Read Online Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel by Randall H Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randall H Miller
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away from the harbor toward the debriefing area. Behind the car’s heavily tinted windows, Frank caught his breath and spoke first.
“Jesus Christ, kid! I said it had to be convincing, but you deserve an Oscar. Shit, that fucking hurt.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. I panicked,” offered the rookie cop sitting next to him in the back seat, his nervous fingers fumbling to unlock the handcuffs that held Frank’s wrists tightly behind his back.
Both men swung back and forth in unison as the cruiser banked left and right, weaving its way through Boston’s narrow streets at high speed. Frank breathed deeply and rubbed his wrists to get his circulation going again. The cop in the passenger seat, a veteran sergeant, rotated to face the rear of the vehicle.
“Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking back there, Tortellini?”
Frank jumped in before he could answer.
“Tortellini?”
“It’s Tarentini, Sir. And I accept full responsibility. I know I fucked up.”
Frank laughed out loud.
“Relax, Tarentini. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but you three would have never got cuffs on me unless I gave up. And that would have been a dead giveaway. Russians are assholes but they aren’t stupid. You improvised. A warning would have been nice, but everyone’s safe now and it’s over. Let’s not relive it.”
Frank looked at the sergeant, who took his cue to drop the issue.
“It’s over now. And at least you were smart enough not to use your gun,” Frank joked as he punched Officer Tarentini in the shoulder.
Two more months. Two more months of this shit and I’m done.
Eighteen
Everyone stood and gave Frank a round of applause when he entered the four-bay garage that had served as his field mission support center. Rows of monitors and other electronic equipment filled long tables set against the back wall. Technical support personnel had already made backups of the video and audio as supervisors watched over their shoulders and drank coffee.
Everything had been done by the book, and a strict chain of custody virtually eliminated the risk that the charges would be tossed out on a technicality. Frank’s last hurrah had been as clean a job as anyone could ask for. No injuries. Bad guys in custody. Fewer guns on the street—in this case, twenty Russian-made AK-47s and a dozen Sig Sauer M400s off the street. AKs are a dime a dozen, but the fully automatic capable Sigs were a very rare find. Representatives of the U.S. Attorney’s Boston office witnessed the entire operation. A slam dunk by any measure.
Frank smiled and nodded in the direction of the applause as he walked toward the restroom. His bag sat on a table next to the door. Once inside, he locked the door and hung his coat on a rusty hook that clung to the wall by a single screw. He dropped the bag on the counter next to the sink, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his face for several minutes, taking long, deep breaths with his eyes closed. Unzipping the bag, he grabbed a towel and dried his face and hands. Then he reached back into his bag, fishing around while avoiding his reflection in the small cloudy mirror that hung over the sink.
He squeezed three plastic nips of vodka into his mouth and buried the empty containers in the trash can. Then he quickly brushed his teeth and gargled with mouthwash. Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom with his hair slicked back and clean clothes on, just as the vehicle carrying the guns he had purchased was arriving. Frank started for the vehicle but saw his boss, Ashton Brown, making a beeline for the three cops who had cuffed him.
This can’t be good.
He changed directions and arrived just in time to hear Brown’s opening statement directed at the rookie, Tarentini.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you think you can go around tasing federal agents—or anyone else for that matter—just because you feel like it? I want your name and badge
“Jesus Christ, kid! I said it had to be convincing, but you deserve an Oscar. Shit, that fucking hurt.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. I panicked,” offered the rookie cop sitting next to him in the back seat, his nervous fingers fumbling to unlock the handcuffs that held Frank’s wrists tightly behind his back.
Both men swung back and forth in unison as the cruiser banked left and right, weaving its way through Boston’s narrow streets at high speed. Frank breathed deeply and rubbed his wrists to get his circulation going again. The cop in the passenger seat, a veteran sergeant, rotated to face the rear of the vehicle.
“Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking back there, Tortellini?”
Frank jumped in before he could answer.
“Tortellini?”
“It’s Tarentini, Sir. And I accept full responsibility. I know I fucked up.”
Frank laughed out loud.
“Relax, Tarentini. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but you three would have never got cuffs on me unless I gave up. And that would have been a dead giveaway. Russians are assholes but they aren’t stupid. You improvised. A warning would have been nice, but everyone’s safe now and it’s over. Let’s not relive it.”
Frank looked at the sergeant, who took his cue to drop the issue.
“It’s over now. And at least you were smart enough not to use your gun,” Frank joked as he punched Officer Tarentini in the shoulder.
Two more months. Two more months of this shit and I’m done.
Eighteen
Everyone stood and gave Frank a round of applause when he entered the four-bay garage that had served as his field mission support center. Rows of monitors and other electronic equipment filled long tables set against the back wall. Technical support personnel had already made backups of the video and audio as supervisors watched over their shoulders and drank coffee.
Everything had been done by the book, and a strict chain of custody virtually eliminated the risk that the charges would be tossed out on a technicality. Frank’s last hurrah had been as clean a job as anyone could ask for. No injuries. Bad guys in custody. Fewer guns on the street—in this case, twenty Russian-made AK-47s and a dozen Sig Sauer M400s off the street. AKs are a dime a dozen, but the fully automatic capable Sigs were a very rare find. Representatives of the U.S. Attorney’s Boston office witnessed the entire operation. A slam dunk by any measure.
Frank smiled and nodded in the direction of the applause as he walked toward the restroom. His bag sat on a table next to the door. Once inside, he locked the door and hung his coat on a rusty hook that clung to the wall by a single screw. He dropped the bag on the counter next to the sink, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his face for several minutes, taking long, deep breaths with his eyes closed. Unzipping the bag, he grabbed a towel and dried his face and hands. Then he reached back into his bag, fishing around while avoiding his reflection in the small cloudy mirror that hung over the sink.
He squeezed three plastic nips of vodka into his mouth and buried the empty containers in the trash can. Then he quickly brushed his teeth and gargled with mouthwash. Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom with his hair slicked back and clean clothes on, just as the vehicle carrying the guns he had purchased was arriving. Frank started for the vehicle but saw his boss, Ashton Brown, making a beeline for the three cops who had cuffed him.
This can’t be good.
He changed directions and arrived just in time to hear Brown’s opening statement directed at the rookie, Tarentini.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you think you can go around tasing federal agents—or anyone else for that matter—just because you feel like it? I want your name and badge
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