Dead reckoning, p.1
Dead Reckoning, page 1
part #4 of Jack Sheridan Series
DEAD RECKONING
ALLAN LEVERONE
Copyright ©2019 by Allan Leverone
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
1
Jack Sheridan was struggling to breathe.
Smoke was everywhere, thick and noxious, a poisonous cloud that threatened to choke off his airway. He struggled forward, knowing he should be close to the exit door by now, knowing if he could just hang on a little longer he would stumble out of the blazing building into the cool, fresh nighttime air.
But Janousz was gone.
Where Janousz had gone, Jack could not say. The Eastern European hitter had been right on Jack’s six as they worked their way outside the Dominican Dragons’ headquarters after torching the place, and good riddance to it. It was even possible Janousz had fallen a bit off the pace but was still back there; Jack couldn’t say because of the heavy, billowing smoke.
But he didn’t think that was the case. He had the sinking feeling Janousz was now stumbling around the maze-like interior of the century-old factory, wheezing and hacking and coughing up phlegm, lost, finding it harder and harder to breathe.
Just like Jack.
If Janousz died it would be Jack’s fault. The man was here solely because Jack had requested his help.
Jack tried to curse and succeeded only in coughing. The cough was deep, and it shook something loose inside his lungs, something that traveled up his gullet and into his mouth, where he spat it out. The unidentified nastiness splattered onto the floor, heavy and wet, and Jack’s stomach rolled from the sound.
He worked to draw in a breath and succeeded only in filling his lungs with more smoke as he stumbled relentlessly forward, arms outstretched like a zombie in a 1950s grade-B horror movie. Without warning his hands struck the exit door, Jack now just seconds from safety.
He reached back for Janousz, knowing that instead of grabbing a fistful of the man’s shirt he was going to get only poisonous air, knowing by now that his worst fears had materialized, that Janousz had gotten lost inside the building.
And if that were the case, he would die.
Jack started to curse again and stopped himself, not wanting to spit up any more of whatever had come out of his lungs a moment ago. Every instinct in his brain was screaming at him to keep going, to push through the closed exit door, to stumble into the fresh air and save himself.
Going back for Janousz would be a death sentence. The building was massive and there was virtually no chance he could find the man before being overcome by the roiling clouds of poisonous black smoke.
But Janousz was his responsibility.
He couldn’t live with himself if he survived at the cost of another man’s life.
He pushed off the door and returned into the building, trying to picture the lobby as he remembered it, and the configuration of the hallways branching off from it.
They had just torched the Dragons’ stashes of drugs and weapons, all of which were stored in old manufacturing rooms branching off the hallway located directly across the lobby.
That was where Janousz would be.
Unless he’d made it as far as the lobby and then gotten turned around, stumbling down another corridor instead of straight across to the exit door.
Dammit.
Saving him would be an impossible task.
Jack crossed the lobby anyway, breathing in desperate, wet gasps. The smoke had thickened noticeably in the few seconds it had taken him to determine his next course of action. He crouched low and tried to duck-walk forward beneath the worst of the smoke.
But it was all the worst of the smoke. The air quality was no better down near the floor than it had been when he was standing upright, and the full impact of the futility he was facing dawned on him.
Janousz was already either dead or dying.
And Jack was going to die, too.
He tried to stand and discovered he could not. His muscles were giving out, starved from lack of oxygen, cramping and refusing to obey his brain’s instructions. He crumpled to the floor and pushed with his legs, inching forward in a modified combat crawl, determined to continue searching.
Take another breath.
He couldn’t do it. There was simply no breathable oxygen left inside the building.
Breathe, dammit.
It was impossible, and he felt the crushing weight of suffocation building in his lungs. It was as if a full-grown circus elephant had decided to park its ass right on Jack’s chest, refusing to move, settling in for the long haul.
He flailed his arms, reaching for his throat with his hands, clawing at his neck in a reflex action designed to do…something. He didn’t know what that something might be but could not stop himself from trying.
As darkness closed in, he found himself thinking of Edie Tolliver, the petite, beautiful woman with whom he’d fallen utterly, hopelessly in love.
You never said goodbye to her, he thought, and at that moment he realized what true hopelessness felt like. He would never see Edie again, would never hold her in his arms or cavort with her and her little daughter Janie on the playground, would never again—
He awoke from his nightmare with a deep intake of breath and a strangled scream. Sweat was pouring off him. The force of his panicked thrashing had pushed the blankets completely off the bed and onto the floor, where they lay in a twisted pile.
Jack sat up, shaking and hyperventilating, trying to slow his breathing down to something resembling normal respiration. This was the third time in the past week he’d had the same dream, and he was getting damned sick and tired of it.
He thought he had a pretty good idea why he’d begun having horrific nightmares after a lifetime of almost never dreaming: he was dreading returning to work for the Organization. He’d finally broken free and left his assassin roots behind, only to be drawn back in when he required assistance he could get only from the super-secret group on what was supposed to be one final freelance job.
A broken old man had come to him with a heart-wrenching story. Jack initially turned down the man’s desperate plea for assistance, determined to leave his old life behind in a last-ditch effort to salvage his shattered relationship with Edie Tolliver.
But Edie had been present as the elderly man told his story, and she had insisted Jack owed it to the man to help if he could.
So he’d agreed to take on the job. It was at that moment he’d realized he would do literally anything for Edie Tolliver.
But the assignment wasn’t something he could complete on his own, and there was only one place he could go to get the help he needed: The Organization. Jack had approached his old handler with the request, and Mr. Stanton readily agreed to supply Jack with the items he required.
But of course, with the assistance came a condition: that Jack agree to return to The Organization’s roster of operatives on at least a part-time basis. Jack had known the demand was coming and had been ready for it, but the sudden onset of recurring nightmares seemed to indicate his subconscious wasn’t fully on board with the decision.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside table and climbed out of bed with a shaky sigh. Three forty-five a.m. It was obvious he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep any time soon, maybe not for the rest of the night.
He lifted his blankets off the floor and dumped them onto the mattress. Padded out of his bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen to make coffee. Part of him wished Edie were here sharing his bed, but mostly he was grateful she didn’t have to witness the intense nightmares.
She’d probably run screaming into the night if she had seen that spectacle.
He stood in front of the coffeemaker, leaning against the kitchen counter as the machine burbled and hissed and worked its magic. Moments later, Jack poured himself a cup of caffeinated goodness and moved into the living room.
He sat at his desktop computer and booted it up. Edie had told him more than once that he needed to “upgrade your tech,” as she put it. His response each time that he was perfectly happy with his “tech,” that he only used it for work, and that the software and hardware updates provided on a quarterly basis by an Organization IT professional kept his desktop operating at peak efficiency.
She’d shaken her head and chuckled. “That desktop computer is older than me.”
“Pssh. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know how old you are.”
She punched his arm and said, “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
“I’ve known that since way before I got this computer,” he responded. “And as we’ve just concluded, that’s a loooong time.”
The memory brought a smile to his face. It always did.
He sipped his coffee and when the computer had finally finished whirring and clicking and making assorted other computer-y noises, he clicked on his specially encrypted Organization email account.
And was unsurprised to discover one message nestled in his inbox.
&nb sp; He clicked on the subject line to open the email. There was no question who’d sent it, because only one person in the world had this email address: Mr. Stanton.
Norbert, Jack thought, and chuckled.
He knew what the message would say before he moved the cursor to open it. He’d read messages from Mr. Stanton dozens of times over the years; probably hundreds by now, and they were always minor variations on the same theme: “We need to meet.”
He sighed and nodded. He’d expected this moment to arrive but it still felt soul-crushing.
He shut down his computer and sat in the dark, sipping his coffee and staring out his living room window.
He didn’t bother trying to return to bed. There would be no point.
2
Canobie Lake Park was located in extreme southern New Hampshire, just across the Massachusetts state line and roughly halfway between Jack’s home and the majority of the Boston locations in which he’d met with Mr. Stanton.
It wasn’t the kind of park with flowers and trees and jungle gyms, although it was located hard by Canobie Lake. Rather, it was an amusement park, with roller coasters and kiddie games and water attractions. When Mr. Stanton specified Canobie as the rendezvous location, Jack at first thought he’d misread the email. An amusement park as the meeting place used to nail down the details on a contract killing?
But upon further consideration he realized Canobie Lake Park on a sunny early-summer day would likely be crowded and noisy and chaotic. Hopefully it would provide all the ingredients for an anonymous, un-recordable conversation. Jack and Mr. Stanton would simply look like a young father—maybe not so young anymore, Jack thought wryly—and grandfather strolling the grounds while the kids entertained themselves elsewhere in the park.
If nothing else, Jack’s drive would be cut in half from the sixty minutes it typically took him to get to Boston from his home. And since his return to the ranks of The Organization still contained their standard rejection clause—he could turn down any assignment for any reason, or for no reason at all—it was nice to know he wouldn’t have to waste an entire day on what would likely be a pointless meeting.
In typical fashion, Mr. Stanton was nowhere to be seen as Jack entered the park. A general admission ticket cost thirty-nine bucks, a price Jack considered steep for a meeting that was likely not going to lead to any income. He noted wryly that with the senior discount, their rendezvous would only cost Mr. Stanton twenty-nine dollars.
Jack stepped past the ticket booths and walked through the gates and then swept his gaze left to right. He saw only a teeming horde: teenagers holding hands, young children chasing each other in shorts and bathing suits, infants being pushed in strollers by harried-looking moms and dads. Even a fair number of older people, presumably bringing their grandchildren on an outing.
And the noise. The noise was deafening. A cacophony of shouting and the screaming of kids on thrill rides was layered over the steady buzz of a thousand separate conversations, many being held at high volume. Jack hadn’t been to an amusement park in years, and his concern about the potential of being overheard while speaking with Mr. Stanton vanished. Canobie Lake Park on this day was a model of barely controlled chaos.
I need to bring Edie and Janie here, Jack thought idly as he chose a left turn at random. He began walking and by the time he arrived at the Log Flume, which offered riders the opportunity to cool off with a massive splashdown, Mr. Stanton appeared from somewhere off Jack’s right, joining him in stride as he walked.
Jack could manage an impressive level of stealth if necessary, but he’d learned over the years that his Organization contact was practically ninja-like, materializing seemingly out of nowhere and then vanishing as effortlessly as he’d appeared.
They strolled in silence, passing a long line filled mostly with teens waiting to ride the Log Flume, moving deeper into the park. The buzz of conversation and faraway screams of excited riders continued unabated. Jack waited patiently for his handler to begin the conversation. This was Mr. Stanton’s party; he would get it started when he felt the time was right.
“It’s nice to have you back in the fold,” the older man finally said, nimbly dodging a giggling preteen girl being chased by a preteen boy along the paved footpath.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Jack answered. He couldn’t quite bring himself to second Mr. Stanton’s assessment of his employment situation, but was surprised to discover he actually was happy to see his handler. Jack rarely found himself among others who shared his unique skillset and his passion for bringing justice to those unable to find it through the court system, so the opportunity to spend a little time in Mr. Stanton’s company was more enjoyable then he would have expected.
“Tell me what you know about Rocco Spinelli,” Mr. Stanton said without further preamble.
“That’s easy,” Jack answered. “Nothing.”
“You’ve never heard of Rocco Spinelli?”
Jack shook his head. “Not that I recall. Sounds like a mob goombah.”
Mr. Stanton nodded with a smile. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”
“That’s all I’ve got, and that was more of a wisecrack than an actual guess.”
“Rocco Spinelli is the Number Two man in the Palermo crime syndicate.”
“Operating out of Boston,” Jack said.
“So you’re familiar with the Palermo family in general.”
Jack shrugged. “Only what I’ve seen and heard in the news and through the grapevine. The Palermo family was involved in a bloody war a few years ago with the Russians for control of the northeast drug, prostitution and weapons market.”
“Exactly. That war ended without a clear winner, and the two factions have settled into an uneasy relationship. Not a truce, exactly, but sort of an involuntary splitting of the business.”
“So you’re saying there’s enough of a market for opiates, hookers and illegal guns to satisfy not just one, but two crime families.”
“Basically, yes.”
“Let me stop you right there,” Jack said. “I’m not getting involved in a mob war. I’m certainly not putting myself between competing crime families. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re going to have to look elsewhere.”
Mr. Stanton shook his head. “It’s not. I wouldn’t put any of my operatives in that position.”
“Then what…”
“I was merely giving you a little background. The assignment involves Spinelli personally, thanks to actions he has taken and things he has done that are unrelated to his position inside the Palermo family.”
“Things such as?”
“Try routinely driving drunk and killing innocent people with his vehicle and then getting off scot-free, thanks to wealth and connections.”
“Routinely? What is that supposed to mean?”
Mr. Stanton smiled. “I’m glad you asked. In 2009, he passed a school bus illegally on the right side as it was letting children off, sideswiping it and killing an eight-year-old third grader. He left the scene, and despite the ‘accident’ occurring in broad daylight in front of the child’s mother and multiple other witnesses, Spinelli ultimately served no jail time and faced no meaningful punishment.
“In 2014, again while driving drunk, he crossed the median strip of Interstate 95, forcing a tractor-trailer off the road. The truck traveled down an embankment and struck a stand of trees. The truck driver was killed instantly. At least, the authorities hope he died instantly, because it took emergency crews forty minutes to cut him out of the vehicle, all while his legs were crushed under the mangled cab. Again, no jail time and no meaningful punishment for Mr. Spinelli.
“Oh, and by the way,” Mr. Stanton added. “The truck driver left behind a wife and three young children.”
The Organization’s head man paused and Jack assumed he had finished speaking. He opened his mouth to answer but before he could get a word out Mr. Stanton continued reciting his litany of horror.
“In 2017, Mr. Spinelli mowed down a young couple walking along the side of a South Boston road. High school seniors, they were. He was again driving drunk. Again he faced no jail time or any serious legal consequences.
“Last year, he was driving drunk in Mattapan when—”
