The Alamo - John Milton #11 (John Milton Thrillers) Page 23

“Who are you?” Milton called.

  “Police,” the voice said. “Open the door, please.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  Milton quietly reached up and unlocked the door.

  “Manny Blanco.”

  “Open the door, please, Mr. Blanco. I want to speak to you about your son.”

  “Hold on.”

  Milton heard the door mechanism creak gently and watched as the handle very slowly descended.

  Milton stood behind the door with the mug in his left hand. He felt the welcome pulse and throb of adrenaline. He closed his eyes and revelled in it, accepted it, dismantled the bulwarks against it that he had erected ever since he had left the service. He had built them to protect himself and the people he met, but there had been times when he had needed his old instincts and habits.

  Like now.

  Milton waited for the right moment. He reached for the handle with his right hand and yanked, opening the door to reveal a man in the doorway. Milton assessed instantly: the man was shorter than he was, slender, and dressed in black jeans and a black jacket. He was holding a pistol, the muzzle pointed down. Milton flicked his left hand so that the scalding water splashed across the man’s face. He had used the combination before; the sugar caused the water to adhere to the skin, exacerbating the burns that it caused. Homemade napalm. The man screamed and clamped both hands to his face, letting the pistol fall to the floor. Milton scooped it up and then kicked him in the gut, bouncing him out into the snow. He slammed the door and twisted the key in the lock.

  He heard a crash from the rear of the house: the sound of an impact, and then another, and then the unmistakeable sound of splintering wood.

  Milton checked the gun: a 9mm Glock. He dropped to one knee, clasped the weapon in both hands, and extended his arms. He could see down the corridor from where he had positioned himself, and, although he would also be visible to anyone at the other end of the house, he would have the benefit of preparedness and surprise.

  He heard footsteps from Manny’s bedroom and then watched as a finger of light was cast into the hallway. The finger widened as the door to the bedroom was opened farther, and then it was interrupted by the shadow of the man who must have forced the door into the house.

  Milton took a breath, sighted down the pistol, and put a pound of pressure on the trigger.

  The man was little more than a silhouette, a shadow in the gloom, but Milton waited until he was almost all the way out of the doorway and then squeezed a little more.

  The Glock barked and leapt in Milton’s hands. He had anticipated the kickback and absorbed it, then aimed and fired a second time. The first round had found its mark, although it was too dark for Milton to see exactly where it had struck the man. The intruder’s body twisted, presenting a narrower target, and the second round went wide, crunching into the frame of the door.

  The man staggered back into the room.

  Milton stood, the gun still clasped in both hands, and took a step forward.

  The door closed and the light that had shone from the lamp inside was immediately extinguished.

  He heard a grunt of pain.

  Milton reached the corridor.

  “John?” Manny called.

  “Stay there.”

  Milton stalked along the corridor, the gun held in steady hands. There were threats to the front and rear; and, although both intruders had been wounded, they were still to be definitively accounted for. And he remembered the third man in the car.

  He heard the sound of footsteps in Manny’s bedroom.

  He paused at the side of the door, reached out with his left leg and gave a gentle prod with his foot.

  He flinched from the sound of the gunshots: three quick rounds, the door splintering as they burst through the panel where he would otherwise have been standing.

  They were at a stalemate. The man might have been shot, but, if he was still inside the room, he would certainly be aiming at the door just as Milton had done. Milton wouldn’t be able to sight the man without making himself a sitting duck.

  “Get out,” Milton called. “I know I hit you. Leave now and I’ll let you live.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Milton clasped the pistol and held his breath. He thought he heard the sound of scuffling feet and then the sound of a door creaking on unused hinges.

  Milton stayed where he was. He heard the sound of an engine from the front of the house. He heard the crunch of tyres on compacted snow and then that stopped, the engine still running. Milton sensed what was about to happen and flattened himself against the floor. There came a tremendous boom and then the glass in the window to the left of the door in the front room was blown out. A second boom followed immediately thereafter and the window to the right of the door received the same treatment. Fragments of glass and shot peppered the ceiling and walls. Chunks of dislodged plaster dropped to the floor.

  Milton checked himself: no damage.

  He heard the sound of a muffled scream from Freddy’s room.

  “Stay there,” Milton called out. “It’s okay.”

  He heard the sound of car doors opening and closing, a raised voice, and then the whine of an engine as tyres slipped and skidded across an icy surface.

  Milton kicked open the door to the bedroom and went in gun first, swivelling through ninety degrees as he cleared the room. It was empty. There was a stripe of crimson on the carpet and the door to the street was hanging partially open, the door frame splintered where the lock fitted into the jamb. Milton crossed the room and opened the door just in time to see a car slide out of Danforth and turn hard left onto Crescent. It was a black Jeep Grand Cherokee; Milton tried to make out the plate, but the thick snow made it impossible to read.

  The car found traction on the gritted surface and picked up speed toward the corner of Ridgewood Avenue.

  Milton had no way of giving pursuit. He had to let it go.

  He went back inside, crossed the room and went to the door to Freddy’s bedroom.

  “It’s John,” he said. “Open up. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Milton heard the sound of movement and then a scrape as something was removed from behind the door. Light fell onto his face as the door opened. Manny was standing there, the chair he had used to jam the door handle behind him.

  “What happened?” His eyes slipped down to the Glock that Milton still held in his right fist. “I-I—”

  “Get your coats and shoes,” Milton instructed, cutting him off. “We have to move. Right now.”

  75

  A taxi approached. Milton stepped into the street and waved it down. He told the driver to take them to Essex Street station. The driver agreed and they set off, no one speaking. The driver switched on his radio and switched over to Lite FM. ‘Hazy Shade of Winter’ by The Bangles was playing.

  It would have been quicker to tell the driver to take them straight down to Coney Island, but Milton did not intend to be sloppy. He spent the drive to the west watching for any signs of surveillance. The roads were quiet, and that made it easier to observe the traffic around them. He was content that they were alone, but was still not willing to take chances.

  They crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan and then travelled the short distance to the Essex Street MTA station. Milton paid the driver and they got out. He shepherded them quickly down the steps and into the subway station. He bought three MetroCards and led the way through the turnstile and down to the platform. They took the J Train and rode it south to the end of the line. The trip to Coney Island took forty minutes, and Milton was vigilant throughout. He was confident that they had not been followed in the taxi, but, even if they had been tailed, it would have been difficult for the tail to continue down into the subway without him noticing. Their car was almost empty, too, and no one else went all the way with them.

  The train pulled into the station, sliding into a platform between the trains that were lined up to co
mmence their trips to the north. They had a wide view of the area from the elevated track: Milton looked out at the skeletal frame of the Ferris wheel, the struts of roller coasters and the tall vertical towers that hoisted thrill-seekers high into the air and then plunged them back to earth. The neon signs of the Foxy Club and Shooting Gallery were smeared across the dirty, snow-slicked windows of the car.

  Milton led the way through the station, down the ramp and through the turnstiles and out onto Stillwell Avenue. The tracks and the canopy for the station were overhead, and Milton put them to their backs as they set off to the south. They followed the quiet street between garishly graffitied walls and shuttered storefronts. Milton checked behind them to ensure that they were alone; he was happy that they were.

  They turned left on Surf Avenue, the taste of salt brought to them on the breeze.

  “Where are we going?” Manny asked. He had been quiet for most of the journey, clutching Freddy’s hand and regularly looking over at Milton as if he would be able to divine how much danger they were in by the changing expression on his face.

  “I have a friend here,” Milton said. “He’ll be able to keep you safe until this is fixed.”

  “A friend?”

  “He owes me a favour.”

  76

  It was eight by the time they reached Café Valentin. The restaurant was open. Milton pushed the door and went inside, Manny and Freddy following closely behind him.

  Manny reached for Milton’s arm. “Who are we here to see?” he asked.

  “A friend,” Milton repeated. “Wait here. I need to speak to him.”

  The restaurant was quiet. Three of the tables were occupied: there was a couple at one, a single diner at another, and a family of four at a third. Alexei Fedorov was standing behind the bar, looking out into the room. He saw Milton as he approached, his face breaking out into an open and welcoming smile. He stepped out and clasped Milton’s hand with both of his.

  “John,” he said, “this is a surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  Fedorov smiled at Milton and put his hand on his shoulder. “You are not bothering me. What can I do for you? You want something to eat?”

  “It’s not that. I need a favour.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “My friends need somewhere to stay.” Milton stepped to the side so that Fedorov could see Manny and Freddy standing just inside the threshold of the restaurant.

  Fedorov appraised them. “Who are they?”

  “Manny and Freddy Blanco. They’ve found themselves in a little difficulty. They’ve had to leave their home and they don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “What kind of difficulty?”

  “Would you mind if I didn’t say?”

  Fedorov smiled and shook his head. “No, of course. That is fine. Privacy—I understand. What do they need?”

  “A room for a week or two. I’ll pay, obviously.”

  “No, you will not. I have somewhere. We have a few apartments that we rent. My brother Sergei, he is in charge. A tenant moved out last month and I have not been able to fill it. It is nothing special—a studio. Would that be okay?”

  “I’m sure that would be perfect.”

  “Then I should meet your friends.”

  Milton led the way between the tables back to them, Fedorov following close behind.

  “This is Manny and this is Freddy.”

  Fedorov smiled. “Good evening to you both. My name is Alexei. You are both very welcome here. Come—I get you something to eat.”

  Fedorov led the way to one of the empty tables. He pulled back a chair for Freddy and then signalled to the waitress that she should bring over three menus.

  “John,” Fedorov said, “you will eat?”

  “Yes,” Milton replied. “That would be very kind. I just have a phone call to make, and then I’ll be back.”

  Fedorov nodded, took one of the seats and began a conversation with Manny. Milton could see the hesitation in Manny’s responses, but Fedorov was charming and ebullient and he had no doubt that Manny’s caution would quickly subside. Freddy was watching cautiously; Milton caught his eye, gave him a smile that he hoped would be reassuring, and then made his way to the door.

  77

  Polanski pulled into his driveway. He opened the door, stepped out, and almost lost his footing on the slippery surface. He opened the door and stepped into the warm hallway.

  “Hey,” he called out, “I’m home.”

  He heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the living room, and his wife, Laura, opened the door. “Hush,” she chided him. “The kids have just gone to sleep.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Challenging."

  “I forgot. They cancelled school?”

  She nodded. “I spent all afternoon trying not to lose my patience when they started arguing about whose turn it was to pick what they watched on Netflix.”

  “I’m starving,” he said.

  “There’s meatloaf in the oven. Should still be warm.”

  He went through into the kitchen.

  “And get me a glass of wine, would you?” she said after him. “There’s one open on the side.”

  He took a glove from the oven’s handle and opened the door. The smell of cooked meat, onions and breadcrumbs drifted up and filled his nostrils. He reached down for the dish and took it out as his phone buzzed and vibrated on the counter.

  He put the dish on a metal trivet, removed the glove and took up the phone.

  He didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Smith. Call me back on your landline.”

  The call went dead.

  It had sounded as if Smith was outside; Polanski had heard the sound of a passing car.

  They had a cordless phone hooked up to the landline. Polanski took the handset from the cradle and, reading the number off his phone’s display, called Smith back.

  “It’s me,” he said as the call connected. “What’s going on?”

  “We need to be careful with which phones we use,” Smith said. “Yours might be tapped.”

  “Don’t talk crazy.”

  Smith ignored him. “I went to see the Blancos after I saw you this afternoon. The house was attacked while I was there.”

  “What do you mean it—”

  “Two men tried to get inside,” he interrupted. “When they couldn’t, they shot out the windows.”

  “Are you okay? The kid?”

  “We’re okay. They didn’t get what they wanted, so they left. The Blancos are with me now. I’ve taken them somewhere safe.”

  Polanski found that he was nervously drumming his fingers on the counter. “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re okay.” Smith paused. “But it’s worse than that. I was followed after I met you this afternoon. Just one guy—I spotted him early and I lost him on the subway.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I haven’t told you everything about what I used to do,” he said.

  “Military?”

  There was a pause. “Can we just say that I’ve been trained to notice when someone’s following me and leave it at that? There was hardly anyone on the street tonight. I saw one man behind me who stuck to me like glue all the way to the station. He got on the same train as I did and then he followed when I transferred to another one going back in the opposite direction. That’s the easiest counter-surveillance trick in the book—the only reason someone would behave like that is if they were following me. But one man is easy to lose. And I lost him.”

  “Why would he be following you?”

  “Come on,” Smith said impatiently. “You’re not thinking. He wasn’t on me before we met. I notice when people are following. He could only have picked me up at the coffee shop. That means it wasn’t me they were watching—”

  “It was me,” Polanski finished.

  “Yes,” Smith said. “You need to be careful. It’
s very likely that you’re under surveillance. They might be watching you right now.”

  “That’s why you want this on a different line?”

  “Are you sure you can trust your cell?”

  Polanski didn’t answer. He looked down at the phone on the counter as if it were suddenly untrustworthy. He thought back to Sunday night. González had called him on his cell. Haynes had raised the possibility, too: could Acosta have tapped him? Was it possible that he was being followed?

  “Oh shit,” he said.

  “Is your family safe?”

  Polanski went to the window and parted the blinds. He peered between the slats. Their house was part of a small development that was accessed along Cartwheel Close. The main road was shielded by a screen of trees that had been planted at around the same time that the houses had been built. There was an entrance from the road that opened out into a wide parking area, with each house allocated two bays each. They used the bays to park the cars that wouldn’t fit onto the driveways. There were cars there tonight, but none that he didn’t recognise.

  “Polanski?”

  “Yes,” he replied, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. “We’re fine. And I can’t see anyone outside. Where are you? Where are the Blancos?”

  “I told you—they’re safe.”

  Polanski felt as if he had lost control of the situation. “Can we meet?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Be on the boardwalk at noon. Outside Luna Park.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Be careful,” Smith said. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”

  PART V

  THURSDAY

  78

  Polanski took the half-empty bowl of Apple Jacks and put it in the sink to be washed up. Both of his boys were sitting on the floor in the TV room, watching their usual cartoons. Their routine was always exactly the same: he was up first at six so he could take a shower while the others were still sleeping; he dressed and then woke the boys, taking them downstairs for their breakfast while Laura woke and showered. He would usually take his oldest, Nathan, to school and his wife would take their youngest, Ben, to day care. The routine was going to be different today: the TV was saying that schools in the area were closed.