As the morning sun roused from its cloudy slumber and a halo of rays poured over Caldwell, New York, two young boys, ages twelve and nine, were hoofing it to school.
And neither one of them was impressed by all the "spring splendor."
Whatever that was.
Their mom kept going on and on about spring splendor , spring splendor . . . bleh. What Joey Mason cared about was gym: Mondays he usually had gym, but today they were having a special assembly. So no matter how "spring splendor" it was outside, he was still on his way to a day of school with nothing to look forward to.
His little brother, Tony, on the other hand, liked assemblies more than gym, so he was psyched. But he was a geek who slept with books, so what did he know about anything.
The walk from home to school was about eight blocks long and nothing big . . . just down St. Francis Street by the church and some other stuff. They were supposed to stay on the right side, because there was a gas station on the left that had lots of traffic in and out of its driveway. And they were supposed to stop at every corner curb. Which Joey did--usually while grabbing Tony's collar to keep him from walking right into a car.
Tony always walked with a book open. Just like he ate reading and went to the bathroom reading and got dressed reading.
Stupid. Just stupid, because you missed so much if you weren't looking around.
Like this cool car they were coming up on. The windows were black and the body was black and it had a number for a license plate: 010. That was it; no letters. Joey glanced over at his little brother, and sure enough Tony hadn't noticed.
His loss.
The thing looked like one of those police-type jobbies.
As they came up to it, he nabbed his brother's collar and yanked him up short. Tony didn't question the stop--just turned another page. He probably thought they were at a curb.
Joey leaned in a little and tried to see inside, all the while braced for something in a uniform to get out and yell at them for being nosy. When he saw nothing and nothing happened, he cupped his hands and put them against the cold glass--
He jumped back. "I think there's someone in there."
"Is not," Tony said without lifting his head.
"Is too."
"Is not."
"Is too. And how would you know?"
"Is not."
Okay, Tony didn't know what he was talking about and this argument could go on forever. And then he and his little brother would be late for homeroom and he'd get grounded. Again.
But . . .
How coooooooooool if they found a dead body--right in front of the McCready Funeral Home!
Dropping his book bag, Joey moved his brother away from the car by picking him up and relocating his feet. "This is dangerous. I don't want you hurt."
That finally got Tony's eyes out of the book. "Is there really somebody inside?"
"You stay back."
It was the kind of thing his father would have said, and Joey felt all big-man about it--especially as Tony nodded and held his book to his chest. But this was how it was supposed to be. Joey was gonna be thirteen soon, and he was in charge when there was no one else around. And sometimes even when there were other folks in sight.
Recupping his hands, he resumed his position against the glass, and retried to see past the darkened--"It's a pirate!"
"You're lyin'."
"No, I'm not--"
A car slowed to a halt in front of them and a lady put down her window--it was Mrs. Alonzo from across the street. "What are you up to now, boys?"
Like all they did was get up to stuff.
Part of Joey wanted her to keep going and let him run this situation. But the other part wanted to show off. "There's a dead guy in here."
He felt very important as she got all white and nervy-lookin'. Man, if he'd known all this was going to happen, he would have been in more of a hurry leaving the house. This was way better than gym.
Except then Tony had to jump in. "It's a pirate!"
Abruptly, Mrs. Alonzo didn't look so grown-up scared. "A pirate."
His brother was such a pain--and Joey was not about to lose his audience. Pirates were a kid thing. Dead guy in a car? That was all grown-up, and that was where he wanted to be.
"See for yourself," he said.
Mrs. Alonzo pulled her Lexus in front of the black-on-black car and got out, her high heels making pony-clopping sounds on the road. "Okay, enough, boys. Get in and I'll drive you the rest of the way to school. You're going to be late." She held out her phone to Joey. "Call your mother and tell her I'm taking you in. Again."
This did happen a lot. Mrs. Alonzo was a business lady whose office was not far from school, and they were late a lot and she did drive them a lot. But this morning was different.
He crossed his arms over his chest. "You have to look in the window."
"Joey--"
"Please." Another grown-up thing: the please-and-thank-you stuff.
"Fine. But get in my car."
Mrs. Alonzo marched over while grouching something about being a taxi service. And Tony, who always followed the rules, took his book into the front seat of her SUV--except he was still interested in what was happening because he didn't shut the door and Diary of a Wimpy Kid Dog Days remained against his chest.
Joey stayed put.
Normally, he would have gotten upset about Tony taking the better seat: older brothers rode in the front; younger babies went in the back. But there were things more important than that right now, so he stayed where he was on the sidewalk, the phone unused in his hand.
He was wondering what he'd seen--
Mrs. Alonzo leaped back so far, she nearly ended up in traffic, a minivan honking its horn as it barely missed her.
She ran over and snatched the phone as well as his arm. "Get in the car, Joey--"
"What is it? Is it a dead guy?" Jeez, what if it was a pirate--holy shit! Mrs. Alonzo put her phone to her ear as she dragged him to her Lexus. "Yes, this is an emergency. There's a man in a car in front of the McCready Funeral Home on St. Francis. I don't know if there's something wrong with him, but he's behind the wheel and he doesn't seem to be moving. . . . I have small children with me and I don't want to open the door--right. . . ."
Small children. God, he hated that small-children stuff. He was the one who'd found the guy, after all. How many grown-ups had tooled by on their way to work and not seen it? Biked by? Run by?
It was his dead guy.
"My name is Margarita Alonzo. Yes, I'll stay until the paramedics and police get here."
Okay. This was officially the best morning in the history of his life, Joey thought as he jumped into the backseat--which had the best view, as it turned out.
As Mrs. Alonzo got in and locked all the doors, he imagined the three of them being here until noon, one o'clock. Maybe they'd get a Happy Meal for lunch. He really hoped the police didn't rush--
The bummer of all bummers hit him when he heard Mrs. Alonzo say, "Sarah? I have your boys, and they're okay. But there's a little problem and I need you to come pick them up."
Joey put his head down on his arm.
Knowing his luck, his mother would zoom to the scene and get here before he found out about the dead pirate in the front seat of that car.
Ruined. Just ruined.
And they were probably going to get to school right in time for the assembly.
As Matthias slept behind the wheel of his car, he dreamed of the night Jim Heron had saved his life over and over again. The events that had led up to the bomb and the long, painful trek back to relative health played and replayed in an endless loop through his mind, as if the needle on his old-fashioned mental record player was stuck.
Matthias had lured Jim Heron to that abandoned, dusty hut as a witness because there was nobody else in the XOps community whose word held more weight and credibility. The idea had been for the soldier to leave the body parts in the sand and go home to tell the others there had been a terrible accident: If anyone else had filed a report like that, the assumption would have been that they had done the killing. Not in Jim's case, though--he was a straight shooter in a world full of curves, and he'd never had any problem copping to what he'd done, right or wrong.
Which was proof there was a little bit of good in Matthias, after all--at least he wasn't dumping his suicide on the head of another guy.
And yeah, of course he could have just blown his own head off in a bathroom somewhere, but although he was suicidal, he had his pride. Taking a self- administered lead injection was just too fucking weak--much better to spackle the crap out of a few stone walls and be mourned as the strong fighter he'd always been.
Pride, however, had had its costs: instead of leaving him in the sand, that cocksucker Heron had saved him--and figured out his little secret. The explosive device had been the tip-off. As Matthias had lain there bleeding like a stuck pig, Jim had found remnants of the bomb and recognized them for what they were. Namely, one of their own.
The SOB had taken the fragments, put them in his pocket, and slipped off his belt. Then he'd thrown a tourniquet on Matthias's leg, picked him up, and started hauling ass. He'd been royally pissed off, and his savior routine had clearly been part punishment, part leverage--and all consuming. The bastard had walked and walked and walked . . . until sometime later, Isaac Rothe had showed up among the dunes with a Land Rover.
Jim's demands had come weeks afterward, at a hospital in Germany. By that point, Matthias's head had been nothing but a huge hot-air balloon of agony, and he was having to get used to only one eye working. Heron had sat at the bedside and laid down his terms: Out. Free and clear. Or he took what was left of the bomb and all of the story to the only person who could have done anything about it.
Hello, Mr. President.
Irony of ironies, had it been any other soldier, any other human with a beating heart and a trigger finger, Matthias wouldn't have worried about the threat. But again, Jim Heron--good ol' Zacharias--was one of those motherfuckers people believed in. Bomb fragments could be fabricated; the believability of a worthy guy? Pretty damn indisputable.
And there was no surviving as boss if people didn't think you had the balls for the job anymore.
At that point, Matthias had felt like there was no other choice, and told the man to go along his merry way.
In the aftermath, the suicidal thing had come back and he had considered it seriously. But then his second in command had shown up just in time--sure as if the guy had seen where he was headed.
Very persuasive man, that one. And as it had turned out, Jim had saved his body, but that second in command had somehow brought him back to life.
Although there had been consequences to the renewal: almost immediately, Matthias had opened his eyes--or one eye, as it were--to the mistake of letting Heron go: that soldier was out in the world with too much information, and the exposure wasn't acceptable.
His second in command had agreed, and they had been about to set the wheels in motion for an "accident" when Jim had called looking for information on one Marie-Terese Boudreau. Perfect. Timing. The plan had been to have Jim take out Isaac in exchange for the intel he wanted--and then to murder Jim.
Except someone had gotten to Heron first.
Dead. Jim was dead. Matthias had seen the body with his own eyes. And yet . . . somehow he felt as though he'd spoken to the guy. Yes, he had dreamed that he had talked with Jim Heron--
Matthias came awake with his gun in his hand, the safety off the weapon and the muzzle pointed at a white guy in a navy blue uniform--who had, going by the jimmy in his hand, just pried the lock and opened the car door.
The paramedic froze and put his hands up. "I just want to help you, man."
Probably true enough. But damn it to hell, the guy's partner was undoubtedly calling in the police right now, and p.s., doing any kind of face-to-face with a civilian wasn't a bene in Matthias's book.
He lowered his gun. "I'm a federal agent." He put his hand into his coat and decided to flash his FBI credentials--which were legit to a point.
The paramedic leaned in and squinted at the laminated photograph and the bullshit name and the very real crest. "Oh . . . sorry, sir. We got a call. . . ."
"It's okay. Just pulled three days straight up at the Canadian border and I'm on my way to Manhattan. I got off the Northway looking for some chow around four a.m., but there was nothing open and I had to get some sleep. You know how that is."
"Oh, I so get that."
Chatter, chatter, chatter . . . blah, blah, blah . . .
When the police showed up, they ran the ID in their system, and gee frickin' whiz, it checked out. And his story about being on a classified mission and having to pull over from exhaustion was consumed like a Thanksgiving dinner: He went from criminal to celebrity.
Stupid fools.
After he sent them off, he drove away himself and took his phone out. There were a number of voice mails . . . and one high alert.
Well, what do you know . . . looked like Isaac Rothe had turned himself in and his location was the house of his lovely and talented defense attorney. How fucking perfect: Although they could have picked him off standing up in Grier Childe's kitchen if they'd absolutely had to, this was going to make things much less complicated.
Matthias called his number two, and as the phone rang, he thought of how many times he'd had this conversation: Go. Get the bastard. Cap him. Take care of the body. He'd done it so many times.
As that pain in the left side of his chest fired up again, he ignored the sensation--
"Yeah?" his number two answered.
"Isaac Rothe is ready for you."
There wasn't even a pause. "The Beacon Hill address?"
"Yes. Go there now and get him."
"I'm out of state."
"Well, get `in state' and get to him. ASAP."
"Roger that. Where do you want him?"
Good question. Isaac wasn't known for great escapes; his reputation was for fast, clean kills in extraordinary circumstances. But you didn't pull off jobs like he had without being highly resourceful.
"Hold him at that house for me," Matthias said abruptly.
As he considered the situation, instinct told him that a change in strategy was appropriate. After all, Grier Childe and her father could use some reining in--and nothing got a civilian's attention more than watching someone get murdered. Good old Albie was proof of that--
For some reason, Jim Heron's voice popped into Matthias's brain. No specific words, just a tone that lingered, a grave, imploring tone that made Matthias feel like he had to stop everything and . . . do what exactly?
"Hello?" his number two demanded, like the guy had either said something that hadn't been responded to or there'd been nothing but silence for a while.
"I don't want you to kill him," Matthias heard himself say.
"Oh, I know. You're going to do that yourself." Satisfaction. Such satisfaction, like that was the plan all along.
For no good reason, Matthias's central processor started to spark and smoke, images flitting in and out of his mind in a mad jumble that made him think of dice rolling across a felt table. And then from out of the chaos, he saw Alistair Childe being held up off a filthy rug by two operatives in black as his son was injected with enough heroin to put an elephant into a perma-nod.
Danny . . . oh, Danny, my boy . . . Like that Irish bar song, only not musical at all when a father was hoarsely crying out the words.
"Boss," his number two cut in. "Talk to me. What's going on."
So level-voiced, but it was a false pragmatism. The soldier was no doubt worried that the wheels were falling off again--that just as he had two years ago, he was going to have to drag Matthias into his fighting boots once more.
"Do not kill him," Matthias heard himself repeat. "That's an order."
"I know, so you can do it. He's for you. You have to take him."
For a moment, Matthias felt an inescapable, tantalizing draw . . . "No," he blurted, shaking hmself. "No, I don't."
"Yes, you must--"
"Just follow the fucking order without commentary or I'll find someone else who will."
With a curse, he hung up, sent a signal back to Isaac and then tried to find some solid internal ground to stand on. Shit, all of sudden, he felt like he had two different voices in his head and not only were they pulling him in opposite directions, neither was his own.
Fortunately, the return transmission from Rothe cut into the struggle.
"Matthias," came that old, familiar voice.
"Isaac. How are you."
"Where? When?"
"Always so to the point." Matthias pushed his knee into the bottom of the steering wheel to keep the sedan on the road while he massaged the pain in his left pec. "I'm sending someone for you. So you stay put."
"Unacceptable. I can't be picked up here."
"Dictating terms? I don't think so."
"Grier Childe is not going to be involved in this. I'll turn myself in at midnight tomorrow in a public place."
"And now you want to tell me when? Fuck you, Rothe. If you want her to stay out of it, you'll do what I tell you to. Or do you think I can't get past that fancy security system of hers on any night of my choosing?" Silence. "Surprised that I know about the damn thing? Well, there are other tricks to that house, Isaac. I wonder how many of them you know about."
See, this was good. The back and forth was clearing out some of that fuzzy, foggy, waffling shit--and it reminded him of the reason behind Daniel Childe's death: good ol' Albie's flapping gums.
A shot of adrenaline woke him up even further as he wondered just what kind of plans Isaac and the retired captain might have been hatching while he was out cold at the side of the road.
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, you stay tight--and in case you've gotten any bright ideas from that father of hers, let me set you straight. If you do anything to expose me or my organization, I will do things to that woman that she will survive physically and never heal from. And know this: My reach extends beyond my own grave." More silence. "You've met the father--don't deny it. And I'm well aware he's been trying to take notes on XOps for the last decade. No bright ideas, Isaac. For her sake. Or I'll ignore you and come after her. I'll let you live a long life, knowing that you are the reason she's ruined from the inside out--"
"She's not part of this!" Rothe hissed. "She's got nothing to do with me or her goddamn father!"
"Maybe. But shit happens. And I assigned her to you for a good reason--which panned out better than I thought. I never expected the two of you to get so personally involved--or did you think I didn't hear what the pair of you got up to in that guest bedroom of hers last night?" Matthias fought against the pain in his chest, feeling as if he were drowning. "Don't make me hurt her, Isaac. I'm getting tired of all that, I truly am. Stay where you are--I'm sending someone, and you'll know when he gets there. And if you and her and her father are not there when he arrives, I'm going to have him find her, not you. You follow instructions and I'll make sure no one but you gets hurt."
Matthias hit the end button and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Wincing, he struggled to keep the car heading straight as the agony behind his ribs swelled to unmanageable levels. Under the onslaught, he briefly thought about driving over to the Caldwell International Airport again, but he decided to keep driving because he needed to get a grip and that was going to take time. And privacy.
Squeezing his left pec, he pulled over and tried to breathe through the pain in his chest. Which didn't really help much . . . to the point where he wondered whether this was it. The Big One. Just like what had killed off his father.
Looking out of the front windshield, he realized he was in front of a church.
For no good reason, he turned off the engine, picked up his cane and got out. He hadn't been in anything remotely God-like for years and to be limping toward its huge double doors felt . . . wrong in a lot of ways. Especially given everything that was waiting for him in Boston. But his number two needed time to get things set and Matthias . . . needed this heart attack to either get organized and kick his bucket or shut the fuck up.
Inside was warm and smelled of incense and lemon floor polish. The place was huge, with hundreds and hundreds of pews spanning out in three directions from where the altar was.
Matthias didn't make it all the way to the back. He collapsed in a sit about halfway down the side aisle, all but falling onto the wooden bench.
Moving his cane between his knees he looked up at the crucifix . . . and began to cry.
