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CHAPTER ONE
Three Weeks Ago
Heart pounding, Glen Rumsford drew closer to the figure on the ground, instinctively reaching for his cell. The man’s head was twisted almost completely around, so unless the guy was part owl, his neck was broken.
Glen looked around. No one else was up this early. Queechy Lake was quiet except for his golden Lab, who panted loudly.
Glen peered past the gate and up the long driveway. He didn’t dare go onto Blake property. As it was, he was one of only two of the seven original cottage owners the rich bastard hadn’t bought out on this side of Queechy.
No wonder people called it Blake’s Lake.
The large man lay wrapped in a sheet, his upper chest and head exposed, lower torso covered. He had thick red hair and a scruffy beard. Glen wondered how someone half in the bag could negotiate the long driveway and pass out here. And even drunk, who would wrap himself in a sheet . . .
Oh no. Not again.
Glen dialed 911.
Now
FBI Special Agent Frank McAlister could feel his wife’s eyes on him as he slid the phone back into the beach bag. He looked out at the ocean and tried not to grimace.
“Really?” Bev said.
“There’s a situation,” he said, his gaze shifting to his twin boys, happily navigating toy trucks and cars through wet sand.
“Do they know how hard it is to get a place on the Vineyard?” she asked, disappointment in her tone. “You’re the only hostage negotiator in the Boston office?”
“It’s got to be important. They know we’re on vacation,” he said, leaning forward in his beach chair.
She paused, eyes narrowed. “Or they’re still punishing you for Citibank.”
“That was two years ago,” he said. “I prefer ‘analysis resulted in a tactical decision to deploy a recognized expert,’” Frank said, standing. “I’ll get Zach and Tyler.”
Bitterness aired, Bev leaped into supportive wife mode, gathering up assorted beach gear. “Where have they got you going?”
“Lennington.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Not sure,” he admitted. “Western Mass somewhere. Will GPS it.”
“Out in the sticks,” Bev muttered. “More payback, plain and simple.”
They already had lunch, so stopping for ice cream on the way to the ferry muted the boys’ protests.
“It’s a ninety-minute wait for the next one,” Frank said after checking the schedule. “You don’t have to stay.”
“We’re staying,” Bev said, moving close to him. “Ninety more minutes of family vacation.” She lay her head upon his shoulder.
“You’re my rock, babe.”
Zach and Tyler, sedated by overstuffed sugar cones, didn’t cry until they realized Dad was leaving. Made it slightly less gut-wrenching.
“We’ll be fine,” Bev said. “I’ll ask if my sister wants to come down for a couple of days.”
On the ferry Frank texted “I’m sorry.”
He smiled reading Bev’s reply.
“I know. Go help people. Please be careful. BTW, you’ll make it up to me.”
Frank planned to drive like a bat out of hell and get there under four hours. But the Sagamore Bridge was jammed. Fully seven hours later, he arrived in Lennington, south of Pittsfield and just this side of the New York border.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, flashing his badge and pulling into the parking lot where a state trooper directed him. It looked like the Command Center was a high school. A faded mascot was painted on the side of the building, with a HOME OF THE GRAY DEMONS caption.
As he got out of the car, a man in a blue FBI windbreaker approached. Ex-military, and he had that not long out of Quantico look.
“I’m Agent Scott Duncan, sir.” Some type of Southern accent Frank couldn’t place.
“Special Agent-in-Charge Frank McAlister.” They shook. “Where are you based?”
“Albany. Until this, was doing surveillance on Route Eighty-seven. Hanging out at truck stops mostly.”
“What have we got?”
“Standoff,” Duncan said. “Following a shoot-out, the suspect’s holed up in his house. It’s on a hill, and locals believe it could be booby-trapped. We’ve got a perimeter about a quarter mile from his property. One cop is going into surgery now; haven’t been able to talk to her. Docs say she’ll make it.”
“Anyone else?”
“Three dead, two wounded.”
“Cops?”
“The two wounded were. They’ll be fine. Treated and released.”
“Thank God,” McAlister said. “Assuming she pulls through, at least we won’t be dealing with dead police officers. And the other victims?”
“They were from a private security firm.”
“What the hell were they doing here?”
“Information we got from the company spokesman said they had reason to believe a crime was committed at their plant and were following a lead.”
“Sounds like bullshit. Who owns it?” McAlister asked.
“Denton Blake,” Duncan said. Judging by his body language, Duncan expected that to mean something.
“Blake. Not ringing a bell.”
“He’s well known in upper New York state. Rich, has a lot of business interests—manufacturing, freight, real estate. A pretty big deal out this way.”
“And?”
Duncan shrugged. “You hear stuff.”
“Yeah? What kind of stuff?”
“He backed the right horses politically, DAs who became state attorney generals. AGs who became congressmen. Trickle down to the local level—state reps and senators, assemblymen, city councils, zoning boards. Throws his money around. Got his kids out of trouble more than once. Not too much time went by without the Bad Boy Blakes being in the news for something. Always seemed to skate before they apparently cleaned up their act.”
“I see,” McAlister said, unimpressed. “Get someone over there to talk to this company spokesman and find out exactly what happened. Tell them we’ll be back with federal warrants if they are less than forthcoming.”
“Yessir,” Duncan said.
“Background on the shooter?”
Duncan handed him a thick manila folder. “Noah Winston. Aside from what’s in there, I hear from local LE he’s a damn good shot.”
There was a five-by-seven photograph paperclipped to it.
Didn’t fit the profile Frank had in his head. Things just got complicated.
He watched through his rifle scope. As he hoped, the feds had jurisdiction. There was a downside. No local cop was going to come charging up after him—they knew him too well. The FBI, on the other hand, had lots of people who could shoot just as well as he could. Ironic that of all the places he’d been—Mexico, Jamaica, Nicaragua, or any of the other places where he plied his trade—he might get his ticket punched right here where he grew up.
He wasn’t an assassin, but he had killed plenty of times. He wasn’t a soldier, but a lot of his paychecks came from Uncle Sam. He was just a guy who got the call when a job boiled down to kill or be killed. But none of that mattered now. Despite them being more lethal, he needed the FBI’s involvement. They just had to follow protocol, do their jobs, and there would be no need for anyone else to die.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. That was just a matter of time, especially for someone in his line of work. But he had set things in motion, and he needed to see it through.
If that meant shooting it out with the FBI, so be it.
End of Excerpt
