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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781785352805 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hunt, John Publishing |
| Publication date: | 03/25/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Sales rank: | 1,604,817 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Red Nocturne
By Bill Mullen
John Hunt Publishing Ltd.
Copyright © 2015 Bill MullenAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78535-280-5
CHAPTER 1
1 August 2010. 11:44pm. Downtown Boston.
Anna headed the investigation that led to the arrest of two Arabs plotting to set off a car bomb in Times Square. The third one got away. That was a couple days ago, Providence, Rhode Island. She was back in Boston now, the first night off in two weeks, and she wanted one beer and then sex, but Klein had been gone for nearly a month. Klein — her friend with benefits. And that was it. No phone calls or e-mails asking how she was doing. Nobody making a mess in her apartment while she was at work. And nobody nagging her to open up and talk about her feelings and a relationship and work and the prospect of kids and a house. She didn't have room in her life for that. But, she did need sex once in a while, a warm body, not her own hand.
The Green Dragon Tavern was busy, and Anna ordered Sam Adams Boston Ale and watched the waitress, a blonde college girl who didn't look like she belonged to a sorority, take her time getting to the bar. In the seven minutes it took the girl to give the bartender the order, wait on another table, retrieve Anna's beer, and take her time getting back, two men had approached Anna and asked to buy her a drink. One a fraternity guy that she ignored until he went away, and another, a guy in his thirties wearing a suit he'd probably bought at Kohl's, with a circular indention on his ring finger. She pretended not to notice and told him to sit down. Guys like this didn't ask many questions, didn't stick around long, and they weren't the kind of guys she had to worry about shooting her with her own gun because they found being handcuffed to the bedrail kinky. She needed someone tonight. A stranger. Not often, but tonight was one of those nights.
"So how long have you been —"
"Let's just keep it light on the talk this go 'round. Okay?" Anna said.
He smiled and sipped his gin and tonic.
The waitress put her ale on a coaster, and Anna said, "His tab," nodding her head once.
Anna picked up the frosted glass and put it to her mouth. The first mouthful was always her favorite because it washed the stress of the day down the drain that was her throat. The creamy foam was thick like meringue, a Czech pour, bubbles sizzling as her upper lip found the coppery ale, and she took in that first mildly bitter mouthful, then pushed out her cheeks, letting the thick ale floss her teeth before swallowing slowly. A citrusy aftertaste filled her mouth when she exhaled, clean and clear. Before the glass found the coaster, Anna's Blackberry rang.
"Murphy's fucking law," she whispered.
It was her SSA, of course, his name on the caller ID ensuring that she'd be getting anything but sex tonight. Something had just happened or else he wouldn't have ordered her back to the office. God damn it.
"I have to go," she said, slipping a ten-dollar bill on the table next to her nearly full glass of disappointed beer.
Mouth agape for a moment, the man said, "You don't have to —"
"Maybe some other time," she said on her way out, not looking back to see his reaction.
Keeping with the Blue Line Rule she kept her Bucar at the office a few blocks away, so she jogged down the alley, part red brick, part stone brick, and part concrete slab, to Union Street, the dark deciduous trees and towering glass rectangles of the New England Holocaust Memorial separating the narrow alleys of bars and restaurants from the brutalist city-hall building that seemed to cast its grey eyes over the people just across the avenue. And she kept jogging, through City Hall Plaza to Cambridge Street, where the semi-circular Government Center building followed the curve of Cambridge Street, cupping the Supreme Court building, the attorney general's office, and the State House, its symbolic golden dome barely visible from street level. At the northern section of Government Center, where the FBI field office was located, Anna stopped and, for the first time tonight, felt the autumn-like chill in the night air, the thin veil of sweat on her skin capturing every shift in the breeze.
"Your stuff's in the SUV," said her partner, Jonathan Meeks.
Other FBI agents were waiting for her, each wearing a bulletproof vest. Without speaking, they got into three black Chevy Suburbans and headed down Cambridge Street. She sat in the back of the second SUV with Meeks.
"We just got a big tip from one of our CHS's," said Meeks, handing Anna her vest. "Mahmoud Aziz surfaced near Watertown. We have positive ID. We need to take him quickly and quietly."
"You sound like you're on a TV show." She slipped on her vest. "Is Rafferty still watching Aziz's house?" asked Anna.
"Yeah, but we don't think he's going there."
Anna had been working the Aziz case for two months now. Aziz's two partners, the ones she'd helped arrest in Providence, had not given up their partner, the bastard Anna thought was the mastermind behind this small group's plot, so his surfacing in Boston so soon afterwards was a blessing in her eyes. Another case closed after tonight.
"I think DeLaurent has his eyes on you for the supervisor job," said Meeks.
Anna rubbed the back of her teeth with her tongue, staring out the window at her city.
"I overheard him on the STE phone this morning talking about your role in the Russian spy case."
"You had a pretty big role in that case, too," she said, her laconic gaze on him now.
"You didn't write the AAR," he said, then looked down toward the dark floorboard.
"God dammit, Jonathan," she whispered through gritted teeth. You better not have fucked this up. "What'd you put in the report?"
"There's a copy on your desk."
"If I'm going to get supervisor," she whispered, "I want it based on the truth. And you did just as much as I did on that case."
"It's the biggest spy case since the end of the Cold War."
"Jonathan —"
"Look, your instincts were right. If you weren't part of that team, they might not have been caught."
She turned her head back to the window. Beyond copious mature trees along the bank, she gazed at lights from MIT campus reflecting off the black Charles River, and it gave her mind ease. She wasn't going to argue with him. She had to focus on Aziz and make sure that he would not escape again.
They sat in silence until the Suburbans stopped one block down from Waverly Street. They got out; the drivers stayed, vehicles running.
SSA Perkins, whose approaching retirement had opened up the supervisor position, said, "Aziz is inside 6695, that blue and white house on the right, just before the Stop sign. Surveillance shows two entry/exit points, front and back. Ariah's team will cover the back. Stern, Meeks, your group the front."
Ariah's team got back in the SUV and drove toward their drop off point. Perkins got in the other SUV.
And so they went. Four FBI agents, guns drawn, approached the blue and white house. What they didn't anticipate was Aziz exiting the house the moment they reached the edge of the front yard. The son of a bitch saw them immediately and dashed back inside and slammed the door behind him.
It was for this reason that Anna felt Meeks should get the promotion to supervisor. Not only was he tall and muscular, but when missions strayed from the plan, he took charge. His deep voice demanded attention and compliance, which it always got. His face, covered in a short and rugged carpet under a bald head, was like iron, a boxer's chin and deep-set eyes. His Glock 23 looked like a child's toy in his hands. Too bad agents weren't authorized to carry a .44 Magnum, it'd certainly be more fitting.
When Anna was in charge, as was the case in Providence, something bad always seemed to happen, which put them in this position tonight. If she had covered all the bases, Aziz would not have gotten away, she would be a beer closer to sex, and the case would be closed. The others, especially Meeks, didn't seem to notice.
One gunshot from inside the house!
"Active shooter," called Anna through the walkie-talkie.
Now two ... three!
The four agents scattered, taking cover behind large elm trees nearest them.
Rear team was in front of them a few seconds later, the SUVs bumper to bumper at the edge of the front yard to give them cover; the drivers got out, one with a shotgun and the other an MP5.
"It's all inside," yelled Anna. She and the others took cover behind the SUVs. "We need to make sure there's not an alternative way out of that place. That's how the son of a bitch escaped in Providence." He'd escaped through a tunnel that they had no way of knowing about. She wished arresting Aziz would be as easy as arresting the Russians had been. They hadn't put up a fight. They'd hardly changed facial expressions when she told the 'married' couple to face the wall and that they were under arrest. They hadn't spoken. They hadn't had any weapons. They'd only sent shock through the minds of their neighbors that had "known them for years" and "thought they were great friends."
"Ariah's team is covering the door," said Meeks to Anna. "Blinds are all down in back."
Anna heard Perkins in her earpiece, "Rear team, hold your position."
Glass breaking. The sound of shards dribbling down the porch roof was like a car driving over gravel.
Gunshots.
The lead Suburban's windshield took the brunt of the damage, its dashboard the rest.
Anna knelt down quickly as Meeks yelled, "Which window is it coming from?"
"Top left," said Anna.
Meeks told the others to stay down as the gunman fired an automatic weapon from the house again. Sledgehammer bullets attacked the SUV like a snare drum.
Anna's earpiece: Perkins was calling in SWAT.
"Fuck, Anna," said Meeks, "you're bleeding. Get against the door."
Anna looked down at her vest, checked her legs. "What?"
Meeks had taken the first-aid kit from his vest, ripped open a gauze packet, and, keeping his eyes forward toward the blue and white house, gun in one hand, covered the seeping wound on Anna's neck.
"Oh, fuck!" Anna flung her free hand up toward her neck, where Meeks was applying pressure with the gauze. She hadn't felt anything until now — a dull ache pulsed in her neck and her heart felt like it was being chiseled out of her chest. She pulled her hand away and let him help her.
"How bad is it?"
"Probably just a graze," said Meeks.
More gunshots.
She nodded. "I'm fine, Johnnie. Thanks. I got it."
Meeks let go of her neck. The cotton stayed in place, soaking up more of his partner's blood. He grabbed two more packs of gauze, tore them open with his teeth, and pushed the cotton squares over the blood-soaked gauze.
She could hear the Glocks and the MP5 returning fire, then the SUV was hit by four more rounds.
Anna stared up at Meeks, his lips drawn, teeth clenched. She hadn't seen this expression on his face before. She knew that he —
Anna's gaze shifted to the silhouette of a man appearing in the upstairs window of the neighboring house behind Meeks. She saw the gunman take quick aim, yelled, "Get down," as she reached to jerk Meeks to the side, her other hand raising to fire her gun. As she yanked the side of his vest, .357 Magnum shells exploded, three of them. She had gotten off one shot before being blinded by sudden flecks of Meeks' blood stabbing her eyes, and then two thuds to her chest knocked the wind out of her. Her head jerked back and hit the metal door, then she fell forward, her head cradled in a convulsing pillow that was Meeks' hand, most of his body falling on top of her as they fell to the ground. Eyes clasped shut, she tried to gasp for air, but nothing happened. Her body acted as if it was submerged in water and knew better than to inhale. She kept bending her left leg and then straightening it spasmodically, but the pain was still dull. Her left-hand fingers were digging into the thin grass, damp soil packing underneath her unpolished nails as she tried getting out from under Meeks, her Glock still firmly in her right hand.
She felt Meeks' body start to convulse as she continued trying to take in air and yell the word shooter, but nothing happened. She and Meeks were going to die because of her inability to react more quickly, she thought; letting Aziz escape in Providence and now not being able to get her breath.
More gunfire from Aziz. Metal deforming and embedding.
On her eighth try, her body finally accepted a lungful of air, and she was able to roll Meeks onto his back. She gasped noisily, yelled, "Second shooter!", and cleared her eyes with her left sleeve while taking aim at the now empty window.
In her periphery, she saw Meeks' convulsions. Trying to move, pain knifed its way from her neck to her ear, and she fell back against the SUV door, mouth gaping, eyes taking in bleary constellations, but she kept her gun raised and ready, even if she couldn't see.
"Sec ..." she tried to say again, but coughing filled her throat. She could hear the faint sound of sirens interrupted with more gunfire.
Another thud, this time her left shoulder. She yelped in pain. Another bullet hit her left arm. She knew that she was going to die tonight, on this fucking lawn by this fucking asshole helping a terrorist that she shouldn't have let get away in Providence.
Before her right hand could cover any wound, she felt her body being pulled closer toward the other Suburban, arm burning just above her elbow where the bullet had struck, the sensation like boiling oil on her skin. She willed herself to stay conscious as her warm blood soaked her shirt underneath her vest. To close her eyes would be to give up on Meeks, to give up on capturing or killing Aziz, and, most of all, to give up on life. Closing her eyes would be the last physical movement her living body would make that night. And she couldn't fail at that, too.
Sirens closer.
Gunfire. More gunfire.
The pain in Anna's shoulder and arm grew numb as her eyelids became heavy. She wanted to close her eyes so badly, but knew that she had to stay conscious. That god damn terrorist was not going to win. The Russians had been easy. Aziz's partners had even gone quite easily. But not Aziz. Like a cornered animal, he had something —
"We got 'em," yelled the agent that had pulled her to the SUV.
She tried to focus on the agent's face, but it was blurry. His voice sounded familiar, but she didn't know if he had said 'got them' or 'got him'. All she was certain of was the pungent stink of gunpowder burning in her nostrils, the constant draft of cold, dry air hitting the right side of her face from underneath the Suburban, and her failure tonight.
Wigwags flashed now like an obscene disco ball.
She stared up at her blurry world with a numb body. Her lips were dry.
"You're going to be okay."
"Meeks," she mumbled repeatedly, sounding more like she was repeating "ks" as more figures approached.
"You're going to be okay."
She couldn't move. Could hardly swallow. Is this what it felt like to be paralyzed?
Two figures in white shirts knelt down beside her. She thought they were asking her questions, but their voices sounded more like someone plucking cello strings. And she, "ks, ks, ks ..."
As they strapped her to the backboard, she fought to keep her eyes open. As they lifted her up and placed her on the stretcher, she thought about what Meeks had done to the report he'd turned in covering the Russian spy arrests a few months ago. How she knew he loved her. She felt the stretcher rise, the sound of clanking and clasping metal locking into place. The thud of the stretcher as her bleeding, limp body was slid into the ambulance. She wanted to cry. Anna closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 2The news about Matthew Rebeck's death hadn't caused a stir in the Boston suburb of Dedham except inside 221 Tremaine, where Kate Rebeck found a blue sedan parked in front of her house and two army officers standing on her doorstep. She'd invited them inside, and one told her that her husband had been killed by an IED. The chaplain was kind enough to define it as a roadside bomb. She had been asked to fly to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware to receive the body. They'd spoken slowly and handed Kate a tissue when it was obvious that she was content to let her mascara and tears fall in black drops to her black skirt.
What Kate hadn't known those two months ago was that her teenage daughter, Lilly, had been standing by the doorway in the other room, listening in on the conversation. When Lilly heard the part about her father being killed in Afghanistan, she retreated to her bedroom. The day had been bright and sunny and cool. There were still no clouds in the sky today, Lilly noticed, gazing out her second-floor window. And her mother hadn't tried talking to her about her father yet — two months, and hardly a word about anything.
Lilly felt obligated to cry today, but her body wouldn't respond. She peered around the room, looking for something sentimental that might jerk a tear from her dry eyes — bare dresser, made bed, a music stand, her violin case, her backpack, her desk, a few Van Gogh and Monet posters on the wall — nothing brought her to mimic her mother's weeping. She loved her father, but it just ... just didn't seem real. When he left, he told her that he'd see her next year, and she had prepared herself to be without a father for a full year, and that time was seven months away ... nine months when those soldiers had visited to tell her mother that she was a widow. These feelings — or lack of feelings — scared her. Lilly was old enough to know that a child should cry if a parent died. To not cry probably meant that something was wrong with her, like all those sociopaths on her mom's favorite show — Criminal Minds. It probably meant that she should see a therapist and start taking one of those pills that filled up the commercial time between scenes of those TV sociopaths killing someone or the theories of how a victimized woman or abused child would cope with their post-traumatic stress. At least that's what her music teacher, Mr. Thompson, would say, she thought. To fill up that commercial time with anything less depressing would be downright criminal. But he was a conspiracy theorist when not at his day job.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Red Nocturne by Bill Mullen. Copyright © 2015 Bill Mullen. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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