Howard Shrier - Boston Cream

“I can barely keep up in English.”

Sean had to smile at his old friend, the big dumb bastard. “It means the best of the best,” he said. “The cream of society. The rich and the very rich. And since I have what they need, what’s that going to make me?”

“Very, very rich.”

“Damn right.”

“I get it.”

“Good.”

“Now can I call her?”

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, slow and measured, growing louder as someone approached Stayner’s car. A fob chirped and the trunk catch released. The darkness gave way to dim light, which brightened suddenly, almost painfully, as someone wearing scrubs opened it all the way. I looked up and saw a man in full surgical dress, mask included, wire-framed glasses over worried eyes.

“What do I do now?” he whispered.

“Get in as soon as I’m out.”

I eased my cramped body out of the trunk and he folded himself in.

“Stay there until someone lets you out,” I said. “It’s going to be the safest place for you.”

“What about the others?”

“They’ll be fine.”

I straightened up and looked around the loading bay. It was much as I’d pictured while in the trunk. The stairway was against the right wall, three steps up to the next level.

“How many men did you see?” I whispered, as I fished around in the trunk for the benefit of anyone watching.

“Five,” he said. “No, six.”

“Where?”

“There’s one by the front entrance and one just inside the door here.”

“And the others?”

“One has been in the room next to us the whole time. The other prep room. The other three walk around.”

“What about Sean Daggett? Do you know him?”

“Yes. We met him when we operated on his son.”

“He in there now?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Did the guy at the back see you come out here?”

“Yes.”

“He say anything?”

“He asked where I was going. I said we’d left some gear here.”

“All right,” I said. “Sit tight.” Like he had a choice. I closed the trunk. I didn’t know if I was on camera or not. I took out my gym bag and slung it over my right shoulder. It wasn’t zipped closed. I could get my hand in and get the Beretta out fast or fire the Colt right through the canvas bottom if I had to. I turned toward the rear door to open it for whoever might be waiting.

Before I got two steps, the garage door engaged and started rolling up. Headlights flared in my eyes.

“You find what you needed?” a voice called behind me.

I turned to see a man on the loading dock, his hand near the switch that controlled the garage door.

I held up the gym bag without speaking.

“Come on then,” he said. “Move it.”

The car was a pinstriped Monte Carlo-fucking Daggett’s car, idling as the door rolled up, flexing its considerable muscle. I turned my back and walked toward the stairs, zipping the bag halfway closed.

On my own now with no way to let Ryan or Victor in. No one at my back.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” the man on the dock said to me.

Don’t be in such a hurry, I thought. You could be the first to die.

I walked up the steps, not wanting to make eye contact with the man, focusing instead on the pistol in his belt. Wondering if he’d want to look in the bag. Before he could, the driver of the Monte Carlo opened his door and called out, “Denny! What’s that guy doing out here?”

I knew the voice. Daggett himself.

“He needed something from his car,” Denny said.

“Like what?” Daggett asked.

I didn’t want him to hear my voice, so I mumbled something low beneath my surgical mask.

“Didn’t catch that,” Daggett said.

I shrugged.

“I’m talking to you,” he said. “What’s in the fucking bag?”

“Let’s see it,” Denny said.

I let my shoulders fall in a big sigh, trying to play the exasperated, arrogant surgeon. I unzipped the bag and held it open. As Denny leaned in to see what was in it, I lashed out with a front kick that caught him under the chin and sent him flying backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground. I snatched the Beretta out of the bag and whirled around. Daggett was standing by the driver’s-side door, no gun in sight. A big man was pulling himself out of the passenger seat, one hand on the door frame, the other holding a pair of aluminum crutches. It was the guy Jenn had hit with her car.

I jumped down from the loading dock, keeping the gun on him, and pulled the mask away from my face.

“Fuck me,” Daggett said. “If it isn’t the Lone Canadian.”

“Put your hands on your head.”

“Or what? You know how many guys I got inside?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as I have you. Now put your hands on your head. And you,” I said to the big man, “drop the crutches. Do it.”

“How’m I supposed to walk without them?”

“You’re not.” I pointed the barrel of the gun at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. With the suppressor on, all I heard was the dry snap of the hammer striking the cartridge. And the big man’s cry as he crumpled.

“You fucking crazy?” Daggett yelled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I am a little crazy,” I said.

The big man rolled back and forth, clutching his thigh as blood oozed through his fingers. “Take off your coat,” I told Daggett.

“Fuck that, man, it’s cold in here.”

I pointed the gun at his leg and he shrugged and took off his coat. I saw a chrome gun butt in his waistband. “Take it out with two fingers,” I said. “Drop it and kick it over here. Now!”

He did as he was told. I picked it up and tucked it in my bag.

“Turn around. Lift your shirt.”

Again he obeyed. I saw no other weapons.

I kept the gun on him as I moved to the back door and pushed it open and felt a flood of relief when I saw Dante Ryan and Victor waiting there, guns at the ready.

“Started without us?” Ryan said.

“Had to.”

“This the cunt that took Jenn?”

“Yes.”

Ryan walked over casually and circled Daggett as if all he wanted to do was survey him up close. When he came around the front, he slammed the butt of his shotgun into Daggett’s gut. He collapsed with both hands around his middle. I came up behind him and put the Beretta into the soft spot where his head and spine joined. I grabbed his hair with my other hand and pulled him to his feet.

“How does that feel?” I asked.

“Is it supposed to hurt?”

I stepped away from him then shifted my weight right back in a side kick that caved his right knee in. He yelled as the ligaments tore and the leg buckled under him.

“Bastard,” he hissed, rocking on his side and clutching his leg.

“You’re lucky you’re not worth the cost of a bullet. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

I drew my leg back.

“Inside,” he said.

“Inside where?”

“Prep Room B.”

“If she’s been hurt in any way, you’re dead.”

“Relax, Hymie,” he panted, “she’s been asleep the whole time. On an IV drip.”

I could only hope it was true.

I told Victor to check the big man for guns. He found a Glock under his left arm and dropped it in his coat pocket.

“Put him in the trunk,” I said.

Victor and Ryan put their guns down, took hold of the man’s arms and legs. He howled in pain as they lifted him.

“Shut your hole,” Victor said.

The man told him to go fuck himself.

They got him into the trunk. Ryan was about to slam the lid when Victor said, “One sec,” drew his fist back and threw a punch. I didn’t see it land but I heard the cold hard smack. Heard the man tell Victor to go fuck himself again. Ryan said, “We got no time for this shit,” and closed the trunk before Victor could hit him again.