neighbor on Phillips Street by a narrow alleyway secured with a wrought iron gate.
From behind, he could hear the sounds of O'Rourke's Lotus blaring its horn. Flashes of yellow light illuminated the brick walls on the opposite side of the street as the vehicles headlamps flashed off and on. As he approached the alleyway, the sound of rusted hinges filled the air and a figure stepped out of the alley onto the cobblestone sidewalk. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Declan could make out the machine pistol held at the man's side and knew he'd found the assassins' lookout.
He stepped towards the brick wall to his left and pressed his back firmly against it as the man looked in the direction of the blaring car horn. Even if the distraction hadn't attracted the police yet, it had certainly worked to attract the attention of the lookout. Relaxing as the man saw him, Declan placed his hands in his pockets and pretended to lean against the wall.
"Hey, you," the lookout said in a Middle Eastern accented voice from about ten yards away. "What are you doing here? Get lost."
Doing his best to shed his Irish accent and trying to sound inebriated, Declan said. "It's a free country man. I can stand where I want."
"Not here it isn't, the restaurant is closed. Go away."
The man stepped further from the alley, cautiously moving in Declan's direction but doing his best to keep his weapon hidden at his side as not to alarm any of the area residents who may be watching from a window or somewhere else nearby.
"Are you going to leave or am I going to have to make you?"
"Just lookin' for a drink man relax." Declan answered, swaying slightly.
"There are no drinks here! Leave!" the man said becoming more belligerent and stepping to within a few yards. Suddenly the man closed the distance and raised the machine pistol, "I told you to lea…"
Declan grabbed the suppressed barrel of the weapon as the man brought it up, stepping forward and placing his thumb behind the trigger as he twisted the gun away from his face. Letting go of the barrel and drawing the suppressed Clock pistol from his belt, he raised it and fired a single round into the lookout's head. Even with the suppressor, the report of the gun echoed through the street like the popping of a helium balloon. The bullet entered the side of the man's head and blood sprayed a white Mercedes parked along the street. Keeping hold of the body as it went limp, Declan lowered the deceased man to the ground. Replacing his pistol and picking up the H&K MP5, he removed the magazine. Inside, was the subsonic ammo from the crates on the Revenge. He replaced the magazine and flicked the selector switch to single round mode before moving away into the narrow alley.
Inside the wrought iron gate Declan aimed the MP5 ahead of him as he moved methodically down the cobble stoned walkway. On either side, multiple trash containers stood, some overfilled with refuse and others reeking of dead fish. He stopped at the rear door of the restaurant and listened for any voices or movement inside. Hearing none, he tried the doorknob, locked. He moved back from the door and looked up towards the roof. The building was four floors high, a metal fire escape switch backed down from the roof, its lowest level well out of reach. The back wall of the building had eight windows, one located at the base of each section of stairs along the fire escape and another adjacent to it along the opposite side of the structure.
Declan considered his options. Knowing there was likely another lookout on Revere Street in front of the restaurant, he decided his best chance of entrance was the rear door. Keeping the MP5 aimed, he examined the area around the door. Seeing the door frame was made of wood instead of brick, he aimed the weapon and fired. With three nearly silent shots at the joint of the door near the lock, the locking bolt was exposed. With the bolt secured o
nly by two one inch screws, Declan raised his leg and kicked the door with the heel of his foot just above the lock. With a splintering sound, the door flew open and Declan stepped out of the doorway, placing his back firmly against the wall beside the door.
The sound of Middle Eastern voices speaking their native language rapidly sounded from within the now opened restaurant. Declan listened as the voices grew silent, the sound of footsteps moving over the wooden splinters of the door frame reaching him. Slowly the suppressed barrel of another machine pistol moved into view beyond the doorway. Declan allowed the MP5 to slowly slide out of his grip and hang from his shoulder by its strap, waiting as the gunman inched outwards. When the hands holding the rifle came into view, he made his move, striking at the man's groin with an openhanded chop and pulling him out of the doorway by the barrel of the gun. Nearly inaudible, but rapid clicks filled the air and bullets began hitting the wall opposite the door, chunks of brick tearing loose and raining down onto the cobble stoned alley. From the cover of the wall beside the doorway, Declan fired three shots into the back of the man who'd landed face first in a pool of stagnant water. The man's body jerked as the bullets hit him and the pool of water turned a rust color beneath him. As the automatic weapons being fired from within stopped, Declan flicked the selector switch on the MP5 back to automatic and rounded into the doorway, keeping his body shielded by the edge of the building as he pulled the trigger. Two men inside chattered loudly in Arabic as their fire was returned. One scurried away behind a metal cabinet as Declan's shots impacted the other, his body falling backwards onto the floor. An upside down MP5 was thrust over the top of the metal food preparation counter and held aloft by a ducking gunman. Suppressed automatic gunshots began anew. Declan ducked out of the doorway as more bullets struck the walls around him. The shots stopped as the gun's magazine emptied and Declan rounded back into the doorway, firing several rounds until he heard the metallic clicking of the empty weapon. The man behind the counter scurried away, staying low as he bolted through a set of double doors yelling something in Arabic. Declan stepped fully into the restaurant as the man vanished from site. Looking around the darkened room it was clear from the metal tables, sinks and walk-in freezers that he was in the restaurant's kitchen. Dropping the MP5 and drawing his pistol, he aimed it in front of him as he moved into the room, clearing each alcove and potential hiding spot as he went. On the floor, he found the body of the gunman he'd just killed. In a corner, leaned up against the wall, was the body of a woman who worked in the restaurant, her throat slashed.
With the kitchen clear of any threats and the electricity obviously turned off throughout the building, Declan made his way carefully towards the double doors the gunman had fled through. He kicked the left side door open with his foot and waited as it swung into the dining room eliciting no response from outside. With his pistol aimed, he rolled out, clearing the room like a pie chart. Moving all the way into the dining room, he spotted a staircase along the wall that led upwards, a podium where a host would normally stand to greet guests as they arrived stood in front of it and a sign reading Employees Only.
On a rectangular table in the center of the room, drinks and plates were set about indicating several people had been seated there. Sweeping over the room as he moved towards the staircase, he spotted another body, a man bearing the same chef style clothing as the deceased woman in the kitchen and killed with some kind of trauma to the back between his shoulder blades. Bending down, Declan felt for a pulse and spotted the foot of another body on the other side of the table. Feeling no pulse, he moved to the other body. A bespectacled man of obvious Jewish decent lay flat on his back, a clear gunshot wound to his shoulder and another to his abdomen. The man's eyes opened and closed slowly, his breathing shallow.
"Hold on," Declan said believing him to be a member of Kafni's party. "I'll get you some help. Where did they take Kafni?"
The man's eyes moved towards the staircase and Declan nodded. Pulling a heavy knit napkin from the table, he rolled it up and placed it over the man's abdomen wound and secured it with his hands. "Keep pressure on it."
Standing upright, he swept around the room again before moving to the staircase and pointing his pistol up the steps. A white interior door stood ajar at the top. Taking the steps carefully, he listened intently, hearing nothing. A halogen light flickered in the room above. Arriving at the door, he pushed it open and cleared the room in a half circle. The room's walls were brick and storage shelves constructed of two-by-fours lined the walls holding cans of vegetables and other ingredients. A long hallway extended off the room and lead to another staircase, halfway down the hall, was another room with its door opened wide. Stepping fully into the room with his eyes on the door in the hallway, Declan dove to the floor as a man leaned out of the doorway with a machine pistol and opened fire. Bullets tore into the walls above as Declan lay covered by the shelving, vegetable juice pouring onto him from the cans on the shelves as they were opened with bullets. The gunfire stopped with a recognizable clicking, signifying the man had run out of ammo. Declan stood and rushed down the hallway, his eyes on the doorway and keeping his back pressed against the wall. Moving silently, he stopped at the entrance to the door and waited. Listening to the action in the room, he heard the man inside inserting a new magazine into the weapon and chambering it. The barrel of a long suppressor protruded suddenly from the door as the man went to lean out and fire again. Declan dropped his pistol and grabbed the weapon, pulling the man out of the room and throwing him against the opposite wall. Advancing on him before he had time to recover, Declan threw two front kicks, striking the man first in the stomach and then in the head, throwing him forcefully against the wall again before he landed on the floor with a thud. Clearing the doorway behind him with a glance, Declan reached down as the man struggled to get up, grabbed his head and twisted. The man's body fell limply to the floor.
Retrieving his pistol from the floor, he cleared the room the man had been hiding in and moved along the hallway. A short set of stairs stood at the end of the hall leading to a landing before hair-pining and leading to the third floor. At the base of the stairs, Declan leaned over and looked upwards to the third floor entrance. Seeing no one, he climbed the steps backwards to the landing and looked closer.
At the top of the stairs was a clean white room with vaulted ceilings, a sofa, loveseat, coffee tables and a television. Clearly the owners of the restaurant lived in the building and this was the first floor of their house. Beyond the living room, a waist high wall separated it from a modern looking kitchen area and a small breakfast nook. Between the breakfast nook and the kitchen another long hallway stretched towards a staircase leading to the fourth floor. Three doorways opened off of the hallway. As Declan climbed the steps, a man jumped up from behind the kitchen counter aiming a pistol. Declan moved forward firing three times in response and the man fell back against the refrigerator before sliding to the floor.
"Stop now!" a voice called from one of the rooms off the hallway. "I will kill them all!"
Declan watched as a man leaned out into the hall holding a terrified little girl in his arms as a human shield. In his right hand, he held a grenade, his thumb on the spoon. "I will throw it in there and they will all die!" he screamed.
Declan lowered his pistol.
"What is going on down there?" a voice called down from the fourth floor.
"We have an intruder!" the man holding the grenade yelled.
The sound of footsteps coming down the fourth floor stairs at the end of the hall preceded the appearance of a man at the end of the hall. Declan recognized him immediately as the older man who had been in charge on the boat in Provincetown. Hashemi. The older Palestinian gazed down the hallway at Declan with a look of confusion. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Saint Malachy's revenge," Declan answered.
"You are not police," Hashemi said picking up Declan's accent. "Throw down your weapon or the children die."
Declan slid his
pistol into the holster on his belt.
"Not good enough," Hashemi said. "On the floor, now!"
Unwilling to let what he assumed were Kafni's children die and seeing no other options, Declan removed the pistol from its holster and bent down, placing it on the laminated wood flooring. Standing, he looked at Hashemi with his hands open and raised to shoulder level.
"Put the girl down and secure him to the bannister on the stairway with the wrist ties." Hashemi ordered the gunman. "We'll deal with him and the family after Deni has finished the Jew and his wife."
The gunman set the frightened girl down and pushed her gently back into the room before replacing the pin and dropping the grenade into his coat pocket. Hashemi withdrew a pistol from behind his back and held it at his side, ready to fire if Declan attempted to resist. The gunman sauntered down the hallway with an amused smile. As he drew closer, he said, "After they're done with the Jew. I'm going to kill you myself."
Eying the man up and down, Declan caught a glimpse of a pistol grip under the man's coat as he walked forward, his jacket pulling back as he strode. As the man arrived in front of him, Declan locked eyes with him.
"Put your hands together," the man said as a look of paranoia spread across his face. Standing only two feet apart, the man could feel a threat in the air.