Read Online Allegiance (Joe Logan Book 4) by Michael Kerr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Kerr
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up a large slice of the pie, to quickly gobble it down. The body needed fuel to operate at optimum level: An army marches on its stomach , he thought, and agreed with the old quote that was usually attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte.
He finished eating, wiped his mouth and turned to Margie. “You’re safe here,” he said. “Just stay in the room. No one but Benny and I know where you are.”
“What do you plan on doing?” Margie asked.
“To go and get Della. And to hopefully come face-to-face with whomever else might pay her a visit.”
As Logan and Benny traveled north over the Bayonne Bridge in the direction of Jersey City, Lennox and Frankie stopped for a bite to eat in Queens. They felt under no pressure to rush. It was going to be a straight-forward snatch in the wee small hours. The woman in Tuckahoe either knew where the cop’s wife was lying low, or didn’t. Whichever, she would be taken and could prove useful as a hostage to barter with.
Keeping to the posted speed limits, Logan headed north. The traffic was light at this hour and he made good time, crossing the I-95 at George Washington Bridge, then over the Harlem River to head south to Melrose, which was only a few minutes’ drive away.
Dusty phoned Max Dalton on a secure line and briefly summarized what had happened.
“I thought that you had a select team to deploy on jobs like this.”
“They’re on it,” Dusty said. “I expect results soon.”
“They fucked up. We are not Murder Incorporated, for Christ’s sake,” Max said. “The guys you sent to do the job sound like trigger-happy morons. Killing an unarmed couple in their home out in the boonies is not acceptable. What Mr. F wants is the incriminating evidence against him back with as little collateral damage as possible. He is a high-profile businessman and mayoral candidate. The position of Governor of this great state is on the horizon.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Dusty replied. “Fallon has had a lot of people taken out. He acts like a fucking Mafia don.”
“Enough,” Max said. “Just make sure that they don’t whack the woman in Melrose, we need her alive. Got it?”
“Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Dusty said. “I’ll call you when the broad is lifted.”
Della followed Logan’s instructions. The house was secure and in darkness. After putting on a thick sweater and jeans, she also donned a padded parka with a quilted lining, and armed with a flashlight, and with her cell phone, a small bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes and her lighter in the pockets, she opened the door to the basement, switched on the light and locked the door behind her. At the bottom of the steps she walked over to where the breaker panel was fixed to the cinderblock wall at chest height, to open the hinged metal door, seek out the main switch and click it to off.
The darkness was profound. She gasped, almost panicked, and felt as if the gloom was sucking the air from her lungs. Surely no blind person could experience a more intense blackness. It was totally disconcerting. She thumbed on the flashlight and shone it around. There was an old wicker chair over by the boiler. She would sit and wait, and hope that it wouldn’t be for too long. But first she needed a weapon of some kind. There were no tools, just a few mildew-stained cardboard boxes full of memories that she could not face looking at; that at some point in time she would have to sort through. All she could find was a sweeping broom with a long beech wood handle; not exactly lethal, but maybe it could be modified. Placing the flashlight on the chair, Della picked up the broom and held it in what she imagined to be a decent baseball bat grip. Her strike was not at a ball, though. She lashed out at the corner of the boiler, and with a loud, splintering crack the head of the broom flew off to hit the far wall and drop to the cement floor in a
He finished eating, wiped his mouth and turned to Margie. “You’re safe here,” he said. “Just stay in the room. No one but Benny and I know where you are.”
“What do you plan on doing?” Margie asked.
“To go and get Della. And to hopefully come face-to-face with whomever else might pay her a visit.”
As Logan and Benny traveled north over the Bayonne Bridge in the direction of Jersey City, Lennox and Frankie stopped for a bite to eat in Queens. They felt under no pressure to rush. It was going to be a straight-forward snatch in the wee small hours. The woman in Tuckahoe either knew where the cop’s wife was lying low, or didn’t. Whichever, she would be taken and could prove useful as a hostage to barter with.
Keeping to the posted speed limits, Logan headed north. The traffic was light at this hour and he made good time, crossing the I-95 at George Washington Bridge, then over the Harlem River to head south to Melrose, which was only a few minutes’ drive away.
Dusty phoned Max Dalton on a secure line and briefly summarized what had happened.
“I thought that you had a select team to deploy on jobs like this.”
“They’re on it,” Dusty said. “I expect results soon.”
“They fucked up. We are not Murder Incorporated, for Christ’s sake,” Max said. “The guys you sent to do the job sound like trigger-happy morons. Killing an unarmed couple in their home out in the boonies is not acceptable. What Mr. F wants is the incriminating evidence against him back with as little collateral damage as possible. He is a high-profile businessman and mayoral candidate. The position of Governor of this great state is on the horizon.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Dusty replied. “Fallon has had a lot of people taken out. He acts like a fucking Mafia don.”
“Enough,” Max said. “Just make sure that they don’t whack the woman in Melrose, we need her alive. Got it?”
“Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Dusty said. “I’ll call you when the broad is lifted.”
Della followed Logan’s instructions. The house was secure and in darkness. After putting on a thick sweater and jeans, she also donned a padded parka with a quilted lining, and armed with a flashlight, and with her cell phone, a small bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes and her lighter in the pockets, she opened the door to the basement, switched on the light and locked the door behind her. At the bottom of the steps she walked over to where the breaker panel was fixed to the cinderblock wall at chest height, to open the hinged metal door, seek out the main switch and click it to off.
The darkness was profound. She gasped, almost panicked, and felt as if the gloom was sucking the air from her lungs. Surely no blind person could experience a more intense blackness. It was totally disconcerting. She thumbed on the flashlight and shone it around. There was an old wicker chair over by the boiler. She would sit and wait, and hope that it wouldn’t be for too long. But first she needed a weapon of some kind. There were no tools, just a few mildew-stained cardboard boxes full of memories that she could not face looking at; that at some point in time she would have to sort through. All she could find was a sweeping broom with a long beech wood handle; not exactly lethal, but maybe it could be modified. Placing the flashlight on the chair, Della picked up the broom and held it in what she imagined to be a decent baseball bat grip. Her strike was not at a ball, though. She lashed out at the corner of the boiler, and with a loud, splintering crack the head of the broom flew off to hit the far wall and drop to the cement floor in a
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