No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(55)

“What else?”

“He’s also a close associate of Henry Graff.”





Thirty-Nine

McNeal ended the call and relayed the news to his brother.

“I think the time has come,” McNeal decided.

“For what?”

“You need to get back home to your family.”

“What about you?”

“Gimme your cell phone?”

“What?”

“Do it.”

Peter handed over his LG phone.

McNeal took out the battery, then did the same for his own Samsung as well.

“Let’s assume they have a roving bug on us.”

“Possibility,” Peter acknowledged.

“First things first. The documents belonging to Caroline. All that information that we copied for the Feds.”

“It’s inside the family safe deposit box,” Peter said.

“We both have access, right? It’s got everything?”

“Everything. And I also made copies of it all, just on the million-to-one chance something happens to us.”

“Where did you put that?”

“Gave it to my lawyer.”

McNeal cocked his head. “You’ve got a lawyer?”

“He’s a former cop. Has a practice in Jersey City. It’s in his safe. Only to be opened in the event of my death.”

McNeal nodded. “Extreme situations require extreme measures.”

“You got it. So, what now? You going to disappear?”

McNeal shook his head. “On the contrary. I want them to know where I am. Put the batteries back in ten minutes from now. Then we split. If they want to follow me, they can follow me. They’ve been tracking me from the start. Let’s use that to our advantage.”

“This is all too fucking crazy. You’re Internal Affairs. You investigate bad cops. Don’t jeopardize everything you have.”

“What the hell do I have? I have nothing. I’ve lost everything. My wife. My son. They have me in their crosshairs. I’m not going to hang around like a sitting duck to see how it plays out.”

“So, what’s the plan? You want them to come to you? Make the next move, right? Like as bait? Is that it?”

McNeal nodded. “That’s exactly it.”

“You’re going after Graff?”

“I want him to think that I’m coming for him. And see where it leads me.”

“You’re going down a dark road, Jack.”

McNeal took his handgun out of his waistband and stared long and hard at it. “I don’t see any other way.”





Forty

The brothers went their separate ways.

McNeal watched Peter reverse down his driveway, turn, and begin the long drive south on I-95 to New Jersey. His brother faced at least a two-and-a-half-hour journey, returning home without the family pet.

McNeal realized that his home in Westport was no longer safe. There could be cameras in the house. He could get an expert to look the place over. But that could be done another time. He had business to attend to first.

His gaze locked on a photo of him and his son. He crumpled under a heaviness in his heart. He had beaten himself up for years over his son’s death.

McNeal knew he had changed since his son’s death. He had kept the pain and the hurt inside. He hadn’t wanted to communicate with anyone. Caroline had wanted to talk about it. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He would walk on the beach, always alone, with his thoughts and grief. Only when he was out of sight would he allow himself to break down. He prayed some days that he wouldn’t wake up. His wife hadn’t been able to live with him anymore. He just worked, slept, and grieved. On and on, a vicious cycle. Eventually she left. But his wife’s sudden death had resurrected all the old feelings. He began to think more and more about his son. He wanted more than anything to expunge the rage. A black rage.

McNeal had never really gotten over his son’s senseless death. It was all too much to bear. The pain—a sickening pain—had never really subsided in his heart. He just thought it had. He took his son’s photo off the wall and kissed it. He stared at a boy fixed in time. A boy who would never grow old. A boy who would never become a man. “If I could bring you back, I would. I want you back. But Daddy will see you one day, I promise.”

McNeal put the photo back on the wall and looked around the living room. It might be the last time he saw the place. He quickly filled a backpack with a change of clothes, some bottles of water, and snacks. He had three hundred dollars in cash, a wallet with three credit cards, and his two guns—his NYPD-issued Sig Sauer for when he was on duty and his Glock, his personal firearm.

McNeal placed the Sig Sauer and the ammo into a locked box in the trunk of his car. The Glock he tucked, locked and loaded, into his shoulder holster.

He headed back into the house and sat down on the sofa, watching TV, channel surfing for an hour or so, clearing his head.

He challenged himself to think about how far he was really prepared to go with this. Was he prepared to take the fight to them? The problem was that all he had was circumstantial evidence. It all pointed to Graff. But there was no proof that he was involved in the break-in. Even the CIA links to Feinstein didn’t prove that Graff had authorized or was involved in the operation to discredit him. But McNeal knew Graff was behind it.