The Guardian (11 page)

‘Yeah, well there aren’t many Boy Scouts who have the contacts to fence stolen artifacts from the Middle East. Besides, what’s he gonna do? He’s making money off this,
same as me.’

‘Guys like Gruden don’t want to make money same as you, Charlie, they want to make all the money.’

‘Relax, Cianna, like I told you, it’s all gonna be fine.’

As he said the words, there was a pounding at the apartment door. Cianna looked at Charlie. She walked over to the front door and looked out the peephole, but could see no one.
‘There’s no one there,’ she said, turning back to Charlie.

The knocking came again, harder this time. She put her eye to the peephole, but this time it was blocked. ‘Who is it?’ she called out.

Jack Saunders rented a midsized Chevy sedan with a GPS and a full tank of gas from the Hertz at Logan airport. He typed Cianna Phelan’s address on the touch screen in the
dashboard and a map popped up directing him. He turned the ignition and pulled out of the rental lot.

The airport in Boston was a seven-minute drive from the heart of the city. Saunders took the Ted Williams Tunnel under the harbor over to Southie, exiting near the Convention Center. From there,
he turned right and headed into the heart of the residential neighborhood. Southie had managed to maintain its blue-collar feel even as the areas closer in toward Boston proper had become
gentrified. Young men dressed in workmen’s clothes covered in concrete dust smoked cigarettes on the narrow sidewalks, and cast suspicious glances at his car as it passed. The place smelled
of greasy food and salt air.

Saunders looked at his notes and scanned the addresses on the doors. The one he was looking for was easy to spot; it stood out on the street, separated from the rows of townhouses, the numbers
writ large in chipped white paint on a black door that looked like it was being held together with rust.

He pulled over to the sidewalk and parked. There were no signs, and it was difficult to tell whether he was in a legal spot, but he figured he’d take his chances. He didn’t expect to
be in the building for very long.

One of the apartments on the third floor was apparently rented by Cianna Phelan, Charles Phelan’s only known relative. He’d left hers as a forwarding address with the Army when
he’d mustered out two weeks before. Since then, he’d not been heard from. A standard check of his accounts revealed no use of his credit or debit cards that might have pinpointed his
location.

Saunders got out of the car and walked over to the door and gave it a try. It pulled open without resistance. With luck, he thought, the rest of the visit would go as smoothly.

Cianna had her eye up against the peephole when the door was kicked in with such force that it threw her halfway across the room. She landed hard on the corner of the crate
that served as a table. ‘What the fuck!’ she shouted, as her hand went to her face. She could feel the blood running down her cheek, and the vision in one eye seemed to be gone. She
turned and looked through the curtain of blood back at the door. A giant man with a shaved head was standing at the threshold with shoulders broader than any she could remember seeing, and a neck
that looked as though it was woven from steel tram cable.

The man looked briefly at Cianna, then dismissed her and addressed her brother. His face was contorted in rage. ‘You’re a fucking moron, you know that, Charlie,’ he shouted.
‘You think your sister’s place isn’t the first place I’d look for you?’

‘Sirus.’ Charlie’s voice was quavering. ‘I don’t understand; what’s wrong?’ Cianna could see he was trying to act innocent, but it was a poor
performance, and the guilt came through plainly.

Sirus took a step into the tiny living room. ‘You want to know what’s going on? You want to know, you little shit?’ He moved toward Charlie. ‘You steal from me, and bad
things happen. That’s what’s going on.’ There was nowhere for Charlie to go, and he tripped back against the sofa. Sirus’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat.

‘I didn’t steal anything!’ Charlie choked out, but it was barely audible. Sirus’s hand was crushing his windpipe.

‘Where is it?’ Sirus demanded. Charlie pulled at the hand, trying to loosen the giant man’s grip, but it was useless. He gasped and choked as his thin arms slapped
ineffectually. ‘Where is it?’ Sirus demanded again, but Cianna could see that Charlie was unable to respond with his oxygen cut off.

She was back on her feet now, and she screamed at Sirus. ‘Let him go!’

Sirus looked at her briefly, contempt on his face. He grabbed Charlie by the collar and pulled him close, so that he was spitting his words in his face. ‘One chance, Phelan,’ he
said. ‘That’s all. Tell me where it is!’

Cianna assumed that the discussion was over. Charlie had always been a coward deep down, and there seemed little chance that he would keep up the charade when faced with the seriousness of the
physical threat, no matter how valuable the knife was. She was wrong, though. Charlie regarded the bigger man, a look of defiance on his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking
about,’ he choked out.

The words had barely cleared his lips when Sirus’s giant fist crashed into Charlie’s face. Cianna could hear the snapping sound of what she hoped was cartilage, but feared was bone,
and Charlie was thrown back into the wall with a thud that sickened her. Sirus was moving forward again, a look of pure hatred on his face.

She acted before she thought. It was instinctive – primal. The blood was still in her eyes, but she launched herself at the enormous man. He saw her coming, and turned to fend off the
attack. Sirus swung lazily and high, assuming she would throw her own weight into the punch. She ducked low and kicked out, catching him on the side of the knee. She heard the popping sound, and
felt a rush of satisfaction.

He let out a roar of anger, pain, and surprise, and stumbled as the leg wobbled. It took him a moment for him to catch his balance, and Cianna knew she had only one chance. Even injured, Sirus
was so much bigger and stronger than she, that if she allowed him to recover, the fight would end badly for her.

She moved to her left, forcing him to put weight on his injured leg if he wanted to follow her. He groaned as he moved, keeping his hands up and his eyes on her. Once he was in a position where
his body was crossed with his legs, and his balance was back, she kicked out again, this time aiming for his solar plexus.

The blow struck with her heel in exactly the place where she had aimed. To her dismay, however, it had minimal effect. It felt as though her foot had connected with concrete. Sirus gave grunt,
but it sounded more like annoyance than pain. Then he was coming at her. The injury to his leg slowed him, but not nearly as much as Cianna had hoped.

She looked over toward the side of the couch, and saw Charlie stir. That was a relief, at least. From the way he’d been hit, she’d had serious concerns at first that he might have
been killed. ‘Charlie!’ she yelled. ‘Charlie, get up!’

Sirus turned and looked over at Charlie slumped in the corner. He was rolling over, his arms reaching out to grab onto something to give him some balance, but he still looked disoriented. Cianna
took that opportunity to strike out again. Sirus was too close for a kick, so she swiveled her hips and shoulders to generate as much power and speed behind her clenched fist as possible. She had
to find a weak spot, and she knew there would be few, so she focused all her energy on his windpipe. If she could hit him hard enough, she could collapse his air passage, and no matter how strong
he was, he would go down. It was her one chance, and she used all her strength.

By turning, he had left his neck exposed for a moment, and his face showed the recognition of his mistake as he snapped his head back to Cianna. It was too late, though, she thought. Time slowed
as her fist shot up toward his Adam’s apple. For the briefest moment, she thought she would survive the encounter. Just before she connected with his neck, though, his enormous hand swallowed
her wrist, holding her firm. She struggled to pull her arm free, but it was useless.

He leaned in toward her, so that his face was close to hers. She swung her other arm, but she had no momentum, and he grabbed her other wrist with his free hand. Now he had both her hands, and
he was close enough that she could smell the stench of his breath. His eyes were small and intense. He let go of one of her arms and grabbed her by the throat, held her against the wall. She tried
again to swing at him, but his arm was so long that she couldn’t reach his face, and when she hit his arm her blows bounced off harmlessly. After a moment, she was having trouble breathing,
and her strength began to ebb away.

He let go of her other arm, reached behind his back, and pulled a gun from his waistband. He held it up, showing it to her. Then he held the barrel to her forehead. He stood there for a moment,
watching her, reading her eyes. The muscles in his forearm twitched, and she stared into the face of the man who would kill her.

His arm tensed again, and she closed her eyes.

Suddenly, she heard the front door to the apartment bang open, and she looked over to see a man of average height and build standing at the threshold. He was wearing an inexpensive suit, and had
neatly trimmed hair, too long for the military, but too short for much else. He had an interested expression, and showed no surprise at the scene into which he had walked. A gun dangled in his
right hand. He looked from Charlie to Cianna, to the man holding a gun at her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’

Jack Saunders’s gun hung at the top of his thigh, casually, his finger on the trigger. He’d heard the commotion as he approached the apartment, and seen the door
ajar. Coming into the room, he was ready.

Ready for what, though? That was the real question. When he entered the apartment, he took careful stock of the situation. A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, slight and short, was lying
in one corner. He was struggling unsuccessfully to get to his feet, and he was bleeding from the head. An enormous man with a shaved head and well-defined features was standing on the other side of
the room. He was older, though not quite as old as Saunders, and he was holding a woman by the throat with one hand. She had a cut on the corner of her eye, and was fighting to break free. As
Saunders entered, the bald man was raising a gun to the woman’s forehead. Saunders noted the make of the gun without active thought.

The woman looked like a trapped animal. If she was scared, she had managed to channel all of her fear into a primal drive for survival. Saunders was tempted to shoot the larger man the instant
he walked through the door. It was a natural reaction. Most men instinctively defend a woman in danger. Years of training, though, had molded Saunders’s instincts. He’d been in the game
for too long to take any situation at face value. He knew nothing of the players in the violent vignette unfolding before him, and he was unwilling to make a move until he had more information.

He spoke evenly, without threat, and everyone turned to look at him, their eyes full of surprise. He expected that look. It had been his experience that people in the throes of violence this
intimate often forget the rest of the world, and, when interrupted, their reaction is one of shock and mortification, not unlike being caught in the midst of a sexual peccadillo.

The giant spoke first. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. His voice was raised, though not to a yell. He kept the gun pointed at the woman.

‘I’m looking for Charles Phelan,’ Saunders said, ignoring the warning. ‘You him?’

Both the bald man and the woman shot a glance at the young man still struggling to his feet in the corner.
So that’s Phelan
, Saunders thought. The woman was likely his sister. The
giant’s identity was still a mystery. Saunders had little time to ponder the matter.

‘I told you to get the fuck out of here!’ the bald man yelled. He swung the gun around so that it was pointing at Saunders, and Saunders ducked to his right, raising his own gun. It
would have been a simple matter to kill the man. He was too large a target to miss, and Saunders was an expert marksman. But Saunders needed to know more before he started killing people.

‘Drop your gun!’ Saunders yelled back. ‘I’m a cop!’ It wasn’t exactly true. The Central Intelligence Agency was technically separate from any true
law-enforcement agency. Still, it was Saunders’s experience that yelling
CIA!
just tended to confuse people. Better to keep it simple. To punctuate his point, Saunders took
split-second aim and shot the gun out of the man’s hand. The giant roared in surprise as much as pain, as the gun skittered across the floor and hit the wall near Charles Phelan.

It was all the opening the woman needed. She swung her fist at the elbow of the arm that still held her and made solid contact, causing the man’s elbow to bend. This allowed her to get in
closer to him, and as his head was still turned, she launched her fist out with precision, catching him in the jaw.

The man gave a pained howl, and turned toward her in a fury, swinging his giant arm at her and connecting with the side of her head, sending her sprawling into the coffee table. Saunders heard
the loud, dull thud as her head hit the corner and she fell to the floor, unconscious.

The giant seemed to have recovered from the shock of having his gun shot out of his hand, and he dove to his right, grabbing the gun off the floor, aiming at Saunders. It wasn’t clear to
Saunders that the gun would actually fire, but it seemed foolish to take a chance, so he ducked down behind a chair. In the time it took for him to peer out from behind the chair, the bald man
closed the gap with Charles Phelan, who had nearly made it to his feet. He grabbed the smaller man and spun him around, using him as a shield. The gun was pointed over Phelan’s shoulder,
aimed at Saunders, and he fired off two rounds, sending Saunders diving for cover on the floor.

The man practically lifted Phelan off the ground as he limped toward the door, using his hostage to prevent a clean shot from Saunders. He slammed the door behind him as they exited the
apartment.