The John Milton Series Boxset 4

by Mark Dawson

  Milton spotted the tail as he walked the short distance from Himrod Street to Central Avenue station. Counter-surveillance was a matter of instinct as much as technique, and noticing that he was being followed had always been something that he was very good at doing. The man was wearing a padded jacket, his hands shoved deep in the pockets. He followed Milton down into the station and took a seat in the same car as him, albeit at the opposite end. He had turned to glance at him and, for a moment, the man had been caught staring back. He caught himself, trying hard to look nonchalant as he glanced down at the floor and started to fidget with a ring on his finger.

  Milton took the M Train to Myrtle Avenue station. The man waited until just before the train departed and disembarked, too. Milton transferred to the J Train headed for Jamaica Center. The man got into the same car.

  The quickest way to Danforth Street was to disembark at Crescent Street station, but Milton did not want to lead his tail there. He looked at the line map above the door and changed his plan.

  He turned away so that his tail would not be able to see what he was saying, took out his phone and called Manny.

  There was no answer.

  He tried again, this time letting the call go through to voicemail.

  “It’s John Smith,” he said. “You need to get out of the house. Go somewhere with a lot of people and call me.”

  He ended the call, but, rather than putting the phone away, he switched to video and hit record. He held the phone on his lap, angling it back into the car. He let it run for thirty seconds and then stopped it and reviewed the footage, pretending to be scrolling through email. The guy was there, staring right down the car at him.

  The train rolled into Cypress Hills. Milton made no effort to elude his tail as he disembarked. Instead, he looked for any sign of a second or third tail. It was almost impossible for one person to follow someone who was trained to look for the signs of surveillance; a three- or four-person team was ideal, able to switch the pursuer at regular intervals so that the mark did not notice. Milton couldn’t see anything to make him suspect that he was the subject of a more organised pursuit. The guy was on his own.

  Milton came out of the station and started to walk. The quickest way to get to the Blancos’ home was to go south on Hemlock Street, but, instead, Milton went east on Jamaica Avenue. It was five thirty now, and the blizzard had driven all but the most determined pedestrians and drivers back home. It was bitterly cold, the wind whipping into his exposed flesh, the snow sticking to his face. Milton trudged on. The road continued beneath the elevated section of track. There was a large cemetery behind iron railings to Milton’s left and shuttered buildings, all of them defaced with graffiti, to his right.

  He walked on for a hundred yards until he reached a large brick building that offered a point of entry into the cemetery. It, too, was derelict: the ground-floor windows were boarded and the glass in the windows above had been knocked out. The inscription above the gates read MAIMONIDES CEMETERY.

  Milton turned off the sidewalk where the railings curved back and hid there, concealed by a large oak tree.

  He heard the man’s footsteps crunching through the icy crust.

  73

  He came around the corner and Milton grabbed him by the lapels of his padded coat, swinging him off the sidewalk and manhandling him through the gate and into the covered archway that led into the cemetery beyond. There was a dumpster there, with black bags stacked up outside it, and the man staggered, tripping over the trash. He fell onto his knees, putting his left arm down to stop himself from sprawling flat on his face.

  Milton advanced on him in time to notice the man’s right hand snake into his open jacket. His head was at the level of Milton’s waist, just the right height for Milton to drive his knee against his jaw. The man spun away, crashing against the side of the dumpster, a knife glinting in the dim light as it landed in the dirty snow.

  The man was face down in the snow. Milton reached down, grabbed him beneath the shoulders, and hauled him upright. He slammed him against the wall, knitted his fist in a handful of the man’s hair, and ground his face into the brick.

  “What do you want?”

  “N-n-nothing, man,” he stammered.

  “Why were you following me?”

  “What you talking about?”

  Milton drew the man’s head back a few inches and then slammed it against the wall once more.

  “Why were you following me?”

  “I was gonna roll you.”

  Milton crashed his head into the wall again.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You’ve been following me from Brooklyn. I saw you on the subway.”

  “I don’t—”

  Milton pushed the man’s head, flattening his nose against the rough brick.

  “Last chance. Who are you working for?”

  “Fuck… you…”

  Milton turned sideways and pivoted, using all of his momentum to send the man across the archway so that he crashed into the opposite wall with as much force as possible. He bounced off the brick, lost his balance again and fell down onto his backside.

  Milton collected the knife that he had dropped and reached down for the man’s collar. He dragged him into the cemetery, out of sight of the street, and then got down on his knees next to the man. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s forehead and pulled back, exposing his throat, and then laid the blade of the knife against his skin.

  Milton leaned down close enough to speak into the man’s ear. “I want you to think about something for a minute. I saw you on the train. I’m trained to notice people who are following me. And if I’m trained to do that, what else do you think that says about me? What else do you think I’m trained to do?” He angled the blade and pressed; the sharp edge sliced into the first few millimetres of skin, enough to draw a little rivulet of blood that gathered on the metal. Enough to focus the man’s attention. “Who sent you?”

  “Acosta,” he said, the three syllables tripping over one another in his haste to get them out.

  “Go on.”

  “He told us to follow the cop.”

  “Which cop?”

  “The detective from the Rat Squad.”

  “Polanski?”

  “Yeah,” he said eagerly. “Polanski.”

  “How long have you been on him?”

  “Since Monday.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Two.”

  Milton thought: Monday was the day after the murder. If they had been on him for as long as that, they had everything.

  “Tell me about Acosta.”

  “You don’t know who he is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He runs East New York, man.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yeah, and everything else.”

  “And what did Acosta tell you to do?”

  “He wants you dead, man. He wanted me to do you.”

  “Tonight?”

  The man managed a nod. “We told him you’d gone back to see the cop. He said you had to go.”

  “Where’s your friend now?”

  “Gone to see the kid.”

  Milton felt a judder of panic, and, momentarily distracted, he let his guard down. The man jerked his head back and butted Milton in the nose. Milton fell back, releasing his grip and dropping the knife into the snow. The man turned, reaching down to collect the blade and then flashing it in a wild forehand swipe that tore into Milton’s jacket, tearing the leather across the stomach. The man snarled, his teeth as white as the snow, passed the knife from hand to hand and feinted once and then twice. Milton took a step back, his mobility restricted by the deep drifts. The man lunged forward, jabbing the blade at Milton’s gut, but Milton had anticipated it and circled his right forearm, his wrist jarring against the underside of his attacker’s wrist and blocking the thrust. The blow unbalanced the man and, as he staggered, Milton disarmed him and then ghosted behind him, snaking his left arm around his throat, his
trachea at the crook of his elbow. Milton grasped the biceps of his right arm with his left hand, placed his right palm against the man’s shoulder and then forced his elbows together, applying pressure to the neck on both sides. It was a blood choke, and Milton had it clamped on tight. The man struggled, but, with blood flow to his brain severely curtailed, his body went limp within ten seconds. Milton maintained the choke, tightening his grip, holding it in place for thirty seconds, then forty. He released the hold after a minute, and the man fell flat on his face and lay still in the snow.

  Milton took a moment to gather his breath. The snow was churned up from the struggle. It was preternaturally quiet, the snow already settling on the man’s prone body.

  Milton dragged the body around behind the dumpster. He opened the lid, hauled the body up and shoved it over until it fell head over heels and landed amid the bags of garbage. Milton wiped the knife so that his prints were removed, tossed that in too, and then pulled the lid closed again.

  And then he started to run. It was difficult: his feet plunged into the snow up to his ankles, slowing him down, and he struggled through the drift onto the road, where he could pick up a little more speed.

  He reached Hemlock Street again and turned to the south.

  It was obvious what Acosta was thinking. He was rattled. He was concerned enough to order Milton’s death.

  He was insulating himself.

  No more witnesses.

  Milton would be the first to go.

  And Freddy would be next.

  Milton’s feet almost slid away from underneath him as he started to sprint.

  74

  It took Milton four minutes to reach Danforth Street. The house was at the opposite end of the street, so he took a right turn and kept running hard toward the elevated track on Crescent Street. The house on the corner was as he remembered it. The gate and the front door behind it were shut; there was light visible from the window to the right of the door, a glow that shone through the narrow space between the edge of the curtain and the frame.

  Milton looked up and down the street. It was quiet, the snow smothering the sound of the city. Milton looked down the street and saw a car turn out of Hemlock Street and drive slowly toward him. The car slowed and rolled into a space on the opposite side of the road. There was a street lamp behind it, and the glow was enough to silhouette the two figures in the front seats. Milton thought he could make out a third figure behind them, too.

  He hurried across the sidewalk to the house, pulled the gate open and knocked on the front door.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again, louder and more vigorously.

  This time, he heard footsteps and a gruff, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  Milton heard the sound of a car door opening. He turned and looked back up Danforth Street to the parked car. The rear door was open and a man was stepping out. The passenger door opened, too, and a second man emerged.

  Milton turned back to the house, raised his fist and was about to knock for a third time when the door opened. Manny looked out at him.

  “What’s going on?”

  Milton didn’t answer, but quickly stepped inside. He moved Manny back into the room with a hand on his shoulder and then closed and locked the door behind him.

  “What are you doing?” Manny said. “What’s wrong?”

  Still Milton didn’t answer. He went to the window to the left of the door and moved the curtains aside. The window was barred. Milton glanced through the dusty glass. The car was out of sight, the angle too acute for him to see it. The snow fell in a thick veil. He couldn’t see either of the men who had stepped out.

  “John,” Manny urged.

  Milton closed the curtains and turned to Manny. “Where’s Freddy?”

  “Playing on his PlayStation.”

  “I need you to listen carefully,” Milton said. “We’re about to get a visit. It won’t be a friendly one.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Milton was about to respond, but, before he could, he heard the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow.

  “Are all the windows barred?”

  “Yes,” Manny said.

  “Is there any other way inside?”

  “There’s a door that goes into my room. I never use it.”

  “Locked?”

  “Yes.”

  Milton quickly assessed the layout of the property. This area, containing the living room and kitchen, was at the front, facing onto Danforth Street and accessed by way of the main door. A central hallway led deeper into the building, with the bathroom and Manny’s bedroom on the left and, he assumed, Freddy’s bedroom on the right.

  “Does Freddy’s room have any windows?”

  “No.”

  “Go there now.”

  They both heard the creak of the gate as it was pushed back on its unoiled hinge.

  Manny didn’t move. “Not until you tell me what’s happening.”

  The curtains were thin and the light from the street lamps outside bled through. They saw the outline of a figure framed within the glow, and then it moved away.

  “I went to see Polanski,” Milton said. “A man followed me. He tried to kill me.”

  “What does—”

  Milton cut him off. “It looks like the men that Freddy saw outside the restroom are working for a local drug dealer. His name is Acosta. He’s trying to make sure that what happened doesn’t cause him any trouble. That’s why he tried to get me out of the way. Freddy is next.”

  The colour drained out of Manny’s face.

  There came the sound of three firm knocks on the front door.

  Rap.

  Rap.

  Rap.

  “Go to his room. Shut and block the door and get under the bed.”

  “What about you?”

  “Just go. Now.”

  His mind flashed back to London, a little over three years ago. He thought of Elijah Warriner, the kid in the East End, and what had happened to his mother after Milton had let his guard down for a moment.

  There was no way he was going to let the same thing happen again.

  No way.

  Not again.

  “Go!”

  Manny hobbled down the corridor and turned right into Freddy’s bedroom. He shut the door behind him; Milton could hear his voice as he spoke to his son.

  Milton looked around the room for anything that he could use as a weapon. He went to the kitchen. It looked as if Manny had been interrupted in the process of preparing dinner. A pan of water was boiling on the stove and a sheaf of spaghetti was on the counter next to a can of chopped tomatoes and a bowl of sliced mushrooms. There was a knife on the chopping board. Milton ran his finger against the edge. It was blunt. No good.

  Rap.

  Rap.

  Rap.

  Milton found a coffee mug in the cupboard to the right of the stove and scooped up some of the boiling water. He took a bag of sugar and poured in enough to fill a quarter of the mug.

  “Hello?”

  The voice came from the other side of the front door.

  “I saw you go inside. Open up.”

  Milton took the mug of hot sugared water and got down low, below the windows. He crawled across the room to the door, raised himself, and then pressed up against the wall between the window and door.

  “Who are you?” Milton called.

  “Police,” the voice said. “Open the door, please.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  Milton quietly reached up and unlocked the door.

  “Manny Blanco.”

  “Open the door, please, Mr. Blanco. I want to speak to you about your son.”

  “Hold on.”

  Milton heard the door mechanism creak gently and watched as the handle very slowly descended.

  Milton stood behind the door with the mug in his left hand. He felt the welcome pulse and throb of adrenaline. He closed his eyes and revelled in it,
accepted it, dismantled the bulwarks against it that he had erected ever since he had left the service. He had built them to protect himself and the people he met, but there had been times when he had needed his old instincts and habits.

  Like now.

  Milton waited for the right moment. He reached for the handle with his right hand and yanked, opening the door to reveal a man in the doorway. Milton assessed instantly: the man was shorter than he was, slender, and dressed in black jeans and a black jacket. He was holding a pistol, the muzzle pointed down. Milton flicked his left hand so that the scalding water splashed across the man’s face. He had used the combination before; the sugar caused the water to adhere to the skin, exacerbating the burns that it caused. Homemade napalm. The man screamed and clamped both hands to his face, letting the pistol fall to the floor. Milton scooped it up and then kicked him in the gut, bouncing him out into the snow. He slammed the door and twisted the key in the lock.

  He heard a crash from the rear of the house: the sound of an impact, and then another, and then the unmistakeable sound of splintering wood.

  Milton checked the gun: a 9mm Glock. He dropped to one knee, clasped the weapon in both hands, and extended his arms. He could see down the corridor from where he had positioned himself, and, although he would also be visible to anyone at the other end of the house, he would have the benefit of preparedness and surprise.

  He heard footsteps from Manny’s bedroom and then watched as a finger of light was cast into the hallway. The finger widened as the door to the bedroom was opened farther, and then it was interrupted by the shadow of the man who must have forced the door into the house.

  Milton took a breath, sighted down the pistol, and put a pound of pressure on the trigger.

  The man was little more than a silhouette, a shadow in the gloom, but Milton waited until he was almost all the way out of the doorway and then squeezed a little more.

  The Glock barked and leapt in Milton’s hands. He had anticipated the kickback and absorbed it, then aimed and fired a second time. The first round had found its mark, although it was too dark for Milton to see exactly where it had struck the man. The intruder’s body twisted, presenting a narrower target, and the second round went wide, crunching into the frame of the door.