Picking up the phone, Shane answered it. “Jack, how are you?”
“Been better,” the man answered.
Frowning, Shane asked, “What’s up?”
“We can’t get into the Fallon house today. Girl was killed in there.”
A cold, bitter sensation filled him. “Do they know how?”
“I haven’t seen anything official,” Jack sighed. “One of the detectives said it looks like someone tried to put her face through the fireplace surround.”
“Are there any details, like why she was there or anything?” Shane asked.
“None. We’re going to have to hold off.”
“Okay,” Shane answered. “Call when you know more, please.”
“Will do.”
Shane ended the call, and in response to Carl’s questioning expression, he repeated what Jack Thompson had told him.
For the first time in years, Carl swore.
Shane almost dropped his cigarette.
Carl regained his composure. “My apologies, my friend. I feel that this is, perhaps, getting a little out of control. I am, I confess, used to you relaying stories of how such murders occur in other cities and towns, not our own Nashua.”
“I’m upset because I was too tired to do anything last night after our little visit,” Shane replied. He stubbed out his cigarette and was thankful there was no whiskey in the house.
“What will you do now?” Carl asked.
“I’m going to have something to eat,” Shane told him. “Then, I’m going up to Manchester and lean on people until I find out where Marty Feldman lives. I can’t do anything about Miriam Shaw right now, but I sure as hell can try to do something about Marty.”
Getting to his feet, Shane stood up and went to the refrigerator, his mind lost in anger.
Chapter 35: Unwanted Decisions
Monday, 11:30 AM
“I have to,” Alex complained.
Timmy was stretched out on the floor, hands behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling. The dead man sighed, closed his eyes, and said, “You need to think about this, kid.”
“I am!” Alex yelled.
Timmy’s eyes snapped open, and a hard, bitter expression came over his face. He turned his head slightly to face Alex, and despite the fact that the man was dead, Alex felt a trickle of fear.
“First and foremost, kid,” Timmy stated, his voice low and even, “you do not yell at me. I don’t care what you can do, or how you can control me or any other damned ghost. Got it?”
“I’m sorry,” Alex muttered, and he dropped into a sitting position next to the ghost. They were still in the office, the plastic sheeting gone. Grayson Breen’s mangled corpse had been wrapped in it and carried away by Sergeant Anderson and her team. Alex’s arms ached from the effort it had taken to kill the idiot comms man.
Timmy sat up. “I know you’re upset. And I know you think that killing him is the only option.”
“It is,” Alex snuffled.
The dead man frowned. “Anyway, if that’s what you think, then go with it. Being in command means making the hard decisions and owning them. Right or wrong, kid, the buck stops with you.”
Alex looked at Timmy, confused by the statement.
Timmy chuckled. “According to Grandpa, President Truman used to say it. People used to ‘pass the buck’, pass the blame. The president said all blame stopped with him. Mea culpa, you know.”
Alex nodded.
“You going to think about it?”
“I already did,” Alex replied, straightening his shoulders and hating the pounding in his head. “I made sure to have a team in Nashua, just in case.”
“Okay,” Timmy said after a moment of silence. “How many?”
“Six.”
“It’s not enough.”
Alex blinked, surprised. “What?”
Timmy looked at him, his gaze unflinching. “I’m telling you, straight up, kid, a six-man team is not enough to kill Shane Ryan. I don’t know if they’ll do much more than upset him. Remember, you’re sending them into his house. His world. He just killed four intruders.”
Alex snickered. “Thieves who didn’t know any better.”
“Armed thieves, whose bodies vanished,” Timmy added. “And Marty Feldman got away by the skin of his teeth.”
“They’ll get him,” Alex spoke confidently. “They will kill him and bring his head back to me, like the samurais of old did, to prove to me he is dead.”
“Sure.” Timmy laid back down and closed his eyes. “Let me know when they’re back, Shogun. I’d like to see Shane Ryan’s head.”
***
Monday, 11:45 AM
Sepp Allemand set his phone down and looked at his team. “We’re go.”
The other five men, all former military and tactical team members nodded. In silence, they suited up, putting on body armor laced with iron. They had M4s equipped with suppressors and 9mm Glocks similarly adapted. Each man carried a knife as well, though the plan was not to have to use it.
Sepp, like all of his team, knew the target. They had been studying Shane Ryan’s history ever since the fiasco in Detroit. Each man understood the target’s curious history with ghosts, his experiences as a Marine, and his ability to fight.
They knew he would be dangerous, but they were confident they could handle him.
It didn’t matter if he was in his own home. His natural advantage, the ghosts, would be nullified by the iron they wore. The fact that they would be going in during the middle of the day when no one would expect an attack, would afford them the element of surprise. He was, as far as they knew, an alcoholic and chronic smoker, either of which would inhibit his fighting ability.
And while Sepp and his men had served as a snatch and grab team in the past, they didn’t have to worry about being gentle with Shane Ryan.
Alex Kallistos wanted the man dead, and so they would kill him.
When they were battle-ready, they gathered around the table. A blueprint of 125 Berkley Street was taped to its surface.
“Three main entrances,” Sepp stated. “Two on the first floor, one for the basement. Too many windows to worry about. Everything we know about him says he’ll stand his ground and fight. We won’t have to be concerned with him scooting out down through the basement. This is his home, he’ll fight for it, which is what we want. Bravo team will go through the back door. Alpha, with me, will go through the front. Questions?”
There weren’t any.
“All right, let’s go earn our paycheck,” Sepp said. They walked out of their room and into a large, open warehouse where there were two mock-ups, one of each floor of 125 Berkley Street. From there, they went to the waiting stolen ambulance. Howe took his place in the driver’s seat while the rest climbed in, Sepp the last one to get into the vehicle. He’d be the first through the door.
The men were silent as the ambulance pulled out of the warehouse, the vehicle traveling a little over the speed limit as they drove out of Hudson and into Nashua. Each man knew the different routes to the target house by heart. They had drilled constantly, and they were prepared.