The Unsayable Sums
Title: The Unsayable Sums - Part V
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word Count: ~8,000
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
Wallingford, New Hampshire
Chris looked at his watch. “Exactly how bad a driver is your deputy?”
"Nathan's not my deputy. In fact, he's not a deputy at all,” Steve said patiently. “He’s probably snowed in at Connor’s place. Do you want me to call them?”
“No, forget it,” Chris said. “Something else bothers me. Padalecki said he saw a black guy, right?”
Steve smiled a little. “Yeah, I was wondering about that too.”
“How does the joke go? Hear gunshots, look for the scariest black guy around,” Chris said dryly. “Looking for a big black man in Wallingford’s going to be pretty easy, and he’s got to know that. I’m not saying Wallingford’s knee-deep in racists-r-us, but the shooter’s going to have a hard time getting people to let him in unless he beats the crap out of them first.”
“And if that happens, the door-to-door’s fucked from the get-go.” Steve finished Chris’ train of logic. “Days like today make me wish I never applied for this fucking job.”
“I changed my mind: make the call. See what’s holding up Nathan.”
Connor’s phone rang with no answer.
“Motherfucker,” Steve said and slammed the receiver into its cradle. “We have to go, now.”
“This time we take back-up. If the bastard’s there, we can’t afford to let him get away a second time,” Chris said.
“Agreed.”
Steve had Sharon make a few calls before heading out with Chris. Their cruiser was joined by two trucks as they left Wallingford proper and into the farming lands. It didn’t take long for the caravan to find Connor’s home as the fire that was raging through the building brilliantly lit the night sky in spite of the snowstorm.
“Jesus,” Steve said as he and Chris got out of the cruiser.
The three volunteers piled out of their trucks, faces pale with shock as they watched the fire consume everything.
Chris looked around the main house, hoping to find Donaldson. He came away empty-handed. Steve ordered the men to fan out about the property but they were also unsuccessful, and no one could approach the building because of the heat.
Steve helplessly watched as the roof collapsed, bringing down the second story with it. “Oh dear God, Nathan...”
Chris turned to his friend and saw tears flicker in Steve’s eyes. “You can’t think about Nathan right now. We have an emergency.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to get to Jensen. The bastard’s went after Larry because he suspected Patrick told his father something," Chris said. “And that leaves just one other person he has to take care of: Padalecki. We have to call Jensen right now. Have him meet us at the Pass or have him arm himself until we get him.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s go back to the station. This is now officially a manhunt and a rescue operation.”
Earl Hanford moaned as he got into his old Subaru. No matter what the good mayor says about these new plows, It’s colder than a witch’s tit inside the damn things, Earl thought as he cranked up the car’s heater to maximum. In spite of his discomfort, Earl actually smiled as he watched the snowfall. They got lucky: this was the first snowstorm of this strength and it was already January. If history were anything to go by, Wallingford would be hit with only two more blizzards of this magnitude before March.
Good for us, bad for the skiers, Earl thought as he wiggled his fingers in order to get rid of the tingling. Well, fuck ‘em. Bunch of rich assholes…
“Don’t move,” Sterling said as he pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Earl’s skull.
“Jesus, take what you want. I’m no hero,” Earl pleaded.
“That’s good. That’s very good, keep thinking like that and you’ll live. Give me your wallet.”
Earl handed it over his shoulder. Sterling quickly flipped through the family photos and read the license. He returned the wallet and said, “Earl, I know your name and I know where you live. I also know you have wife and daughter, and what they look like. Are you hearing me, Earl?”
“Yes, yes, I swear I won’t do anything stupid. Just tell me what you want.”
“How many snowplows are out there right now?”
“From Wallingford - just three. The state’s too busy with the highways and don’t bother with small towns like us until sunrise.”
“Good, I see you’re a smart man for telling me the truth. I want you to call the other two and get them here. Tell them you have mechanical problems, tell them anything you want. But I want them here, Earl, and I want them here within thirty minutes.
“Think you can do that, Earl?”
“I can get them here,” Earl said. He closed his eyes then asked weakly, “Are you going to hurt them?”
“No, actually, I just need the snowplows. All of them.” Sterling tapped the gun against Earl’s temple and said, “Do it now, please.”
“Okay, okay.”
Earl did exactly as he was told and was proven good on his word when both snowplows showed up in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, Earl wasn’t conscious to celebrate this fact. The other two drivers, Isaiah Johnson and Seb Mason, soon joined their buddy as Sterling also managed to render them unconscious. He jammed the three men into Earl’s snowplow before disabling its engine.
Sterling knew leaving them alive was breaking protocol but he didn’t want to shed any more blood than necessary. Besides, what would Earl tell the police? He didn’t see Sterling and voice identification would be laughed out of court if it were admissible to begin with.
Sterling disabled the second plow but commandeered the third. He climbed into the cockpit and familiarized himself with the controls while Contadino struggled to maneuver the Trailblazer onto the road from its hiding spot. As soon as this fucking mess was over Sterling was going to make Contadino bleed. Because of that asshole, he was now forced to deal with Padalecki in an environment Sterling was uncomfortable with. And there was also the fact the basketball player was holed up with Sterling’s favorite author.
It was a rare thing indeed to move the assassin emotionally and spiritually, but Ackles’ novels had succeeded in doing both. Sterling admired the writer for his unflinching love of the truth, no matter how unpleasant it was, and Ackles’ sparse style actually added a level of candor and pathos that no flowery descriptions could.
I don’t want to kill him, Sterling finally admitted to himself. I admire Ackles and I don’t want to be the reason for his absence in the world. I look forward to reading his books and there’s so little that could hold my interest these days.
Sterling vowed if Ackles had to die alongside Padalecki, then Contadino would join them. He saw Manzoni’s lap dog get out of the truck and make his way to him. Sterling stepped out of the snowplow but didn’t climb down, which forced Contadino to look up at him.
“What do we do now?” Contadino asked as he noticed the other two plows, now deadweight, parked on the side of the road.
“We’re going to get Padalecki,” Sterling answered. “You take the car and follow me.”
Sterling started the snowplow and cautiously drove into the night with the Chevy trailing behind him like a crippled animal. Even at top speed it took them over an hour to reach Ackles’ home. After hiding their respective rides in the woods, the two men scoped the homestead from top of a nearby hill.
Sterling noted a dilapidated barn, a small tool shed, and a garage separate from the main house; Sterling guessed it was probably because Ackles also used it as a workshop. They quietly made their way down the hill and hid behind the garage. Sterling peeked inside and saw a SUV parked alongside an old black Chevy whose engine was sitting on a block. It looked like Ackles was building the car from skin up. Sterling broke in but kept the light off as he fumbled around, looking for a phone. He swore softly when he didn’t find any.
“You check the other buildings,” Sterling said. “I’ll do the house.”
Sterling circumnavigated the sprawling log home in order to locate the phone line. He severed it as soon as he found it then circled once more to find the box housing the security system. He was unsuccessful.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself and waited behind the garage for Contadino to join him.
“Did you get everything?” Contadino asked.
“I got the phones but I couldn’t find the security line,” Sterling answered.
“Fuck,” Contadino said and looked at the house. “It’s buried then?”
“Makes sense. If the line runs outside the house, the security firm would have to come up here every other week to repair it because of wildlife.”
“What do you want to do?” Contadino asked.
Sterling had been asking that very same question through the entire drive and now that he was here, Sterling was at a loss. His indecision should’ve worried him but the assassin knew better. Sterling didn’t want Ackles to pay the price for being a good Samaritan. Not that he had any problems killing people who had been unfortunate enough to get in his way, but Ackles wasn’t some unknown quantity.
Sterling still remembered the stanza Ackles had scribbled on the title page:
We saw not clearly nor understood,
But, yielding ourselves to the master-hand,
Each in his part as best he could,
We played it through as the author planned.
The words were unfamiliar to Sterling, so he set out to find who wrote them. When he discovered it was by Alan Seeger, the former soldier was strangely touched. It moved Sterling to know that Ackles took pains to remember lines written by a poet long forgotten by modern times.
Sterling picked up a hand shovel from the floor and said, “Wait here. I’ll take care of it.”
He circled the house until he saw the two men in the den, talking. He only saw the Ackles’ head and shoulders but Padalecki was standing so Sterling got a good look at the athlete.
Sterling couldn’t believe how badly he’d missed.
With a cautious look over his shoulders Sterling stepped back until he was well out of reach from the strands of light cascading from the house. Then, with his usual accuracy, Sterling threw the tool through the window. He silently watched the men scatter in order not to get cut by the flying shards of glass.
Sterling shouted, “We want Padalecki! No one else needs to get hurt!” before swiftly returning to the garage.
Contadino was waiting for him, his face apoplectic. “Why the fuck did you talk to them?”
“Because I wanted to,” Sterling answered. “This is my job, Contadino, not yours. My ass is on the line, not yours, so why don’t you shut your trap and save us some grief?”
Contadino looked ready to revolt but at the last moment he whirled around and went inside the garage. Sterling didn’t follow. Instead, he waited outside, wondering what Ackles and Padalecki were going to do next.
Jared looked out into the storm. “Jesus, he tracked me here? In that?”
“He said ‘we’ so there’s more than the one shooter you saw.” Jensen tried the phone, not at all surprised to find it dead. “My car’s out in the garage. I’m guessing they’ve either disabled it or waiting for us to make a run for it.”
Jared closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet. Jensen grabbed his hand and pulled him into a chair. Jensen knew theoretically it was possible that the killer could track down Jared to his house, but he didn’t believe it could really happen. However, now that his worst fear had been confirmed, the nebulous dread in the back of his brain had solidified into a dark, writhing mass.
For a moment, Jensen wondered if he could convince Jared to make a run for it.
As soon as that thought entered his mind, Jensen was flooded with shame. That he could even think of allowing Jared to go to his execution seemed like a mortal sin to him.
Well, there goes my high horse, Jensen thought bleakly. Now he understood how the people he wrote about committed such inequities that would, in the end, condemn them in the eyes of future generations.
So fucking easy to look the other way, Jensen concluded as he noticed Jared’s pale and trembling hands. So fucking easy to say ‘I’m just one person, what could I do?’
Fuck that.
“You’re staying here,” Jensen said in a tone that told Jared there would be no further discussions on the matter. “We’re going to wait the bastards out. Look, Steve’s damn smart guy. He’s got imagination, and I know he’s going to find a way up here. And those assholes out there are going to freeze to death in less than an hour because the garage doesn’t have heating. So that’s all we have to do: wait for an hour. We can do that, right?”
Jared looked at Jensen with lose and frightened eyes. “You didn’t see what the bastard did in the store, Jensen.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jensen conceded. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what violence is. Look at me: I can’t walk and I sure as hell can’t run. If you go out there - do you really think they’ll let me live? After what you told me? No fucking way.
“Jared, they’ll just bar the doors and set this house on fire and burn me alive. That’s what they’ll do. And if I try to escape, they’ll just shoot me or slit my throat and toss my corpse back into the flames. Trust me, men like those ones out there? They don’t leave behind witnesses, any witnesses. So, you’re going to stay here and protect me because I’m up to my neck in it now, buddy. Just like you.”
That snapped Jared out of the fugue state he was in. His eyes widened in understanding and horror as he realized what kind of danger he put Jensen in.
“Sink or swim, Jared,” Jensen said firmly. “Sink or swim.”
“Okay,” Jared whispered. “Okay, so one hour?”
“One hour,” Jensen echoed.
“Do you have any guns?”
“Dude, I’m from Texas. Of course I’ve got guns.”
“Good, okay … are you any good ‘cause my aiming sucks.”
“I have a Super Blackhawk, Jared. You don’t need to have a good aim for that revolver: all you need to do is point and shoot.”
With that remark Jensen led Jared to his study. Jared took in the chaos and wondered how anyone could work in such a mess. Granted he wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but at least his floors were visible. Jensen took a key from under the mouse pad and unlocked the gun cabinet.
Jared’s eyes widened when he saw the arsenal. He’d never suspect that someone like Jensen would keep one gun, much less three and a rifle that looked like it could take down a buffalo.
“I go hunting,” Jensen explained.
“For what? Any animal that needs a rifle like that died out at the last Ice Age,” Jared cracked as he took the .44 Super Blackhawk Jensen gave him. “Where do you go hunting, exactly?”
Jensen’s reply was to hand over a box of bullets for his gun. He took a .9mm as it was most familiar to him and tucked in the third gun into the wheelchair’s side pocket. He then checked the rifle before loading it then said, “We should set up traps now."
“With what? You have bear traps under your bed?”
“No, I got something better,” Jensen said.
He opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a huge plastic jar of marbles. Jared saw a note taped on top of the lid that read,
Replace your marbles as you lose them.
Love,
Mac
“My sister’s idea of a Christmas gift,” Jensen explained. “Take a handful and place them in front of the windows. If they try to climb through we’ll know.”
“Sounds good. What about the doors?”
“Those are solid oak, and there’s steel plating reinforcing the locks. The guy will have to blast his way in if he tries them.”
“I don’t get it,” Jared said. “Why didn’t they come through yet? Why wait?”
“My guess is that they think the alarm system runs on a separate line.”
“Is it? Because if it is, then can we…”
Jensen sighed. “No, it isn’t. When they cut the phone line, they disabled the alarm system’s too. The sirens will still go off, but nobody but us will know. I meant to put in another line, I just never got around to it.”
“Shit,” Jared said.
“Yeah, but the bastards out there don’t know that and that’s what counts. Come on, we’re wasting time. You do upstairs, I’ll do this floor.”
Jared took less than five minutes to booby-trap all the windows on the second floor. Jensen went to the kitchen pantry where he kept a case of light bulbs. He wrapped a dishtowel around six bulbs, shattered them and then sprinkled the debris in front of the windows. He repeated the process until every window on ground level had a slim carpet of shattered glass in front of it.
Jared came downstairs and watched in admiration as Jensen set up the traps. He was astonished by how quickly the writer had the presence of mind to take control of the perilous circumstances and turn it to their advantage.
Then the two men took refuge in the study because it had one moderately sized window, which Jared managed to block with a filing cabinet. As they settled down Jensen noticed Jared’s panicky glances at the door and realized the athlete was being consumed by his fear. “You know, when this is all over you owe me a dinner and some kickass seats to the final game. I’m talking floor seating here.”
Jared’s smile was genuine enough for dimples to show. “Floor seats?” he echoed.
“Oh yeah, we’re talking right behind your team’s bench.”
“Why not the other team?”
“I might be tempted to knock them unconscious with water bottles so no, behind yours.”
“So you could pitch empty beer cups at my head? No thanks.”
“Why would I do that?”
Jared took a look at the barred window then the gun in his hand. “Because we’re doing a bang up job recreating Assault on Precinct 13?”
“Which version?”
“There are two?”
“Dude, Carpenter made the original in the 70’s. It’s awesome! Hell, it’s a classic compared to the one with Ethan Hawke.”
“Hey I like that one,” Jared argued. “It has Laurence Fishburne in it. That man’s a complete badass. And unlike Samuel Jackson, he doesn’t go around shouting the fact that he’s one bad motherfucker.”
“What’s with Ethan Hawke and snow, anyway?” Jensen asked, glad to have diverted Jared’s attention away from their dangerous predicament. “Every time a movie has some snowstorm or some bad weather related to snow, Ethan Hawke’s in it.”
“Maybe he just likes snow and wants to act in movies that have snow in it.”
“He starred in Alive.”
“I don’t remember seeing that one.”
“That’s probably because you were too young. It was about a group of athletes who survived a plane crash in the Andes. They avoid starving to death by cannibalizing the dead.
“You can’t tell me Ethan Hawke took a role in a movie like that because he has a thing for snowflakes.”
Jared looked at Jensen with humor dancing in his eyes. “Are you perving on Ethan Hawke? ‘Cause you had to have seen a lot of movies to know about the actor’s special connection to bad weather.”
“Shut up,” Jensen grumbled, blushing.
“You are perving on Ethan Hawke!” Jared said. “What the hell, man? He looks like a weasel.”
“He does not.”
“You got it bad for an actor who looks like he’s seventeen when he doesn’t shave.”
“He’s a great actor,” Jensen countered. “And I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating cookies in it.”
Jared looked at his companion in complete shock, which resulted in Jensen suddenly fiddling with the gun in his hand.
“I guess this means you’re gay?” Jared asked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“Yeah, didn’t you see the sparkly purple gay pride float parked out front?”
“I must have missed it. What was I doing? Oh yeah, bleeding to death.”
“Excuses, excuses, excuses.”
“So … umm … where’s your boyfriend?” Jared asked.
Jensen was taken back by the question. “What makes you think I have one?”
“You’re a successful writer, you have your own place, you got a gigantic bed upstairs, and you got looks that should’ve landed you in front of GQ at least once a year, if not more often. I’m figuring unless the entire gay community’s suddenly gone brain dead, there’s a boyfriend in the picture somewhere.”
Jensen took a deep breath before answering. “I did have a boyfriend, and we were serious.” Jensen looked at the barred window. “It happened four years ago.”
Jared was already regretting he even asked the question. For the first time since he’s met Jensen, the writer seemed lost.
“He was practically raised in boats so nobody thought anything about him going out by himself. It was two days before he was reported missing. He was an editor for Portsmouth Herald and they didn’t expect him to come to work until Monday. I didn’t know about it because I was on a book tour overseas. I came home as soon as I heard but there was nothing I could do.
“The Coast Guards and half of Portsmouth went looking but they found nothing. He just went out one day and never came back.”
“I’m sorry,” Jared said in a small voice. He couldn’t imagine losing someone in such a manner. To never know what happened to a loved one must be hell.
“I waited for a year then bought this place. I waited another year before I built this house. I still have a website going - you know, so people have a head’s up if they find something while fishing or if they stumble across some debris on the beach. Anything, really.”
“Does anyone answer?”
“Yeah, a lot of people, actually. It helps that I’m a well-known author; people are very kind, especially with someone in my situation. But there’s been no solid proof as to why … why Dustin disappeared.”
It was obvious Jensen wasn’t ready to let go of his past and Jared was in no position to tell him otherwise. How could he when he had never loved anyone like Jensen? Look at Patrick and Sandy: what a royal fucking mess he made of those relationships. Sandy had drifted away and Patrick was dead.
If I get out of this alive, I’ll clean up my act, I swear. No more fucking around, no more leading people on. Just let me live through tonight. No, let us live through tonight, Dear Lord.
Jared watched Jensen as he examined the outside through a sliver of window left uncovered by the cabinet. His eyes alert, his crippled body tense and ready for a fight. Jared couldn’t figure out what Jensen could do since he was trapped in a wheelchair, but Jared saw the obvious strength in those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He also suspected that though Jensen couldn’t outrun Patrick’s killer, if he got his hands around the man’s throat, the fight could go either way.
Jared’s attention drifted from Jensen’s rough hands back to his face. The difference between Jensen’s classically beautiful features and his physique was incongruous. And yet, instead of being disconcerting, this dichotomy made Jensen more attractive in Jared’s opinion. It was also obvious to him Jensen was quite capable of handling his side of any conversation and was probably more entertaining than ninety percent of people Jared was forced to call friends.
“What restaurant do you want me to take you?” Jared asked. The idea of taking Jensen out to dinner suddenly seemed extremely desirable. To his chagrin, Jared had discovered his libido couldn’t be denied even when facing painful death. And there was also the hope that by planning to do something in the future, he’d get a chance to actually do it.
“I don’t know: one of those nice ones on Charles Street, maybe?”
“No fucking way. Those places are so damn small the maître d' would have to use a crowbar to fit me through the front door. And they charge outrageous prices, not to mention the portions could starve a rat.”
“I see you never went to Lala Rokh.”
“I also like to eat in a restaurant whose name I could pronounce without looking like an idiot,” Jared deadpanned.
“Hey, you might be footing the bill but I get to choose, and I’m sure you could afford Lala Rokh.”
“You’re one of those types who like eat small portions and talk about world politics for like five hours, aren’t you?”
“I’m game to talk about any subject,” Jensen replied airily. “It’s one of the perks of being a writer.”
“Well, we can discuss it over a large pizza.”
“How about Baraka Café?”
“How about Oishii?”
“Done!”
Jared almost laughed at how eagerly Jensen replied to his offer. “Man, you really are a chow hound, aren’t you?”
Jensen shrugged and grinned. “My mama taught me to never turn down good food, especially free food.”
Jared looked at the gun in his hand. “So, what’s the story with this? Because this isn’t just big: it’s outright terrifying.”
“My dad gave it to me as a birthday present, couple of weeks after I told my parents I was gay.”
“He bought you a gun? Is that a normal reaction?”
“Probably not, but then he didn’t disown me so I wasn’t about to complain,” Jensen took a glance at the Super Blackhawk. “I think he bought it on a recommendation from a friend of his … one of few who kept in touch after my parents talked about me and my sexual orientation.
“I found out later from my sister that they left their church. They knew the people there would make it hell for me when they heard about my coming out. That was when I knew they still loved me. I called my dad and he told me it was mom who decided they should leave. They later joined another church and met new people. It must have been hard for them. They kept some friends from the old church but most of the congregation didn’t bother to keep up with my parents once they found out about me.”
“Your parents sound cool.”
“They are. They don’t throw parties or invite the entire neighborhood over for a BBQ, but they have few good friends and each other, and that’s what counts for them.”
“I bet they’re proud that you’re a writer.”
“Yeah, my dad was so excited when I came to Dallas for a book signing event. I swear, he must have dragged everyone he knew to Borders. I think he was afraid nobody was going to show up.”
Jared’s retort died on his lips. Both he and Jensen heard the telltale crunching sound from the kitchen. Jared moved first and navigated quickly down the hallway to the kitchen where he caught a man fumbling around the center island. However, it was Jensen who shot first.
“Fuck!” the intruder cried out.
That motivated Jared to shoot his gun. His shot went wide but it was enough of an incentive for the stranger to scramble back through the open window. Jared approached it sideways and slammed it shut. He closed the latch again and crouched low while returning to Jensen’s side.
“One hour,” Jensen whispered to Jared, his right hand stroking soothing lines on Jared’s back. “One hour.”
“Okay,” Jared whispers and suddenly grabbed Jensen’s hand. “We can do that.”
Sterling saw Contadino dash through the yard and was tempted for a moment to shoot the bastard himself. He refrained from killing him, though. Not that Sterling had any plans for the idiot to live through the night, but he needed Contadino alive, if only to play target practice for the men inside the house.
“I see that went well,” Sterling commented acidly.
“The son of a bitch shot me!”
“Ackles lives in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wildlife. Odds are good he hunts. So, either he’s a bad shot or you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”
“Padalecki also got a gun.” Contadino took a look at the bleeding wound on his thigh. “Jesus, that hurts.”
“Pack some snow on it. It’ll help stop the bleeding and dull the pain.”
Contadino gave a jerky nod and did as told. He dared not look at Sterling in fear of seeing how pissed the man really was.
“So you’re going to listen to me now?” Sterling asked.
“Yeah,” Contadino answered, his voice thin with pain and anger. Like I’m going to follow orders from a fucking nigger. When this is over, I’m going to cut you to little pieces and feed you to the fucking swans in the Garden.
“So the house is booby trapped. I should’ve expected it.”
“Why?”
“Ackles is a writer. For his first book he interviewed nearly one hundred Marines who fought in Vietnam. The main character in the novel was a highly decorated officer who was with 1st Force Reconnaissance in the war. I’m sure Ackles learned a great deal listening to him.”
“Why don’t we just burn the fuckers out?”
“Because Ackles has a security system. We try burning his house, it’ll alert the fire department not to mention the police.”
“So what? By the time they get here, we’ll be long gone.”
“You really are stupid as you look. Tell me, how will they get here?”
Contadino looked at Sterling with confusion. “The same way we did.”
“That’s right. They’ll take the same road, the road that we cleared in order to come up here. And the same fucking road we need in order to come down the goddamn mountain. You get it now?”
Contadino’s shoulders slumped. “Shit.”
“That’s why the first thing I did was kill the phone lines. That way he can’t call out and anyone who tries calling in will blame the weather for not being able to get through.”
“But with this snowstorm … will they really try to get up here?”
Sterling closed his eyes and counted to ten in order not to put his fist down Contadino’s throat then yank out his spine and use it as a rope to lynch him on the nearest tree.
“Listen to me,” Sterling was careful to enunciate each word, “Ackles is probably Wallingford’s only claim to fame. He’s their one bona-fide celebrity and they’re not going to sit around holding their junk in their hands while his house is on fire.
“They’ll come, Contadino, and they’ll come in force. This weather might be a nightmare for us, but for them this is business as usual. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“So what do you want to do? We can’t burn the fuckers out and they shoot back!”
“They’re playing the waiting game, which means they think we’ll freeze out here. We’ll wait just long enough for them to relax. Then we go in, and this time we’ll do it without alerting them. And we shoot them both. Got that?”
“Jesus Christ, my dick’s about to fall off!”
“Shut the hell up,” Sterling said. “And if your dick falls off because it’s cold, it’s not a dick: it’s a pussy.”
Contadino’s tone was overly cautious as he asked, “Why didn’t Ackles trigger the alarm? I mean he could’ve set it off himself, couldn’t he?”
Sterling smiled. It would have been almost beautiful if it weren’t so ferocious. “Two reasons: one, because he’s afraid of what we’ll do to anyone who tries to help them. Ackles doesn’t know what kind of ammunition we got but I’m sure Padalecki told him what I’m capable of. Second, for some reason or another he can’t. Either way, they’re dead men in less than sixty minutes.”
Chris shook his head. “I still can’t get to Jensen.”
Steve dug through his desk, getting more and more frustrated by the second. “I know I have his goddamn satellite number somewhere!”
“We have a problem,” Martin Lane said as he hung up the phone on Linklater’s office. He was one of three men who were able to answer the department’s call for help and later had witnessed the destruction of Connor’s place.
“What is it?”
“It’s Earl’s wife, Jenna. She said he was suppose to swing by over an hour ago to take his medication and he hasn’t.”
“She does realize we have a major snowstorm, right?” Steve asked. After Nathan’s disappearance and possible murder, the last thing he needed to handle was Mrs. Hansford’s fussiness.
“I had a conversation with Adam Jameson forty minutes ago,” Martin said. “Their road hasn’t been plowed yet and they live on Hyacinth Street.”
“That’s where the schools are,” Martin’s brother, David, said. “Now I know that road’s kept clear.”
“Who’s suppose to be plowing that one?” Chris asked.
“Seb Mason,” David answered.
“Where’s Isaiah suppose to be?” Steve asked.
“Northwest sector,” Martin answered and drew a circle on the wall map with his finger.
Steve studied the map for a moment. “Sharon, call Abigail Mallory. She lives on Main.”
Sharon did; the conversation was brief. “She said Isaiah came by two hours ago. She hasn’t seen him since.”
“Shit,” Chris said savagely. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The son of a bitch somehow got the plows,” Steve said, his voice hollowed by shock. “How the fuck did he do that?”
Sharon stood up from the dispatch desk. “If he got to one of them, he could’ve forced them to lie and ask for help. The others would’ve immediately responded.”
“How? Don’t they use cell phones?” Chris asked.
Sharon shook her head. “No, they have walkie-talkies. Isaiah said they’re lot more dependable in bad weather.”
“Sweet Jesus,” David said. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”
“Fuck,” Steve said. “Okay, we have to find the plows now.”
Chris stood next to Steve and looked at the map. “If Mrs. Hansford said her husband was suppose to take the medicine then we can assume he was on his way back when he was taken.”
“Why do you say that?” Martin asked.
“Because they all disappeared roughly in the last half hour,” Steve answered.
“So, unless the snowplows were driven into the woods, we can assume they’re somewhere near Hansford’s house.”
“Why does the bastard want the plows in the first place?” David asked. “That’s what I don’t get.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed into slits, changing his friendly face into something reptilian. “He needs it to get to Jensen.”
Chris dove for the phone and called again only to get the same voice recording explaining there was a problem with connecting that particular number.
“We find the plows now,” Steve barked out. “David, Martin, bring your own trucks and follow me.”
It was as Chris predicted. The men found the plows only quarter mile away from Hansford’s place. Martin checked the unconscious men and announced with great relief that they were all alive. Steve ordered the Lane brothers to load the men in their trucks and drive them to the nearest hospital while he and Chris went after the killer.
There was no doubt in either Chris or Steve’s mind as to where the killer was heading. The only question was if they could reach Jensen in time. The two men piled into Steve’s cruiser and drove as quickly as they could to Oberon Pass.
It took them forty minutes to reach the treacherous passageway. Steve took one look at the cleared road and snarled in frustration.
“I should’ve seen this coming,” he shouted to himself. “Why the fuck did I not see this?”
“Shut the hell up,” Chris said. “You’re not going to do Jensen any good by losing it.”
Steve drove five miles further before stopping.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Chris asked as he watched Steve get out of the cruiser and open the trunk.
“I know a shortcut to Jensen’s house,” Steve explained as he pulled out two pairs of snowshoes. “It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
“Listen to me, the son of a bitch has at least thirty minute head start. We can’t catch up to him by taking the goddamn car. The road’s too dangerous. Trust me on this.”
Chris closed his eyes and moaned before yanking himself out of the warmth of the car. He put on the snowshoes and then pulled out a medium-sized case from the trunk. It contained a rifle, which he swiftly assembled. Chris then wrapped a tarp around it in order to keep out moisture.
Steve started up the cruiser and parked it in such a way that it blocked the road completely. He popped open the hood, pulled out the sparkplugs and pocketed them. “Just in case,” he explained as Chris looked at him in puzzlement. “If the bastard comes down first he’s gonna have to go through the car. Odds are good that if he tries such a stunt, he’ll go off to the side. If he manages to come down on foot, he’s still going to have to hoof it down the rest of the mountain.
“Hopefully the fucker will freeze to death before he hits Wallingford.”
“Man, you are one vindictive son of a bitch, you know that?”
“He killed Nathan. Vindictive doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Steve said calmly. “When I see that bastard we’re going to have a little heart-to-heart about Nathan.”
Chris’ smile was wolfish. “See, I knew you weren’t cut out to be John Law.”
“Fuck off.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Singer was jerked awake from deep sleep by the ringing phone. He looked at the alarm clock and swore when he saw it was past midnight. His wife picked up the cordless and prodded him with it.
“Singer.”
“Sir, it’s Robertson. I just got a call from our office in New Hampshire. You have Patrick Connor from Wallingford in your list?”
“What is it?” Singer felt his heart race as he put on his glasses.
“Sir, I just got a call that the police department in Wallingford’s on a warpath. One of their deputies went missing and they think he’s been murdered along with three others. One is a kid named Evan Laramie and the second is a Patrick Marcus Connor from Wallingford. His father, Lawrence James Connor is also presumed dead.”
“What the hell happened up there?”
“I'm not quite sure, Sir. As far as we can tell this all went down about three hours ago.”
“And why the fuck am I hearing about it now?”
“Agent Henman went for a dinner break and didn’t get back until nine. It took him a while to process the info.”
“I want Agent Murray and Agent Lindberg. Just call Lindberg: he’ll contact Murray. Call Nelson, he should be back from his vacation. I also want them heavily armed, ready for extreme emergencies. Got that?”
“Yes, sir, anything else?”
“Contact Kripke in DC. He’ll want to know this ASAP.”
“Yes, Sir. There’s also something else. From what I understand a police sergeant and a friend of his have mounted a rescue operation of sorts.”
“Why?”
“The report says that the sergeant believes the killer is going after someone named Padalecki who actually saw the shooter of Patrick Connor and Evan Laramie.”
“Did you say Padalecki?” Singer echoed weakly.
“Yes, Sir, I did.”
“Where is the witness, exactly?”
“He’s currently holed up with a man named Jensen Ackles somewhere in the White Mountains. I’m not sure exactly where.”
“Jesus Christ,” Singer said as he grabbed his cell. “Okay, I also want whoever is available in Bedford and Portsmouth at Wallingford before I get there. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll relay that information right now. And just so you know, the entire area is hit with a blizzard so the roads are very treacherous right now, especially through the White Mountains.”
“Just get my men ready.”
Singer pulled out the warmest clothes he had before collecting his personal firearm from his office along with the Bureau-issued gun.
He was scrambling to find his thickest winter coat when he saw his wife standing calmly next to the garage door with the coat in hand and an enormous thermos of coffee in the other.
“I love you,” Amy said. “Go get ‘em, cowboy.”
Singer felt her kiss on his lips during the entire drive from their home in Brookline to Boston. He stormed into the office and saw Lindberg and Murray, both nursing coffee from the break room.
“Nelson’s downstairs, getting the car prepped,” Lindberg said.
“What’s happened?” Murray asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes.
“Patrick Connor, his father, and two other people are dead or presumed dead. And whoever killed them is now after Padalecki.”
“What?” Lindberg hissed, his gaze swiveling to Murray who retained his calm demeanor.
“I’m still reeling from the news myself,” Singer said.
“So I guess this means Lorino knows,” Murray said, “which also means whoever he hired to take care of this mess is crème de la crème.”
“Sir, we should look in on Russo, just in case,” Lindberg said, troubled by what Murray had revealed.
“I was just thinking that too. If what I’m thinking is correct, Lorino’s doing a sweep and that means none of his crew up here are safe.”
“I wonder if Ben knows that,” Murray said. “He’s got to know about the cleanup, but I’m betting the guy hasn’t got a goddamn clue how disposable he is.”
“Why do you say that?” Singer asked.
Murray shrugged. “It’s just that Manzoni bragged a lot, and most of the time it was to make himself look better. I got the feeling he was doing it because he wasn’t getting stroked by the right people.”
“And Barassi?”
“He’s definitely smarter and doesn’t need any handholding from New York. If I had to make a guess Barassi’s already gone underground. Manzoni, on the other hand, isn’t smart enough to do that.”
“Why don’t we put an extra car on Manzoni, for now?” Lindberg suggested. “Just in case something falls out of that tree.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Murray said.
“Agreed,” Singer called in for a second car to baby-sit Manzoni. Then he contacted the men responsible for keeping track of Barassi. The conversation was brief but illuminating.
“Johnny boy took his wife and kids and went on a trip to the Bahamas not two hours ago,” Singer said.
Murray smiled a little. “He always was a skittish kind of guy.”
“Do you know where?” Lindberg asked.
“Yeah, he’s got a little place on Cat Island. But Lorino knows that too, so I doubt Johnny is going to hide there. He’s probably on his boat and knowing Johnny, he’s going to stay there until the shitstorm’s cleared.”
“Sir,” Lindberg asked. “I was wondering, did Patrick Connor get the information you needed?”
Singer shook his head. “No, and that’s what’s killing me. I know he had three meetings set up with Russo the last two weeks but they were a bust. I was starting to get worried that Russo was onto Connor.”
“Somebody was,” Murray said. “And that means there’s a leak.”
Singer looked pained at his agent’s statement. “I was thinking that too. The question is from where?”
His office phone rang shrilly, interrupting their discussion. Singer answered, his voice clipped with strain.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
Singer hung up and then collapsed onto his chair.
“What’s wrong?”
“The men who were tailing Russo lost him late this afternoon. They just got back to his house: it’s been torched.”
“What?” Lindberg whispered.
“What about his family?” Murray asked. “He’s got two kids.”
“The cops said the firefighters didn’t find anyone inside,” Singer replied. “All right, we’ll let the locals deal with this mess for now. We’ve got to head out to Wallingford before they also take care of Padalecki.”
Lindberg was in the back with Murray as Singer took the passenger seat next to Nelson who had a reputation for his driving skills in New England winters. Lindberg studied his friend’s tense face and asked, “What’s up?”
“I was just thinking I’m not in a good position either,” Murray said. “They must be pissing bricks about me.”
“Lorino knows better than to go after the FBI,” Lindberg said in a reasonable tone. “The last thing he wants to start is a war with the feds. He’s already got one waging with New York City Police Department and look how that’s turning out.”
“That wasn’t him, actually,” Murray said. “It was his fucked up son, Alex, who gave the okay to kill the detectives.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah, as far as I can figure Tomas Lorino is old school, but his son - his son’s a different animal altogether. I hate to say it but when the old man dies, which is any day now, it’s going to get really bad for everyone, including us. Alex’s a cowboy, and cowboys don’t think about repercussions.”
“If that's the situation, will Tomas allow his son to take his place?” Lindberg asked. “If Alex’s such a risk, then Tomas must have someone else in mind as his successor.”
Murray looked at Lindberg and raised a questioning brow. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
“Wonder if Alex knows it too.”
Murray shrugged. “He can’t touch the old man. Tomas is too smart for that.”
“And Alex isn’t as popular as he thinks he is,” Singer chimed in. “Like Murray said, the kid’s a cowboy and cowboys aren’t very popular in that crowd, young or old.”
“So there’s going to be a power struggle when Tomas kicks the bucket?” Lindberg asked.
Singer turned around and gave Murray a questioning stare. Murray shrugged again, looking bored. “Depends if Tomas doesn’t have someone lined up already. It could be his son or someone else; I’m betting on someone else.”
“And if that happens, you can be sure Alex Lorino will put up a fight,” Singer said, “which is good for us. Every time they go through this kind of civil war, we end up benefiting big time.”
“Will Tomas Lorino allow that?” Lindberg asked. “I can’t imagine someone like him would allow it to spin out of control, even in his death bed.”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” Singer asked. “Which is why this Russo mess is important. It came at a critical time for all involved, including Tomas and his Consiglieri.”
Murray looked at Singer with admiration. “You’re right. If this goes to hell then Tomas Lorino’s reputation is going to take a hit. And that’s the last thing the old man needs.”
Lindberg sat back and gave a huge sigh. “I’m wondering: if cleaning up this Russo mess is so important, would Tomas Lorino send just one man to do the work? Wouldn’t he send an entire squad just to make sure?”
“Not really,” Murray answered. “Not if he trusts the man he sent to do the work.”
“That’s the other thing,” Singer said. “If, by sheer luck, we catch this guy; I can promise you he’s got enough info to bring down the entire Lorino Family. Tomas Lorino wouldn’t trust a total stranger to do this kind of work, no matter how simple it is. He would’ve tapped someone he knew, someone he trusted. And that means the killer had carried out hits for Tomas before, not just successfully, mind you, but perfectly.
“If we catch a man like that…”
“It’ll be the arrest of a lifetime,” Lindberg finished.
“All our lifetimes,” Singer corrected. “Just remember that before you go charging in.”
Part IV * Part VI
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word Count: ~8,000
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
Wallingford, New Hampshire
Chris looked at his watch. “Exactly how bad a driver is your deputy?”
"Nathan's not my deputy. In fact, he's not a deputy at all,” Steve said patiently. “He’s probably snowed in at Connor’s place. Do you want me to call them?”
“No, forget it,” Chris said. “Something else bothers me. Padalecki said he saw a black guy, right?”
Steve smiled a little. “Yeah, I was wondering about that too.”
“How does the joke go? Hear gunshots, look for the scariest black guy around,” Chris said dryly. “Looking for a big black man in Wallingford’s going to be pretty easy, and he’s got to know that. I’m not saying Wallingford’s knee-deep in racists-r-us, but the shooter’s going to have a hard time getting people to let him in unless he beats the crap out of them first.”
“And if that happens, the door-to-door’s fucked from the get-go.” Steve finished Chris’ train of logic. “Days like today make me wish I never applied for this fucking job.”
“I changed my mind: make the call. See what’s holding up Nathan.”
Connor’s phone rang with no answer.
“Motherfucker,” Steve said and slammed the receiver into its cradle. “We have to go, now.”
“This time we take back-up. If the bastard’s there, we can’t afford to let him get away a second time,” Chris said.
“Agreed.”
Steve had Sharon make a few calls before heading out with Chris. Their cruiser was joined by two trucks as they left Wallingford proper and into the farming lands. It didn’t take long for the caravan to find Connor’s home as the fire that was raging through the building brilliantly lit the night sky in spite of the snowstorm.
“Jesus,” Steve said as he and Chris got out of the cruiser.
The three volunteers piled out of their trucks, faces pale with shock as they watched the fire consume everything.
Chris looked around the main house, hoping to find Donaldson. He came away empty-handed. Steve ordered the men to fan out about the property but they were also unsuccessful, and no one could approach the building because of the heat.
Steve helplessly watched as the roof collapsed, bringing down the second story with it. “Oh dear God, Nathan...”
Chris turned to his friend and saw tears flicker in Steve’s eyes. “You can’t think about Nathan right now. We have an emergency.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to get to Jensen. The bastard’s went after Larry because he suspected Patrick told his father something," Chris said. “And that leaves just one other person he has to take care of: Padalecki. We have to call Jensen right now. Have him meet us at the Pass or have him arm himself until we get him.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s go back to the station. This is now officially a manhunt and a rescue operation.”
Earl Hanford moaned as he got into his old Subaru. No matter what the good mayor says about these new plows, It’s colder than a witch’s tit inside the damn things, Earl thought as he cranked up the car’s heater to maximum. In spite of his discomfort, Earl actually smiled as he watched the snowfall. They got lucky: this was the first snowstorm of this strength and it was already January. If history were anything to go by, Wallingford would be hit with only two more blizzards of this magnitude before March.
Good for us, bad for the skiers, Earl thought as he wiggled his fingers in order to get rid of the tingling. Well, fuck ‘em. Bunch of rich assholes…
“Don’t move,” Sterling said as he pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Earl’s skull.
“Jesus, take what you want. I’m no hero,” Earl pleaded.
“That’s good. That’s very good, keep thinking like that and you’ll live. Give me your wallet.”
Earl handed it over his shoulder. Sterling quickly flipped through the family photos and read the license. He returned the wallet and said, “Earl, I know your name and I know where you live. I also know you have wife and daughter, and what they look like. Are you hearing me, Earl?”
“Yes, yes, I swear I won’t do anything stupid. Just tell me what you want.”
“How many snowplows are out there right now?”
“From Wallingford - just three. The state’s too busy with the highways and don’t bother with small towns like us until sunrise.”
“Good, I see you’re a smart man for telling me the truth. I want you to call the other two and get them here. Tell them you have mechanical problems, tell them anything you want. But I want them here, Earl, and I want them here within thirty minutes.
“Think you can do that, Earl?”
“I can get them here,” Earl said. He closed his eyes then asked weakly, “Are you going to hurt them?”
“No, actually, I just need the snowplows. All of them.” Sterling tapped the gun against Earl’s temple and said, “Do it now, please.”
“Okay, okay.”
Earl did exactly as he was told and was proven good on his word when both snowplows showed up in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, Earl wasn’t conscious to celebrate this fact. The other two drivers, Isaiah Johnson and Seb Mason, soon joined their buddy as Sterling also managed to render them unconscious. He jammed the three men into Earl’s snowplow before disabling its engine.
Sterling knew leaving them alive was breaking protocol but he didn’t want to shed any more blood than necessary. Besides, what would Earl tell the police? He didn’t see Sterling and voice identification would be laughed out of court if it were admissible to begin with.
Sterling disabled the second plow but commandeered the third. He climbed into the cockpit and familiarized himself with the controls while Contadino struggled to maneuver the Trailblazer onto the road from its hiding spot. As soon as this fucking mess was over Sterling was going to make Contadino bleed. Because of that asshole, he was now forced to deal with Padalecki in an environment Sterling was uncomfortable with. And there was also the fact the basketball player was holed up with Sterling’s favorite author.
It was a rare thing indeed to move the assassin emotionally and spiritually, but Ackles’ novels had succeeded in doing both. Sterling admired the writer for his unflinching love of the truth, no matter how unpleasant it was, and Ackles’ sparse style actually added a level of candor and pathos that no flowery descriptions could.
I don’t want to kill him, Sterling finally admitted to himself. I admire Ackles and I don’t want to be the reason for his absence in the world. I look forward to reading his books and there’s so little that could hold my interest these days.
Sterling vowed if Ackles had to die alongside Padalecki, then Contadino would join them. He saw Manzoni’s lap dog get out of the truck and make his way to him. Sterling stepped out of the snowplow but didn’t climb down, which forced Contadino to look up at him.
“What do we do now?” Contadino asked as he noticed the other two plows, now deadweight, parked on the side of the road.
“We’re going to get Padalecki,” Sterling answered. “You take the car and follow me.”
Sterling started the snowplow and cautiously drove into the night with the Chevy trailing behind him like a crippled animal. Even at top speed it took them over an hour to reach Ackles’ home. After hiding their respective rides in the woods, the two men scoped the homestead from top of a nearby hill.
Sterling noted a dilapidated barn, a small tool shed, and a garage separate from the main house; Sterling guessed it was probably because Ackles also used it as a workshop. They quietly made their way down the hill and hid behind the garage. Sterling peeked inside and saw a SUV parked alongside an old black Chevy whose engine was sitting on a block. It looked like Ackles was building the car from skin up. Sterling broke in but kept the light off as he fumbled around, looking for a phone. He swore softly when he didn’t find any.
“You check the other buildings,” Sterling said. “I’ll do the house.”
Sterling circumnavigated the sprawling log home in order to locate the phone line. He severed it as soon as he found it then circled once more to find the box housing the security system. He was unsuccessful.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself and waited behind the garage for Contadino to join him.
“Did you get everything?” Contadino asked.
“I got the phones but I couldn’t find the security line,” Sterling answered.
“Fuck,” Contadino said and looked at the house. “It’s buried then?”
“Makes sense. If the line runs outside the house, the security firm would have to come up here every other week to repair it because of wildlife.”
“What do you want to do?” Contadino asked.
Sterling had been asking that very same question through the entire drive and now that he was here, Sterling was at a loss. His indecision should’ve worried him but the assassin knew better. Sterling didn’t want Ackles to pay the price for being a good Samaritan. Not that he had any problems killing people who had been unfortunate enough to get in his way, but Ackles wasn’t some unknown quantity.
Sterling still remembered the stanza Ackles had scribbled on the title page:
We saw not clearly nor understood,
But, yielding ourselves to the master-hand,
Each in his part as best he could,
We played it through as the author planned.
The words were unfamiliar to Sterling, so he set out to find who wrote them. When he discovered it was by Alan Seeger, the former soldier was strangely touched. It moved Sterling to know that Ackles took pains to remember lines written by a poet long forgotten by modern times.
Sterling picked up a hand shovel from the floor and said, “Wait here. I’ll take care of it.”
He circled the house until he saw the two men in the den, talking. He only saw the Ackles’ head and shoulders but Padalecki was standing so Sterling got a good look at the athlete.
Sterling couldn’t believe how badly he’d missed.
With a cautious look over his shoulders Sterling stepped back until he was well out of reach from the strands of light cascading from the house. Then, with his usual accuracy, Sterling threw the tool through the window. He silently watched the men scatter in order not to get cut by the flying shards of glass.
Sterling shouted, “We want Padalecki! No one else needs to get hurt!” before swiftly returning to the garage.
Contadino was waiting for him, his face apoplectic. “Why the fuck did you talk to them?”
“Because I wanted to,” Sterling answered. “This is my job, Contadino, not yours. My ass is on the line, not yours, so why don’t you shut your trap and save us some grief?”
Contadino looked ready to revolt but at the last moment he whirled around and went inside the garage. Sterling didn’t follow. Instead, he waited outside, wondering what Ackles and Padalecki were going to do next.
Jared looked out into the storm. “Jesus, he tracked me here? In that?”
“He said ‘we’ so there’s more than the one shooter you saw.” Jensen tried the phone, not at all surprised to find it dead. “My car’s out in the garage. I’m guessing they’ve either disabled it or waiting for us to make a run for it.”
Jared closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet. Jensen grabbed his hand and pulled him into a chair. Jensen knew theoretically it was possible that the killer could track down Jared to his house, but he didn’t believe it could really happen. However, now that his worst fear had been confirmed, the nebulous dread in the back of his brain had solidified into a dark, writhing mass.
For a moment, Jensen wondered if he could convince Jared to make a run for it.
As soon as that thought entered his mind, Jensen was flooded with shame. That he could even think of allowing Jared to go to his execution seemed like a mortal sin to him.
Well, there goes my high horse, Jensen thought bleakly. Now he understood how the people he wrote about committed such inequities that would, in the end, condemn them in the eyes of future generations.
So fucking easy to look the other way, Jensen concluded as he noticed Jared’s pale and trembling hands. So fucking easy to say ‘I’m just one person, what could I do?’
Fuck that.
“You’re staying here,” Jensen said in a tone that told Jared there would be no further discussions on the matter. “We’re going to wait the bastards out. Look, Steve’s damn smart guy. He’s got imagination, and I know he’s going to find a way up here. And those assholes out there are going to freeze to death in less than an hour because the garage doesn’t have heating. So that’s all we have to do: wait for an hour. We can do that, right?”
Jared looked at Jensen with lose and frightened eyes. “You didn’t see what the bastard did in the store, Jensen.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jensen conceded. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what violence is. Look at me: I can’t walk and I sure as hell can’t run. If you go out there - do you really think they’ll let me live? After what you told me? No fucking way.
“Jared, they’ll just bar the doors and set this house on fire and burn me alive. That’s what they’ll do. And if I try to escape, they’ll just shoot me or slit my throat and toss my corpse back into the flames. Trust me, men like those ones out there? They don’t leave behind witnesses, any witnesses. So, you’re going to stay here and protect me because I’m up to my neck in it now, buddy. Just like you.”
That snapped Jared out of the fugue state he was in. His eyes widened in understanding and horror as he realized what kind of danger he put Jensen in.
“Sink or swim, Jared,” Jensen said firmly. “Sink or swim.”
“Okay,” Jared whispered. “Okay, so one hour?”
“One hour,” Jensen echoed.
“Do you have any guns?”
“Dude, I’m from Texas. Of course I’ve got guns.”
“Good, okay … are you any good ‘cause my aiming sucks.”
“I have a Super Blackhawk, Jared. You don’t need to have a good aim for that revolver: all you need to do is point and shoot.”
With that remark Jensen led Jared to his study. Jared took in the chaos and wondered how anyone could work in such a mess. Granted he wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but at least his floors were visible. Jensen took a key from under the mouse pad and unlocked the gun cabinet.
Jared’s eyes widened when he saw the arsenal. He’d never suspect that someone like Jensen would keep one gun, much less three and a rifle that looked like it could take down a buffalo.
“I go hunting,” Jensen explained.
“For what? Any animal that needs a rifle like that died out at the last Ice Age,” Jared cracked as he took the .44 Super Blackhawk Jensen gave him. “Where do you go hunting, exactly?”
Jensen’s reply was to hand over a box of bullets for his gun. He took a .9mm as it was most familiar to him and tucked in the third gun into the wheelchair’s side pocket. He then checked the rifle before loading it then said, “We should set up traps now."
“With what? You have bear traps under your bed?”
“No, I got something better,” Jensen said.
He opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a huge plastic jar of marbles. Jared saw a note taped on top of the lid that read,
Replace your marbles as you lose them.
Love,
Mac
“My sister’s idea of a Christmas gift,” Jensen explained. “Take a handful and place them in front of the windows. If they try to climb through we’ll know.”
“Sounds good. What about the doors?”
“Those are solid oak, and there’s steel plating reinforcing the locks. The guy will have to blast his way in if he tries them.”
“I don’t get it,” Jared said. “Why didn’t they come through yet? Why wait?”
“My guess is that they think the alarm system runs on a separate line.”
“Is it? Because if it is, then can we…”
Jensen sighed. “No, it isn’t. When they cut the phone line, they disabled the alarm system’s too. The sirens will still go off, but nobody but us will know. I meant to put in another line, I just never got around to it.”
“Shit,” Jared said.
“Yeah, but the bastards out there don’t know that and that’s what counts. Come on, we’re wasting time. You do upstairs, I’ll do this floor.”
Jared took less than five minutes to booby-trap all the windows on the second floor. Jensen went to the kitchen pantry where he kept a case of light bulbs. He wrapped a dishtowel around six bulbs, shattered them and then sprinkled the debris in front of the windows. He repeated the process until every window on ground level had a slim carpet of shattered glass in front of it.
Jared came downstairs and watched in admiration as Jensen set up the traps. He was astonished by how quickly the writer had the presence of mind to take control of the perilous circumstances and turn it to their advantage.
Then the two men took refuge in the study because it had one moderately sized window, which Jared managed to block with a filing cabinet. As they settled down Jensen noticed Jared’s panicky glances at the door and realized the athlete was being consumed by his fear. “You know, when this is all over you owe me a dinner and some kickass seats to the final game. I’m talking floor seating here.”
Jared’s smile was genuine enough for dimples to show. “Floor seats?” he echoed.
“Oh yeah, we’re talking right behind your team’s bench.”
“Why not the other team?”
“I might be tempted to knock them unconscious with water bottles so no, behind yours.”
“So you could pitch empty beer cups at my head? No thanks.”
“Why would I do that?”
Jared took a look at the barred window then the gun in his hand. “Because we’re doing a bang up job recreating Assault on Precinct 13?”
“Which version?”
“There are two?”
“Dude, Carpenter made the original in the 70’s. It’s awesome! Hell, it’s a classic compared to the one with Ethan Hawke.”
“Hey I like that one,” Jared argued. “It has Laurence Fishburne in it. That man’s a complete badass. And unlike Samuel Jackson, he doesn’t go around shouting the fact that he’s one bad motherfucker.”
“What’s with Ethan Hawke and snow, anyway?” Jensen asked, glad to have diverted Jared’s attention away from their dangerous predicament. “Every time a movie has some snowstorm or some bad weather related to snow, Ethan Hawke’s in it.”
“Maybe he just likes snow and wants to act in movies that have snow in it.”
“He starred in Alive.”
“I don’t remember seeing that one.”
“That’s probably because you were too young. It was about a group of athletes who survived a plane crash in the Andes. They avoid starving to death by cannibalizing the dead.
“You can’t tell me Ethan Hawke took a role in a movie like that because he has a thing for snowflakes.”
Jared looked at Jensen with humor dancing in his eyes. “Are you perving on Ethan Hawke? ‘Cause you had to have seen a lot of movies to know about the actor’s special connection to bad weather.”
“Shut up,” Jensen grumbled, blushing.
“You are perving on Ethan Hawke!” Jared said. “What the hell, man? He looks like a weasel.”
“He does not.”
“You got it bad for an actor who looks like he’s seventeen when he doesn’t shave.”
“He’s a great actor,” Jensen countered. “And I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating cookies in it.”
Jared looked at his companion in complete shock, which resulted in Jensen suddenly fiddling with the gun in his hand.
“I guess this means you’re gay?” Jared asked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“Yeah, didn’t you see the sparkly purple gay pride float parked out front?”
“I must have missed it. What was I doing? Oh yeah, bleeding to death.”
“Excuses, excuses, excuses.”
“So … umm … where’s your boyfriend?” Jared asked.
Jensen was taken back by the question. “What makes you think I have one?”
“You’re a successful writer, you have your own place, you got a gigantic bed upstairs, and you got looks that should’ve landed you in front of GQ at least once a year, if not more often. I’m figuring unless the entire gay community’s suddenly gone brain dead, there’s a boyfriend in the picture somewhere.”
Jensen took a deep breath before answering. “I did have a boyfriend, and we were serious.” Jensen looked at the barred window. “It happened four years ago.”
Jared was already regretting he even asked the question. For the first time since he’s met Jensen, the writer seemed lost.
“He was practically raised in boats so nobody thought anything about him going out by himself. It was two days before he was reported missing. He was an editor for Portsmouth Herald and they didn’t expect him to come to work until Monday. I didn’t know about it because I was on a book tour overseas. I came home as soon as I heard but there was nothing I could do.
“The Coast Guards and half of Portsmouth went looking but they found nothing. He just went out one day and never came back.”
“I’m sorry,” Jared said in a small voice. He couldn’t imagine losing someone in such a manner. To never know what happened to a loved one must be hell.
“I waited for a year then bought this place. I waited another year before I built this house. I still have a website going - you know, so people have a head’s up if they find something while fishing or if they stumble across some debris on the beach. Anything, really.”
“Does anyone answer?”
“Yeah, a lot of people, actually. It helps that I’m a well-known author; people are very kind, especially with someone in my situation. But there’s been no solid proof as to why … why Dustin disappeared.”
It was obvious Jensen wasn’t ready to let go of his past and Jared was in no position to tell him otherwise. How could he when he had never loved anyone like Jensen? Look at Patrick and Sandy: what a royal fucking mess he made of those relationships. Sandy had drifted away and Patrick was dead.
If I get out of this alive, I’ll clean up my act, I swear. No more fucking around, no more leading people on. Just let me live through tonight. No, let us live through tonight, Dear Lord.
Jared watched Jensen as he examined the outside through a sliver of window left uncovered by the cabinet. His eyes alert, his crippled body tense and ready for a fight. Jared couldn’t figure out what Jensen could do since he was trapped in a wheelchair, but Jared saw the obvious strength in those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He also suspected that though Jensen couldn’t outrun Patrick’s killer, if he got his hands around the man’s throat, the fight could go either way.
Jared’s attention drifted from Jensen’s rough hands back to his face. The difference between Jensen’s classically beautiful features and his physique was incongruous. And yet, instead of being disconcerting, this dichotomy made Jensen more attractive in Jared’s opinion. It was also obvious to him Jensen was quite capable of handling his side of any conversation and was probably more entertaining than ninety percent of people Jared was forced to call friends.
“What restaurant do you want me to take you?” Jared asked. The idea of taking Jensen out to dinner suddenly seemed extremely desirable. To his chagrin, Jared had discovered his libido couldn’t be denied even when facing painful death. And there was also the hope that by planning to do something in the future, he’d get a chance to actually do it.
“I don’t know: one of those nice ones on Charles Street, maybe?”
“No fucking way. Those places are so damn small the maître d' would have to use a crowbar to fit me through the front door. And they charge outrageous prices, not to mention the portions could starve a rat.”
“I see you never went to Lala Rokh.”
“I also like to eat in a restaurant whose name I could pronounce without looking like an idiot,” Jared deadpanned.
“Hey, you might be footing the bill but I get to choose, and I’m sure you could afford Lala Rokh.”
“You’re one of those types who like eat small portions and talk about world politics for like five hours, aren’t you?”
“I’m game to talk about any subject,” Jensen replied airily. “It’s one of the perks of being a writer.”
“Well, we can discuss it over a large pizza.”
“How about Baraka Café?”
“How about Oishii?”
“Done!”
Jared almost laughed at how eagerly Jensen replied to his offer. “Man, you really are a chow hound, aren’t you?”
Jensen shrugged and grinned. “My mama taught me to never turn down good food, especially free food.”
Jared looked at the gun in his hand. “So, what’s the story with this? Because this isn’t just big: it’s outright terrifying.”
“My dad gave it to me as a birthday present, couple of weeks after I told my parents I was gay.”
“He bought you a gun? Is that a normal reaction?”
“Probably not, but then he didn’t disown me so I wasn’t about to complain,” Jensen took a glance at the Super Blackhawk. “I think he bought it on a recommendation from a friend of his … one of few who kept in touch after my parents talked about me and my sexual orientation.
“I found out later from my sister that they left their church. They knew the people there would make it hell for me when they heard about my coming out. That was when I knew they still loved me. I called my dad and he told me it was mom who decided they should leave. They later joined another church and met new people. It must have been hard for them. They kept some friends from the old church but most of the congregation didn’t bother to keep up with my parents once they found out about me.”
“Your parents sound cool.”
“They are. They don’t throw parties or invite the entire neighborhood over for a BBQ, but they have few good friends and each other, and that’s what counts for them.”
“I bet they’re proud that you’re a writer.”
“Yeah, my dad was so excited when I came to Dallas for a book signing event. I swear, he must have dragged everyone he knew to Borders. I think he was afraid nobody was going to show up.”
Jared’s retort died on his lips. Both he and Jensen heard the telltale crunching sound from the kitchen. Jared moved first and navigated quickly down the hallway to the kitchen where he caught a man fumbling around the center island. However, it was Jensen who shot first.
“Fuck!” the intruder cried out.
That motivated Jared to shoot his gun. His shot went wide but it was enough of an incentive for the stranger to scramble back through the open window. Jared approached it sideways and slammed it shut. He closed the latch again and crouched low while returning to Jensen’s side.
“One hour,” Jensen whispered to Jared, his right hand stroking soothing lines on Jared’s back. “One hour.”
“Okay,” Jared whispers and suddenly grabbed Jensen’s hand. “We can do that.”
Sterling saw Contadino dash through the yard and was tempted for a moment to shoot the bastard himself. He refrained from killing him, though. Not that Sterling had any plans for the idiot to live through the night, but he needed Contadino alive, if only to play target practice for the men inside the house.
“I see that went well,” Sterling commented acidly.
“The son of a bitch shot me!”
“Ackles lives in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wildlife. Odds are good he hunts. So, either he’s a bad shot or you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”
“Padalecki also got a gun.” Contadino took a look at the bleeding wound on his thigh. “Jesus, that hurts.”
“Pack some snow on it. It’ll help stop the bleeding and dull the pain.”
Contadino gave a jerky nod and did as told. He dared not look at Sterling in fear of seeing how pissed the man really was.
“So you’re going to listen to me now?” Sterling asked.
“Yeah,” Contadino answered, his voice thin with pain and anger. Like I’m going to follow orders from a fucking nigger. When this is over, I’m going to cut you to little pieces and feed you to the fucking swans in the Garden.
“So the house is booby trapped. I should’ve expected it.”
“Why?”
“Ackles is a writer. For his first book he interviewed nearly one hundred Marines who fought in Vietnam. The main character in the novel was a highly decorated officer who was with 1st Force Reconnaissance in the war. I’m sure Ackles learned a great deal listening to him.”
“Why don’t we just burn the fuckers out?”
“Because Ackles has a security system. We try burning his house, it’ll alert the fire department not to mention the police.”
“So what? By the time they get here, we’ll be long gone.”
“You really are stupid as you look. Tell me, how will they get here?”
Contadino looked at Sterling with confusion. “The same way we did.”
“That’s right. They’ll take the same road, the road that we cleared in order to come up here. And the same fucking road we need in order to come down the goddamn mountain. You get it now?”
Contadino’s shoulders slumped. “Shit.”
“That’s why the first thing I did was kill the phone lines. That way he can’t call out and anyone who tries calling in will blame the weather for not being able to get through.”
“But with this snowstorm … will they really try to get up here?”
Sterling closed his eyes and counted to ten in order not to put his fist down Contadino’s throat then yank out his spine and use it as a rope to lynch him on the nearest tree.
“Listen to me,” Sterling was careful to enunciate each word, “Ackles is probably Wallingford’s only claim to fame. He’s their one bona-fide celebrity and they’re not going to sit around holding their junk in their hands while his house is on fire.
“They’ll come, Contadino, and they’ll come in force. This weather might be a nightmare for us, but for them this is business as usual. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“So what do you want to do? We can’t burn the fuckers out and they shoot back!”
“They’re playing the waiting game, which means they think we’ll freeze out here. We’ll wait just long enough for them to relax. Then we go in, and this time we’ll do it without alerting them. And we shoot them both. Got that?”
“Jesus Christ, my dick’s about to fall off!”
“Shut the hell up,” Sterling said. “And if your dick falls off because it’s cold, it’s not a dick: it’s a pussy.”
Contadino’s tone was overly cautious as he asked, “Why didn’t Ackles trigger the alarm? I mean he could’ve set it off himself, couldn’t he?”
Sterling smiled. It would have been almost beautiful if it weren’t so ferocious. “Two reasons: one, because he’s afraid of what we’ll do to anyone who tries to help them. Ackles doesn’t know what kind of ammunition we got but I’m sure Padalecki told him what I’m capable of. Second, for some reason or another he can’t. Either way, they’re dead men in less than sixty minutes.”
Chris shook his head. “I still can’t get to Jensen.”
Steve dug through his desk, getting more and more frustrated by the second. “I know I have his goddamn satellite number somewhere!”
“We have a problem,” Martin Lane said as he hung up the phone on Linklater’s office. He was one of three men who were able to answer the department’s call for help and later had witnessed the destruction of Connor’s place.
“What is it?”
“It’s Earl’s wife, Jenna. She said he was suppose to swing by over an hour ago to take his medication and he hasn’t.”
“She does realize we have a major snowstorm, right?” Steve asked. After Nathan’s disappearance and possible murder, the last thing he needed to handle was Mrs. Hansford’s fussiness.
“I had a conversation with Adam Jameson forty minutes ago,” Martin said. “Their road hasn’t been plowed yet and they live on Hyacinth Street.”
“That’s where the schools are,” Martin’s brother, David, said. “Now I know that road’s kept clear.”
“Who’s suppose to be plowing that one?” Chris asked.
“Seb Mason,” David answered.
“Where’s Isaiah suppose to be?” Steve asked.
“Northwest sector,” Martin answered and drew a circle on the wall map with his finger.
Steve studied the map for a moment. “Sharon, call Abigail Mallory. She lives on Main.”
Sharon did; the conversation was brief. “She said Isaiah came by two hours ago. She hasn’t seen him since.”
“Shit,” Chris said savagely. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The son of a bitch somehow got the plows,” Steve said, his voice hollowed by shock. “How the fuck did he do that?”
Sharon stood up from the dispatch desk. “If he got to one of them, he could’ve forced them to lie and ask for help. The others would’ve immediately responded.”
“How? Don’t they use cell phones?” Chris asked.
Sharon shook her head. “No, they have walkie-talkies. Isaiah said they’re lot more dependable in bad weather.”
“Sweet Jesus,” David said. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”
“Fuck,” Steve said. “Okay, we have to find the plows now.”
Chris stood next to Steve and looked at the map. “If Mrs. Hansford said her husband was suppose to take the medicine then we can assume he was on his way back when he was taken.”
“Why do you say that?” Martin asked.
“Because they all disappeared roughly in the last half hour,” Steve answered.
“So, unless the snowplows were driven into the woods, we can assume they’re somewhere near Hansford’s house.”
“Why does the bastard want the plows in the first place?” David asked. “That’s what I don’t get.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed into slits, changing his friendly face into something reptilian. “He needs it to get to Jensen.”
Chris dove for the phone and called again only to get the same voice recording explaining there was a problem with connecting that particular number.
“We find the plows now,” Steve barked out. “David, Martin, bring your own trucks and follow me.”
It was as Chris predicted. The men found the plows only quarter mile away from Hansford’s place. Martin checked the unconscious men and announced with great relief that they were all alive. Steve ordered the Lane brothers to load the men in their trucks and drive them to the nearest hospital while he and Chris went after the killer.
There was no doubt in either Chris or Steve’s mind as to where the killer was heading. The only question was if they could reach Jensen in time. The two men piled into Steve’s cruiser and drove as quickly as they could to Oberon Pass.
It took them forty minutes to reach the treacherous passageway. Steve took one look at the cleared road and snarled in frustration.
“I should’ve seen this coming,” he shouted to himself. “Why the fuck did I not see this?”
“Shut the hell up,” Chris said. “You’re not going to do Jensen any good by losing it.”
Steve drove five miles further before stopping.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Chris asked as he watched Steve get out of the cruiser and open the trunk.
“I know a shortcut to Jensen’s house,” Steve explained as he pulled out two pairs of snowshoes. “It’ll be faster if we go on foot.”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
“Listen to me, the son of a bitch has at least thirty minute head start. We can’t catch up to him by taking the goddamn car. The road’s too dangerous. Trust me on this.”
Chris closed his eyes and moaned before yanking himself out of the warmth of the car. He put on the snowshoes and then pulled out a medium-sized case from the trunk. It contained a rifle, which he swiftly assembled. Chris then wrapped a tarp around it in order to keep out moisture.
Steve started up the cruiser and parked it in such a way that it blocked the road completely. He popped open the hood, pulled out the sparkplugs and pocketed them. “Just in case,” he explained as Chris looked at him in puzzlement. “If the bastard comes down first he’s gonna have to go through the car. Odds are good that if he tries such a stunt, he’ll go off to the side. If he manages to come down on foot, he’s still going to have to hoof it down the rest of the mountain.
“Hopefully the fucker will freeze to death before he hits Wallingford.”
“Man, you are one vindictive son of a bitch, you know that?”
“He killed Nathan. Vindictive doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Steve said calmly. “When I see that bastard we’re going to have a little heart-to-heart about Nathan.”
Chris’ smile was wolfish. “See, I knew you weren’t cut out to be John Law.”
“Fuck off.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Singer was jerked awake from deep sleep by the ringing phone. He looked at the alarm clock and swore when he saw it was past midnight. His wife picked up the cordless and prodded him with it.
“Singer.”
“Sir, it’s Robertson. I just got a call from our office in New Hampshire. You have Patrick Connor from Wallingford in your list?”
“What is it?” Singer felt his heart race as he put on his glasses.
“Sir, I just got a call that the police department in Wallingford’s on a warpath. One of their deputies went missing and they think he’s been murdered along with three others. One is a kid named Evan Laramie and the second is a Patrick Marcus Connor from Wallingford. His father, Lawrence James Connor is also presumed dead.”
“What the hell happened up there?”
“I'm not quite sure, Sir. As far as we can tell this all went down about three hours ago.”
“And why the fuck am I hearing about it now?”
“Agent Henman went for a dinner break and didn’t get back until nine. It took him a while to process the info.”
“I want Agent Murray and Agent Lindberg. Just call Lindberg: he’ll contact Murray. Call Nelson, he should be back from his vacation. I also want them heavily armed, ready for extreme emergencies. Got that?”
“Yes, sir, anything else?”
“Contact Kripke in DC. He’ll want to know this ASAP.”
“Yes, Sir. There’s also something else. From what I understand a police sergeant and a friend of his have mounted a rescue operation of sorts.”
“Why?”
“The report says that the sergeant believes the killer is going after someone named Padalecki who actually saw the shooter of Patrick Connor and Evan Laramie.”
“Did you say Padalecki?” Singer echoed weakly.
“Yes, Sir, I did.”
“Where is the witness, exactly?”
“He’s currently holed up with a man named Jensen Ackles somewhere in the White Mountains. I’m not sure exactly where.”
“Jesus Christ,” Singer said as he grabbed his cell. “Okay, I also want whoever is available in Bedford and Portsmouth at Wallingford before I get there. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll relay that information right now. And just so you know, the entire area is hit with a blizzard so the roads are very treacherous right now, especially through the White Mountains.”
“Just get my men ready.”
Singer pulled out the warmest clothes he had before collecting his personal firearm from his office along with the Bureau-issued gun.
He was scrambling to find his thickest winter coat when he saw his wife standing calmly next to the garage door with the coat in hand and an enormous thermos of coffee in the other.
“I love you,” Amy said. “Go get ‘em, cowboy.”
Singer felt her kiss on his lips during the entire drive from their home in Brookline to Boston. He stormed into the office and saw Lindberg and Murray, both nursing coffee from the break room.
“Nelson’s downstairs, getting the car prepped,” Lindberg said.
“What’s happened?” Murray asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes.
“Patrick Connor, his father, and two other people are dead or presumed dead. And whoever killed them is now after Padalecki.”
“What?” Lindberg hissed, his gaze swiveling to Murray who retained his calm demeanor.
“I’m still reeling from the news myself,” Singer said.
“So I guess this means Lorino knows,” Murray said, “which also means whoever he hired to take care of this mess is crème de la crème.”
“Sir, we should look in on Russo, just in case,” Lindberg said, troubled by what Murray had revealed.
“I was just thinking that too. If what I’m thinking is correct, Lorino’s doing a sweep and that means none of his crew up here are safe.”
“I wonder if Ben knows that,” Murray said. “He’s got to know about the cleanup, but I’m betting the guy hasn’t got a goddamn clue how disposable he is.”
“Why do you say that?” Singer asked.
Murray shrugged. “It’s just that Manzoni bragged a lot, and most of the time it was to make himself look better. I got the feeling he was doing it because he wasn’t getting stroked by the right people.”
“And Barassi?”
“He’s definitely smarter and doesn’t need any handholding from New York. If I had to make a guess Barassi’s already gone underground. Manzoni, on the other hand, isn’t smart enough to do that.”
“Why don’t we put an extra car on Manzoni, for now?” Lindberg suggested. “Just in case something falls out of that tree.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Murray said.
“Agreed,” Singer called in for a second car to baby-sit Manzoni. Then he contacted the men responsible for keeping track of Barassi. The conversation was brief but illuminating.
“Johnny boy took his wife and kids and went on a trip to the Bahamas not two hours ago,” Singer said.
Murray smiled a little. “He always was a skittish kind of guy.”
“Do you know where?” Lindberg asked.
“Yeah, he’s got a little place on Cat Island. But Lorino knows that too, so I doubt Johnny is going to hide there. He’s probably on his boat and knowing Johnny, he’s going to stay there until the shitstorm’s cleared.”
“Sir,” Lindberg asked. “I was wondering, did Patrick Connor get the information you needed?”
Singer shook his head. “No, and that’s what’s killing me. I know he had three meetings set up with Russo the last two weeks but they were a bust. I was starting to get worried that Russo was onto Connor.”
“Somebody was,” Murray said. “And that means there’s a leak.”
Singer looked pained at his agent’s statement. “I was thinking that too. The question is from where?”
His office phone rang shrilly, interrupting their discussion. Singer answered, his voice clipped with strain.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
Singer hung up and then collapsed onto his chair.
“What’s wrong?”
“The men who were tailing Russo lost him late this afternoon. They just got back to his house: it’s been torched.”
“What?” Lindberg whispered.
“What about his family?” Murray asked. “He’s got two kids.”
“The cops said the firefighters didn’t find anyone inside,” Singer replied. “All right, we’ll let the locals deal with this mess for now. We’ve got to head out to Wallingford before they also take care of Padalecki.”
Lindberg was in the back with Murray as Singer took the passenger seat next to Nelson who had a reputation for his driving skills in New England winters. Lindberg studied his friend’s tense face and asked, “What’s up?”
“I was just thinking I’m not in a good position either,” Murray said. “They must be pissing bricks about me.”
“Lorino knows better than to go after the FBI,” Lindberg said in a reasonable tone. “The last thing he wants to start is a war with the feds. He’s already got one waging with New York City Police Department and look how that’s turning out.”
“That wasn’t him, actually,” Murray said. “It was his fucked up son, Alex, who gave the okay to kill the detectives.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah, as far as I can figure Tomas Lorino is old school, but his son - his son’s a different animal altogether. I hate to say it but when the old man dies, which is any day now, it’s going to get really bad for everyone, including us. Alex’s a cowboy, and cowboys don’t think about repercussions.”
“If that's the situation, will Tomas allow his son to take his place?” Lindberg asked. “If Alex’s such a risk, then Tomas must have someone else in mind as his successor.”
Murray looked at Lindberg and raised a questioning brow. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
“Wonder if Alex knows it too.”
Murray shrugged. “He can’t touch the old man. Tomas is too smart for that.”
“And Alex isn’t as popular as he thinks he is,” Singer chimed in. “Like Murray said, the kid’s a cowboy and cowboys aren’t very popular in that crowd, young or old.”
“So there’s going to be a power struggle when Tomas kicks the bucket?” Lindberg asked.
Singer turned around and gave Murray a questioning stare. Murray shrugged again, looking bored. “Depends if Tomas doesn’t have someone lined up already. It could be his son or someone else; I’m betting on someone else.”
“And if that happens, you can be sure Alex Lorino will put up a fight,” Singer said, “which is good for us. Every time they go through this kind of civil war, we end up benefiting big time.”
“Will Tomas Lorino allow that?” Lindberg asked. “I can’t imagine someone like him would allow it to spin out of control, even in his death bed.”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” Singer asked. “Which is why this Russo mess is important. It came at a critical time for all involved, including Tomas and his Consiglieri.”
Murray looked at Singer with admiration. “You’re right. If this goes to hell then Tomas Lorino’s reputation is going to take a hit. And that’s the last thing the old man needs.”
Lindberg sat back and gave a huge sigh. “I’m wondering: if cleaning up this Russo mess is so important, would Tomas Lorino send just one man to do the work? Wouldn’t he send an entire squad just to make sure?”
“Not really,” Murray answered. “Not if he trusts the man he sent to do the work.”
“That’s the other thing,” Singer said. “If, by sheer luck, we catch this guy; I can promise you he’s got enough info to bring down the entire Lorino Family. Tomas Lorino wouldn’t trust a total stranger to do this kind of work, no matter how simple it is. He would’ve tapped someone he knew, someone he trusted. And that means the killer had carried out hits for Tomas before, not just successfully, mind you, but perfectly.
“If we catch a man like that…”
“It’ll be the arrest of a lifetime,” Lindberg finished.
“All our lifetimes,” Singer corrected. “Just remember that before you go charging in.”
Part IV * Part VI