I’m Molly again, and I’m not going to make it.
“You killed him too. Didn’t you? I went to Devon’s house Saturday morning. He never stopped by after work, never called. I knew he was getting restless. I had told him he had to lie low after getting caught on video. Sloppy! We had to rein things in, keep it tight. But that’s the problem with trained dogs—sometimes they fight the leash. So I went to Devon’s house to check up on him, and what did I discover? All those police cars, the crime scene tape. You. I saw you sitting in the back of the patrol car, garbage smeared all over your face. And just like that, I knew what you’d cost me. Again.
“Did you really think I’d just let you go? Walk away a second time? That I wouldn’t follow you back to your place? That I wouldn’t hang out on the fire escape, waiting until your landlords had stepped out to come back down, pick the lock to their apartment, and steal the master keys? Then, when all was quiet, I unlocked the door and walked straight into your apartment. A little chloroform cocktail to disorient, a quick shot of sedative to knock you out completely, and that was that. I replaced the keys in your landlord’s apartment, then hustled you down to my own personal taxi. I drive it at nights. The perfect way to earn extra cash while cruising the streets for fresh opportunities.
“No one notices a taxi driver. No one even questions one loading a stumbling, disoriented woman into the back of the cab. Poor thing is drunk; good thing a taxi is taking her home.
“Now, everything is exactly as Daddy would’ve wanted it to be. You and me together again. Except this time, I’m the one with the gun, and you’re the one who will never leave.
“You’re mine. You’ll always be mine,” Lindy whispers, and just like that, she’s in the doorway, right beside me. I don’t need light to know there’s a smile on her face.
No more thinking. No planning. No preparation.
She might have found me first, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know this day was coming.
I slice the piece of jagged glass across her face.
She screams.
I turn and bolt down the hall.
*
D.D. DROVE. In terms of distance, it wasn’t far from the nightclub to South Boston. Through narrow winding streets and way too many red lights, she careened, fishtailed, and flashed her lights. Keynes gripped the oh-shit handle above the door but didn’t say a word.
She found her way to the tenement housing from memory. Once upon a time, in the days of Whitey Bulger, this section of Boston had belonged to the Irish. It had been a hub of gangland activity, drugs, and poverty. In the 1990s, however, rent control had ended, forcing many low-income families from the area while the demand for waterfront real estate led to a nearly overnight gentrification. But before there could be progress, first there had to be demo. Which had been long and ongoing, with at least one stretch of boarded-up former tenement houses shuttered away behind a chain-link fence, still awaiting its fate.
She came to the fencing first. Drove around looking for a gate, discovered two other patrol cars already parked in front. An officer looked up as she pulled in. He held up a chain in front of her headlights. Enough for her to see the padlock was missing.
Meaning they weren’t the first people to be accessing the property.
D.D. killed her lights; then she and Keynes climbed out of the car, approached the other officers. She could hear sirens in the distance, other units responding to the call. She frowned.
Currently, Natalie Draga was holed up with at least two kidnapping victims. Broadcast the police’s approach and she might spook, leading to a hostage situation or worse.
This would have to be a stealth operation all the way. Like the SWAT team raid against Jacob Ness, who hadn’t had a clue until the first tear gas canister shattered his motel window.
D.D. got on the radio, made the call. Thirty seconds later, the distant sirens cut off abruptly, and only the sound of the approaching engines remained. Better.
She gathered the four officers. One of them reported having found an abandoned taxi just up the street. Otherwise, all appeared quiet and they had yet to see anyone enter the property.
D.D. nodded. The abandoned housing project was large. Six, seven massive brick buildings, all featuring boarded-up windows and crumbling facades. God knew about structural integrity, let alone what else they’d find inside. Squatters, drug addicts, rodents of all sizes. This would take finesse.
“We’ll work in teams of two. Start at the perimeter, work your way to the center. Classic grid search. Look for any trace of light coming from the edges of a window, footprints in the dust, recently disturbed entrances, picked locks, that sort of thing. Don’t approach on your own. Just recon. We have at least two victims trapped somewhere inside, and a suspect with nothing to lose. We need to control the situation first, not escalate.”
Officers nodded, snapped on flashlights, and prepared to enter.
D.D. walked back with Keynes to her vehicle. She kept her voice low. “Want to wait in the car?”
“No.”
“Got a vest?”
“I’m hoping you have a spare.”
She paused. “You have any fieldwork training?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Because, um . . .” She stumbled over the words, couldn’t help herself. “I’m on restricted duty. I don’t have a sidearm. I can shoot, though. I mean, I’ve been practicing. Just the standard two-handed stance is a little tricky with my shoulder right now. But straight on. I can do it. I can.”
He seemed to understand what she saying. “I have a backup piece. Thirty-eight.”
“Trade you for my shotgun?”
“Makes sense.”
She popped open the trunk of her vehicle, where she had supplies for tactical situations, including an extra vest and a gun locker.
“So,” he said conversationally, as they geared up, “a wounded detective and a federal PhD.”
“Best cavalry ever,” she assured him.
“We’d better get it right because the paperwork alone will make us both wish we were dead.”
D.D. smiled, tried to pretend her hands weren’t shaking. What had Phil said, she needed to rely more on her team? Well, she’d communicated. This wasn’t her entering alone. She had officers in front, a feebie at her side, and backup on its way.
She was learning, adapting.
Still, taking Keynes’s .38, a gun that used to feel so natural in her grasp . . .
She pictured Jack. She pictured Alex. She promised herself she’d return home to them soon enough.
Then, she followed Keynes into the abandoned housing complex.
Chapter 48
THE FIRST BULLET WINGS OVER MY SHOULDER. I duck reflexively, veering right as drywall explodes to my left. A second shot, third, fourth.
She’s laughing as she pulls the trigger. Maybe not even aiming, but enjoying the show as I dart right, then left, then right, flinching and ducking. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder, to see how close I am to impending death. Instead, I keep on trucking, bare feet pounding down the debris-littered corridor.
In self-defense class, a teacher had advised us to flee if ever confronted by someone with a gun. Apparently it’s astonishingly difficult to hit a moving target. At least, your odds of survival are higher running from a shooting gunman than, say, getting into a car with him and driving to a remote location where he can do exactly what he wants.
So I sprint. Chest heaving. Elbows tucked tight, head ducked low, trying to make myself a smaller target. My foot hits something sharp, then something stabbing. There’s no time to pause, pick out slivers of wood or, worse, pieces of glass. I keep on running, transitioning from a relatively domesticated section of the building to some kind of construction zone, the smell of dust and neglect heavier in the air. The hall is too dark for me to see where I’m going or adjust my footsteps to avoid the sharpest objects.
More shots fired.