No Fear (No Shame Series Book 3)

by Nora Phoenix

  He exhaled. Done. It was done. Operation Freedom was a success.

  He pulled back his rifle, closed the window. He disassembled the rifle in seconds, put it in his five-hundred-dollar black leather lawyer briefcase. Collected the three shell cases. Sprayed the window and window stiles with special cleaning spray, wiped them down, even though he’d been wearing gloves the entire time. Put everything in his briefcase, checked to see he had left nothing behind.

  He waited till he was at the front door to put on a thick, dark gray overcoat that screamed money. A beanie in the same color—few people were venturing outside without head covering as the temperature was hovering in the low twenties—complemented his business attire. No one seeing him would suspect he had just killed three men. And had enjoyed every fucking second of it.

  Payback, it really was a bitch.

  25

  Holmes’ face had grown slightly redder with every word Noah had spoken. The steam was about to blow from his ears. “Son, you need to start cooperating with us, or we will charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  “I’m not your son. You wanna know whose son I am? General Flint’s. You charge me, and you better believe my first call will be to my dad. Do you want to take a bet on who will win that pissing match? You cannot intimidate me or bully me into saying anything because I’m immune to it after spending years with my dad and in the army.”

  “It’s not our intention to intimidate you, Noah,” Wells spoke up for the first time. A little tic near his eye told Noah he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the way things were going. That made two of them.

  “Sure you were. This is a good cop/bad cop routine. I’m more than familiar with it, trust me. If you want me to cooperate, change tactics. Share openly with me and I’ll do the same.”

  “We need Indy to put away the Fitzpatricks for good, Noah. Surely you realize there’s a bigger picture here,” Wells said.

  “I need Indy to stay alive. After what happened, you can’t blame me for not taking my chances with the FBI. I hate to say this, but you got a serious security issue.”

  “We lost two agents today, Noah. You don’t need to convince us we have a problem.”

  For the first time, Holmes sounded sincere, and Noah experienced a flash of guilt about keeping information from the FBI. Assuming the agents who had died were the good ones, they had been murdered protecting Indy. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I know that sounds like a meaningless cliché, but it’s the truth. Doesn’t mean I’m willing to risk my boyfriend’s life, though.”

  Holmes placed his fingers against each other in a move that looked so studied, Noah had to bite back a grin. “So, Stephan is your boyfriend? Rumors are, he’s not the only one. What exactly is your relationship to Joshua Gordon and Ignatius O’Connor?”

  Noah laughed. He flat-out laughed. “Seriously? You think I’m gonna be embarrassed? I don’t give a flying fuck what you’ve heard, or what you think. I don’t owe you any explanation, and even if I did fuck all of them, and God knows who else, it still wouldn’t be any of your business. This still is a free country, and Josh, Connor, and I have sacrificed a lot to keep it that way. Now, are you done with this bullshit or not?”

  Holmes balled his fists, then forcibly relaxed. He shot Wells a look, who cleared his throat.

  “Right. Just after four in the morning local time, emergency dispatchers received a call from a man identifying himself as Special Agent Miles Hampton. He is one of the agents assigned to Indy’s protective detail. We have reason to believe it wasn’t Hampton who made the call, however, but Indy. Listen to this.”

  Wells hit a few buttons on the laptop in front of him, and a file started to play. Noah recognized Indy’s voice right away, even if he’d tried to lower it. He sounded so calm, his brave man. He had to have been so scared. He played it smart, kept up the pretense until he hung up.

  Noah fought hard to keep his face blank when Indy mentioned this agent Crouch being compromised. So the FBI did have a traitor on their hands, and yet they’d tried to make Noah believe Indy had killed those agents. Fucking assholes.

  “What makes you think this was Indy?” Noah asked when the recording ended, keeping his voice neutral.

  Wells smiled. “It’s not Hampton’s voice, but even the dispatcher suspected at the time of the call. The caller didn’t use the right language, but it was close enough that the dispatcher sent what he asked for anyway.”

  Noah nodded. He didn’t see the harm in confirming what they already knew. “It’s Indy.”

  “He called back a few minutes later. This is the second recording.”

  Noah’s stomach turned as he heard Indy pant and groan. Had he been injured after all? Or was he pretending to be, so they’d believe he was the FBI agent?

  “Emergency services discovered Special Agent Miles Hampton near a storm cellar. He was transported to the hospital, where his spleen was operated on his. He’s out of surgery but still in serious condition with multiple fractured ribs, a broken nose, a concussion, and a slew of minor issues.”

  “Indy said they beat him up,” Noah offered.

  “Did he say who? Mention any names?”

  “No. The call was focused on the agent’s medical issues. He hung up as soon as I told him he needed to get him to a hospital.”

  “The team was staying at a Kansas farm, which was discovered on fire even before Indy made that call. We believe Indy started the fire as a distraction, then escaped with Agent Hampton through a storm cellar leading into a tunnel.”

  “You mentioned two dead agents?”

  Wells’ face tightened. “Yes. A neighbor called in the fire, which would have been visible from miles away. When cops arrived at the scene, they discovered the bodies of two agents in the farm house. They were shot multiple times and both were found in their respective bedrooms. Indy’s room was found empty, a window in his bathroom lifted from the frame. We assume that’s how he escaped. He must have climbed over the roof and managed to get into a barn. We’re not entirely sure how he discovered Agent Hampton was still alive. Marks on Hampton’s wrists and ankles suggest he’d been tied up, so Indy must have freed him.”

  Noah couldn’t resist it. “So much for your absurd theory where Indy is the killer.”

  Holmes merely shot him a dark look but ignored the barb. Unfortunately.

  “Our fourth agent is missing.”

  “Crouch,” Noah said, allowing his anger to shine through. “The man Indy identified as being compromised, and yet you wanted me to believe Indy had something to do with this.”

  Wells let out a sigh. Noah suspected he hadn’t been happy with the way his boss had handled that. At all. “We’re allowed to lie to try and get people to cooperate,” he said diplomatically.

  “The fact that you’re legally allowed doesn’t make it morally justified,” Noah snapped. “Especially when you have information that proves the opposite, like in this case. Indy had nothing to do with this attack, can we at least agree on that?”

  Wells nodded. “It doesn’t seem likely, no.”

  Noah realized he’d have to take that answer as the best outcome. This was the FBI. They wouldn’t rule out anything until they had cold, hard proof.

  “Look, Noah, based on the information we have right now it looks like Crouch played a role in the attack, but we have no concrete intel as to what, or how and why. He was the lead agent on the detail and a long-time FBI veteran, so it’s hard to imagine him doing this.”

  “Do you know who the attackers were?” Noah asked.

  Wells shook his head. “No. We suspect they’re linked to the Fitzpatricks, obviously, but we have no leads. They escaped on foot, stole a car from a neighboring farm, then another one at a truck stop. That’s where we lost them—if they’re even still together at this point.”

  Noah leaned forward. “What do you want to know from me?”

  “What can you tell us about Indy’s state of mind? What will he do in a situation like this?”
>
  Noah’s answer came fast. “Run.”

  Connor glanced around the room to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. When he was satisfied, he put his jacket back on, then his gloves. He’d been careful not to touch any smooth surfaces with his bare hands. Luckily, it was freezing outside, so no one would notice anything weird about him wearing leather gloves, even inside the hotel. His jacket would conceal the blood splatters and brain matter on his shirt.

  He took off his shoes before he silently opened the door so he wouldn’t track any bloodstains back to his room, and peeked into the hallway to make sure no one was there yet. He then hurried into the staircase, listened again to make sure no one was in there yet. He heard some noise below him but nowhere near his floor. With his shoes in his hand, he took the stairs two floors up. He’d picked a room right next to the staircases, so the chances of him running into someone were small, and he quickly swiped his key card to get inside, making sure to stay on the plastic tarp he’d put on the floor before leaving his room.

  When he closed the door behind him, he noticed his hands were shaking slightly. No wonder. That had been damn close. Connor knew the shooter wouldn’t miss, but still. Seeing someone’s brains get blown out a few feet away from you would make even a seasoned Marine shake in his boots. He exhaled slowly, his mind still completely alert.

  He put the bolt on the door, took his shoes off and dropped all his clothes on the tarp. He put everything he’d been wearing in a trash bag he’d placed there before he’d left and tied it securely. The bag went into a suitcase, along with the tarp he now took off the floor.

  First, he needed to set the second part of the plan in motion. He fired off a message that would send a detailed list of Fitzpatrick properties and what could be found there to his contact at the Boston Police Department. His former classmate Davy Ford had more than come through, connecting him with a slew of low-level criminals who were sick and tired of the Fitzpatricks’ iron-fisted reign. Connor had collected names, dates, evidence, and had given the BPD a heads-up through an informant they trusted to prepare for a big raid. He’d delivered them everything on a fucking silver platter, so now he could only hope the boys in blue wouldn’t fuck it up.

  Either way, Duncan Fitzpatrick was dead, and Connor had honestly never been happier to see a man die than to watch that asshole’s brains get blown to bits. His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to do it himself.

  Duncan and his father Brian, Connor’s uncle, had been so fucking careless about meeting Connor, even when they’d known he’d been a cop. All Connor had to do was tell them he wanted in the family business and that he could deliver dirty cops to them. They’d jumped on his proposal to meet in the hotel, had even brought Duncan’s brother Alan along, who was as much as asshole as the rest of his family.

  And now they were all dead. The only one left was Connor’s grandfather Jeremy, the patriarch of the Fitzpatricks, but he was in hospice about to die from lung cancer. When he died, they would all be gone, and Connor only felt relief.

  Satisfied he’d left no visible traces behind, Connor walked into the bathroom and ran a shower. The water was scalding hot, and he cleaned himself meticulously. He packed up his towel in another plastic sheet, and folded it as well to place it in the suitcase. He cleaned the bathroom with bleach, making sure as little as possible remained of his DNA.

  He’d rented the room under a different name, of course, and he hadn’t slept in the bed—though he had messed it up to make it look like he’d used it, just like he left some soap and shower gel splatters in the bathroom after cleaning it to make it look dirty. He’d wetted towels and thrown them on the floor. With a satisfied look he concluded no one would see anything suspect about this room.

  If the crime scene investigators did their job, they’d soon discover there had been a fourth man in that hotel room. He’d absorbed blood spatters and brain matter that would have otherwise fallen on the floor, so they’d know there was someone else. They would have no idea who, however, and he intended to keep it that way. The hotel had security cameras, but he’d paid a guy handsomely to disable the recording, and with the reputation this man had, Connor had no doubt there wouldn’t be a digital trace of him anywhere.

  He walked out of the room, leaving the key card in his room, since he’d already checked out and paid earlier that morning. With his suitcase rolling behind him he casually made his way over to the elevator, where two other men were waiting.

  “Did you hear?” one of the men asked as soon as he was within earshot. “Someone got shot two floors below us.”

  “They shot him from outside, through the window,” his companion added.

  Connor’s eyebrows rose. “For real?” he asked. His New York accent wasn’t as good as Indy’s would have been, but he could fool these two who were obviously not from Boston. Or New York, judging by their Australian accents. “That’s terrible!”

  Both men nodded, clearly happy they had someone they could share their knowledge with. “It’s all over the telly. Apparently, there are multiple victims, all belonging to some crime family. Good riddance, I say,” the first man said.

  “Well, if it’s criminals killing criminals, then I’m all for it. Easy solution, right?” Connor played along.

  “Exactly. Saves the US government a lot of bloody trouble arresting and prosecuting them,” the second man chimed in.

  They kept talking about it on the elevator ride down, Connor agreeing amicably with everything they said. Downstairs, the lobby was crawling with cops, but Connor wasn’t worried. They had no reason to suspect anyone inside the hotel yet, since it had clearly been a shooter from outside. They’d focus on the building the shooter had used and on processing the room the victims were in. By the time they concluded there had been another person in the room, he’d be long gone. Besides, no one would ever recognize him with his scruff and his hair longer than he’d ever had it. And according to the VA facility records, he was visiting Josh right now.

  He kept his head straight, his strides purposeful as he made his way to the exit. Two cops were guarding the exit, and they gave him a quick once-over, then let him pass.

  It was done.

  26

  Noah had tried to answer their questions as best as he could. No, he had not heard from Indy since that morning. No, as far as he knew Indy had no friends or acquaintances in Kansas. No, Indy did not have a working phone. They told him he’d used Miles’ phone to call him, which didn’t surprise Noah. The blocked number had been a giveaway.

  Then Wells had started asking questions about how Indy had managed to stay under the radar for so long, and that’s when Noah had stopped talking. Apparently, Indy hadn’t told the FBI about dressing as a woman—and Noah wasn’t about to blow the lid on that one. It was clear to him Indy didn’t want to be found right now, and as hard as it was to accept that, he’d damn well try.

  When it had become clear Noah was done cooperating, they’d brought him to some kind of waiting area. It was a room with a few comfortable chairs and a supply of ancient magazines, telling him Brad and Angelina were splitting up. Duh.

  In the corner of the room a TV screen showed the news with the volume set to blissfully low. Noah looked up every now and then when he caught something that piqued his attention, but he ignored it for the most part. Not that the book he was attempting to read could really hold his attention, but news would only depress him further, so what was the point?

  He slouched lower in his seat and yawned. As he stretched, his eye caught the news again. He froze, watching completely stunned as images showed a cordoned-off hotel, then bodies being carried outside in body bags and lifted into police vans. What the…?

  The name “Fitzpatricks” finally set him in motion. He jumped up, yanked the remote from the coffee table and turned up the volume.

  “Investigators have no clue as to how the three men have been shot but confirmed they were targeted from outside, through the hotel window. The police have iden
tified the three victims as Brian Fitzpatrick, age fifty-two, and his sons Duncan, age twenty-eight, and Alan, age twenty-two. Police have confirmed the three were known top leaders in the infamous Fitzpatrick organization, the Irish mob that has been terrorizing the Boston South Side for the last two decades. A spokesperson for the Boston PD said he had little doubt the murders were connected to these men leading a life of crime that had caught up to them, though confirmed the police were still working the case and had no concrete information on the shooter or shooters at this time. The police requests everyone with information to contact them, anonymously, if need be.

  “Later today, police raided several houses and locations on the South Side believed to be connected to the Fitzpatricks. The police spokesman declined to comment on these raids, stating that they were part of an ongoing investigation. Our crime reporter Jack Donovan is on the scene and has more details. Jack?”

  “Our sources confirm that the police seem to have taken advantage of the total chaos in the Fitzpatrick organization after three of their top leaders were taken out this morning. Police were busy the entire afternoon arresting individuals known or suspected to have ties to the Fitzpatricks, as well as loading up dozens of vans with evidence. The raids were so coordinated, sources informed me, that many of the suspects were taken by surprise, resulting in much incriminating evidence being taken by the police. One source speculated the police may have been tipped off about the killings beforehand, though not the specific date, time, and location, allowing them to prepare these raids ahead of time. The police declined to comment, but we will, of course, follow this case closely. It’s no secret law enforcement has been after the Fitzpatricks for years. This included Boston District Attorney Donovan Merrick who was killed in a fire two months ago with his family—a brutal act of murder that has been attributed to the Fitzpatricks as well. And of course, police are still speculating about the fate of Stephan Moreau, the former lover of Duncan Fitzpatrick who turned state witness after surviving a brutal attack on his life. He disappeared into thin air before the trial, however, and is suspected to have died at the hands of the Fitzpatricks. With today’s murders and the subsequent raids, it seems at least that the Fitzpatrick clan has been dealt a devastating, if not deadly, blow it will likely not recover from.”