Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(79)

Harvath had handpicked the team for this mission. The only question was whether a wolf would show. Then, suddenly, one did.

Via his new relationship with the grocery store owner, the Ghost had learned of an overly ambitious apartment renovation that had run out of money. All work had stopped, the bank was moving to foreclose, and the owners had walked away. The situation couldn’t have been better for the team, nor could the view.

It was on the building’s top floor and provided not only an excellent overwatch of the playground, but also the surrounding streets. Getting in had been a piece of cake. Setting up his cameras was even easier.

He was using a telephoto lens, which allowed him to capture excellent details. That was how he had spotted the wolf. It was the same man he had bumped into the day before at the grocery store.

Kost had been on his way in as the man had been exiting. He was a Caucasian male in his early fifties and had been dressed similarly to how he was now—jeans, tee-shirt, gold chain, and white basketball shoes. The shopkeeper hadn’t liked him.

“Shanty Irish,” she had said. “That’s what my grandmother used to call them.”

Shanty, versus “lace curtain” Irish, was meant to catalogue an Irish person as being of low class.

When pressed, she explained that he had spoken with an Irish accent and had been gruff and rude. He had complained about her prices, before finally giving in and paying for the large energy drink he had pulled from the cooler. Asking if he wanted a receipt, he had ignored her and walked out.

He had brushed past Kost, who had held the door open for him, without saying anything. In addition to the man’s poor manners, Kost got a really bad vibe off the guy.

The shopkeeper said he was definitely not from the neighborhood. She mused that he probably worked in construction and explained that there were lots of Irish who came to places like Boston and New York, overstayed their tourist visas, and illegally worked for cash.

While that might have been true, the man hadn’t looked like a laborer to him—at least not one on his way to or from a job site. His jeans were clean; pressed even. He was wearing an expensive chain and his shoes were also pricey. The guy looked more like a middle-aged drug dealer than a construction worker.

Seeing him again had set off Kost’s alarm bells. After taking a few more photos of him, he scanned the area. It appeared that Shanty might not be alone.

A block away, two similarly dressed men had just gotten out of a blue Hyundai Sonata. The driver had remained with the vehicle, and was slowly following them. It was time to officially raise the alarm.

“Heads up,” he said over their comms link. “Possible hostile. Inbound on foot from the north. One block out. Fifties. Light hair. Jeans. Tee-shirt. Two more, same costumes, on foot, from the south. Two blocks out. Being trailed by a late-model blue Sonata. All headed toward you. Stay frosty.”

“Roger that,” Preisler and Johnson both replied.

With two entrances to the fenced playground, they had taken up opposite positions at each. They had unobstructed lines of sight, could react quickly if they needed to, and it allowed the family some breathing room.

Lara’s father, who was a solid guy, always kept his eyes peeled while his wife played with Marco. When Preisler signaled to him that it was time to go, he immediately went over to his wife and calmly told her in Portuguese. She then informed their grandson that they were leaving. Preisler appreciated how seriously they took this. It made his role easier.

In the end, he had been sent to Boston with only two jobs. Number one, protect Marco and his grandparents at all costs. Number two, make sure Johnson didn’t kill a metric shit ton of people. At this moment, though, all that mattered was job number one.

Adjusting his messenger bag, he moved to the family, making sure to smile as he did so as to not unnecessarily upset the boy. This could, after all, turn out to be nothing.

Johnson joined them as they approached the east gate of the playground. In studying the neighborhood, he and Preisler had developed multiple exfil plans.

One of the things they had agreed upon from the start, was that if there was an assault involving a vehicle, they’d use one of Boston’s biggest pains-in-the-ass to their advantage—its one-way streets.

Exiting the playground, they turned to the right and walked toward the building Kost was in.

At the corner, they turned right again heading west. The traffic on the street was going in the opposite direction, which meant the Sonata couldn’t follow them. The men on foot, though, could and did.

There was an alley coming up. That was their destination. Marco’s grandfather encouraged him to move a little faster. He didn’t know what was going on, but he could sense the tension in the adults. Coupled with the abrupt departure from the playground, he was starting to get frightened.

Preisler scooped the boy up and hurried their party forward while Johnson kept an eye on their six.

Once they ducked into the alley, Preisler found them cover and stayed with them while Johnson took up a concealed position out on the street from which to engage.

“Gun,” said Kost, over the radio. “The pair of tangos coming up your side of the street. Looks like pistols.”

“You’re sure?” asked Preisler.

“Positive.”

“Splash them,” Johnson interjected. “I have my eye on the third tango coming up the other side of the street. Do it now.”