The Assassin's Case (29 page)

THIRTY-SIX

Pain shot through Grant’s right ankle when he stood. His left arm dangled at his side. He tried to lift it but an ache pulsed in his shoulder. Cane was halfway down the trellis, still clutching the knife in one hand.

              Grant gripped the captured walking stick and shuffled toward the colonel. Using the crook of the cane, Grant reached up, hooked the man’s neck, and pulled. Colonel Cane fell onto his back, but as soon as he landed he twisted around and aimed a kick at Grant’s leg.

              While Grant jumped back Cane rolled to the side and pushed to his feet. He reached toward his holstered pistol with his left hand, the right hand still gripping the knife. As the gun cleared leather Grant slammed the cane down on the colonel’s arm, forcing him to drop the pistol. Grant spun on his good leg, swinging the cane in an arc, and cracked the colonel on the side of the head.

              The man stumbled, but kept his feet, and stabbed with the knife. Grant deflected the blow with the cane, but the colonel kicked him in the stomach, knocking him away. Grant staggered. Pain shot up his leg and he fell onto his back.  

              Colonel Cane stepped forward, reversed the grip on his knife, raised it over his head, and dropped his weight, plunging the blade toward Grant’s chest. Using the tip of the cane like a sword, Grant jabbed the colonel in the anterior triangle at the base of the throat. The thrust stopped him short. Grant drove his left foot into the man’s groin. As he doubled over, Grant pushed with the tip of the cane, the pressure on the throat forcing the man back. The colonel fell to a knee, holding the knife before him.

Grant scrambled to his feet. As he stood he whipped the cane across the colonel’s thumb, and the back of the knife’s blade, forcing it from his hand.

              Without stopping the momentum of the blow Grant looped the cane around and over his head, aiming for a crippling blow to the top of the skull.

              The colonel shot from the ground and closed the gap between them. Though the blow hit, some of the momentum was diminished.

Was this guy’s head concrete?

             
A fist plunged into Grant’s left shoulder. An explosion of sharp pain nearly forced a yell from his throat. Instead he wrapped the crook of the cane behind the colonel’s head, pulled down, and smashed a knee into his face. Blood blossomed from his nose, but as Grant placed his leg down, set to deliver another blow, his foot found a depression in the uneven ground. His weakened ankle turned and he stumbled. Before he could recover the colonel rammed his chest with a shoulder, forcing him to the ground.

              On his back, Grant brought the cane up to protect himself.

              Colonel Cane, face a ruined pulp, stepped away, pulled up his pants leg, and drew a pistol from a holster strapped to his leg. The handgun was a small nickel plated revolver with no visible hammer. Grant guessed it to be the small but deadly Smith & Wesson Model 638 Bodyguard in .38 special. Cane pointed the weapon at Grant’s chest while wiping the blood from his face with the sleeve of his other arm. “Is that all you’ve got?” He stood. “I’ve been bloodied on almost every continent on the globe in service to this country.”

              “How could you do something like this?” Grant said. He tried to rise but Cane shook his head.

              “I didn’t have a choice. I have a duty to perform. You know. The needs of the many. Besides, I was following orders.”

              Grant stared down the barrel of the pistol. “Duty? This seemed personal to me.” His only hope was to keep the man talking.

              Using his free hand, the colonel waved his finger between them. “This. This
is
personal. Because of you I’ve lost men. Good men.”

              “Not because of me. Because of you. The doctor just wanted his family back. None of us cared about your precious weapon. What would you have done in his place?”

              Cane didn’t respond right away. He appeared to be mulling over the question. “The same. But it makes no difference.” His pistol had dropped off line but he refocused the barrel on Grant’s chest.

              Lying there, helpless, Grant realized the gunfire from the street had ceased.

              Colonel Cane’s eyes tightened and Grant knew he was about to join his family. At least in death. What scared him was whether or not he would see them again.
Forgive me, Lord, I’m sorry.
Grant didn’t think the prayer would do much good. He had often scoffed at the repentance of criminals on the way to their execution. Jailhouse professions of faith. Why should his be any different? He braced himself.

             
A form sprinted past Grant and tackled Cane.

              Tedesco.

              The men crashed to the ground and Cane disappeared beneath Tedesco’s bulk. Tedesco pushed away, drawing a hand back to deliver a punch. A muffled shot rang out and a spasm bucked Tedesco’s body. He fell flat onto Cane.

“No!” The yell burst from Grant unbidden.

Cane struggled and started to work himself from beneath the still form lying on top of him.

Grant climbed to his feet and searched the ground. He spotted the shoulder harness and the Remington. In a limping stumbling shuffle, Grant rushed toward his guns. Since it was the closest, he bent and seized the Remington. He spun around and propped the rifle against his hip.

Cane was on his feet, lining up a shot.

Grant pulled the trigger. The shot went a bit high, catching the colonel in the left shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound and the impact knocked him sideways. Though pain seared his face Grant could see the resolve as the older man regained his balance, and raised the pistol.

That is one tough SOB.
Grant struggled but was able to bend his left arm enough to place the rifle barrel across the inside of his elbow. Bracing the gun against his hip he worked the bolt, then moved his hand toward the trigger. He left the barrel in the crook of his left elbow, the stock and trigger in his right hand, and turned his body to aim.

Though Cane struggled to raise his weapon he succeeded.

Grant’s finger flexed against the trigger. The shot hit Colonel Ethan Cane center of mass in the chest, lifting him from his feet, sending him sprawling onto his back. He lay still. Grant knew he wouldn’t be moving again.

He dropped the rifle, ran as fast as his damaged body would allow, and knelt at Tedesco’s side. Grant rolled him onto his back. A bloody blossom stained the front of Tedesco’s shirt. His chest still moved up and down, but haltingly, every breath an obvious struggle.

Grant clasped the injured man’s hand and squeezed. “Hang on. I’ll get some help.”

A group of agents stormed into the back yard, Jaime and Steve in the lead. Jaime knelt on the opposite side of Tedesco and gripped his other hand. “We need a medic. At the back of the house. Now,” Jaime said.

Tedesco tugged on Grant’s hand, pulling him close. “There’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been trying to find the right time.” He wheezed and a trickle of blood spilled from his mouth.

“Shh,” Grant said. “Save your strength.”

“No.” Tedesco coughed and more blood stained his lips. “Just listen. Carmine had another son. Anthony. Most of the crew didn’t know about him. Carmine had big plans for him.” Tedesco coughed again. “He was with me that night. After I set the bomb at your place we waited in the car for you to come home. Even though I didn’t know it at the time, Carmine wanted you to see your family die. Make you suffer. But I saw your wife and son through a window. I told Anthony something was wrong, that I had to disarm the bomb. When I opened the door he whacked me over the head.” Tedesco closed his eyes and clenched his jaws before continuing. “When I came to Anthony had already detonated all three bombs. He was mean. Crazy. Enjoyed hurting people.” Tedesco clamped down on Grant’s hand. “I have a file on him in my desk. At the bar. He disappeared after his father went to prison. I haven’t been able to find him, but you can.” Tedesco lay still, his grip relaxing, and closed his eyes.

“Where’s my medic?” Jaime said.

              The ex hit man opened his eyes and fixed them on Grant’s. “Can you forgive me?”

              Grant swallowed and pulled Tedesco’s hand to his chest. “I forgive you.” A tear rolled down Grant’s cheek. He forced a smile. “You saved my life you big ox.”

              A weak smile softened Tedesco’s pain wracked features. “The apostle John said, ‘Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends’.” He coughed, causing blood to froth at the edges of his mouth and trickle down his chin. His shirt now saturated with the crimson fluid. “Maybe now I’ve atoned for my sins.” His eyes closed and the muscles in his hand went limp.

              The medics arrived, ushered Grant and Jaime to the side, and began ministering to Tedesco.

              But, Grant knew it was too late. The man was gone.

              Jaime helped Grant to his feet and he draped his good arm around her shoulders. He felt hot tears on his cheek, tasted their salt in his mouth. A gap, a hole of some kind seemed to form in his gut, leaving him hollowed. A week ago he would have killed this man on sight, had in fact longed for the day when he could do it, the very thought of it sustaining him for years.

              The medics looked toward them and shook their heads.

An unlikely hero gone.

Jaime hugged Grant tight and he buried his face in her shoulder so one could see him cry.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The funeral for James Anthony “Boom” Tedesco was held over two weeks after his death. It took that long for the mess to be sorted and the body to be released. If any day could be called perfect for a funeral it was this day. The elements themselves seemed to mourn the man’s passing. The skies over Animas were slate gray. The wind howled off the desert gnawing at exposed skin, causing the mid-forties temperature to feel even colder.

              Grant’s left arm was in a sling. His coat was draped over his shoulders and he held it closed with his right hand. Jaime stood close, her arm threaded through his.

Jeremiah Burns, the minister who had been so influential in Tedesco’s conversion, had been flown in on one of Tim Peterson’s corporate jets to perform the eulogy. Beneath a green canopy, covering freshly churned earth and a mahogany casket with gold trim, the gnarled old pastor read a passage of scripture. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me …”

              On the seat of Grant’s car rested a file he recovered from the Rusty Spur. He hadn’t yet had the courage to open it. But it was thick, and would more than likely contain enough evidence to convict his family’s murderer. Grant had already made up his mind though. No more vendettas, vigilante justice, killing for revenge. He planned to turn the file over to Steve Jenson after the funeral. He glanced toward the badge at his belt, besides, he couldn’t afford to screw up this soon back on the job. He was now an over forty FNG.

              Jaime and Grant stood behind two rows of chairs. The front row was filled by Dr. Morgan and his family. They all cried, tears flowing freely, even the kids. Their grief on full display, all of them with full knowledge of what they owed the man they were here to honor.     

              Grant included.

              The second row of chairs was occupied by Steve and Charlotte, the rest by several denizens of Animas. Judging by their grief stricken countenances they cared deeply about Tedesco too.

              Grant stood with the other pallbearers. The only one he knew was Al and the man blubbered unabashedly while the pastor read. They had spent some time together over the past couple of weeks. Apparently he had been one of the Delfuco crew, a low level member of their organization, and Tedesco’s best friend. After Tedesco left the witness protection program he had found Al, working as a janitor in Memphis, trying to walk the straight and narrow after the fall of the Delfuco clan but barely making ends meet. Tedesco brought him to Animas and made him a partner in the bar, which he now owned. Donny, the big guy Grant fought with, was another old partner in crime Tedesco had reached out to. 

              After the dust cleared in Gulf Shores everyone involved was
sequestered
in FBI protective custody and flown to Washington. In the interest of national security not one smidgeon of the events made the news except a small by-line in Gulf Shores’ small newspaper,
The Islander
, about a gas explosion at a local residence.

              Everyone involved was eventually brought to a conference room at FBI headquarters. Across the table from them sat the Director of the FBI and the Secretary of Defense. They were informed that the Deputy Secretary of Defense, the man who had ordered their termination, was
resigning
. A cover story about his sudden departure from office had already been contrived.

Again, all the subterfuge necessary in the interest of national security.

Dr. Morgan was cleared of any wrongdoing and given back his position with USAAMRID. His family’s silence bought by the fact that Alfred would go to prison if any of them talked.

The rest of the group was sworn to secrecy, cautioned that the clandestine nature of the Playas Lake project was a necessary evil. None of them, including Grant, had a problem with that. They just wanted their lives back.

              The preacher finished the eulogy and began a prayer. Grant bowed his head.

After the meeting in Washington, Steve asked Grant to stay behind. Grant sat alone in the room with Steve and the head of the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world. The director of the FBI clicked his fingers on the table and fixed Grant with a stare. “Do you want your job back?”

              It surprised Grant that he had to think about it, but he did, before finally accepting. If he wanted a future with Jaime he needed to re-make himself. And that was that. Grant suffered no delusions. Steve for certain helped, but the actual reason for the return of his badge was a bribe for his silence. Apparently the generally feeling of the FBI Director was that left to his own devices Grant might not go along with the plan. What would possibly give the man the idea that Grant was a loose cannon?

“Amen.” The pastor, not quite able to stifle the emotion in his voice, finished the prayer.

              Grant untangled his arm from Jaime’s and walked to the casket, his steps heavy. He removed the boutonniere from his lapel and spun the stem in his fingers. “Goodbye, my friend.” He tossed the flower on top of a bouquet resting on the casket’s lid and rubbed his hand over the wood. “Thank you.”