Cold Service

51

HAWK COULD TAIL a fox through a henhouse, and neither the fox nor the hens would know it. While he drove along, three cars in back of the silver Volvo, I called Vinnie.

"We're on Franklin Street, going west behind Boots," I said. "You should probably go home before somebody shoots you."

Vinnie said "Sure," and broke the connection.

"Vinnie don't say much," Hawk said.

"You wish he'd talk more?" I said.

"God, no," Hawk said.

We went through Saugus and up Route 1. We went east on Route 128 and south on 114.

"We seem to be moving in a large circle," I said.

"Be safer to go around the fight than through it," Hawk said.

"Plus," I said, "fooling anyone trying to follow."

"You bet," Hawk said.

After an hour and a half, we ended up almost next door to Marshport in the Phillips's Point section of Swampscott, near Tedesco Rocks, a bit beyond the foot of a long driveway that wound up to a squat little flat-roofed fieldstone castle with a crenelated roofline and a round tower at one end. The silver Volvo had pulled into that driveway and parked in the big circle at the top.

"Tasteful," Hawk said.

"Probably got boiling oil," I said, "ready on the roof."

"At least there no drawbridge," Hawk said.

We sat and looked at the house. It sat high on some sort of ledge. The ocean was below it in the back. There was land on both sides, between it and its neighbors.

"Got an entry plan?" I said.

"No."

"Good to be working with a pro," I said. "Assuming we get in, you got an exit plan?"

"Same as usual," Hawk said.

"Run like hell?" I said.

"That one," Hawk said.

We sat for a while more with the car windows down. It was a warm, damp, and overcast day. The kind of day that might feature a thunderstorm before it was over. A car passed us in the other direction. A solitary gull swung over us on its way to the sea.

"Here the plan," Hawk said.

"Oh, good," I said.

"We walks up the driveway and rings the front doorbell."

"Un-huh."

"Tha's it," Hawk said.

I didn't say anything. Hawk didn't say anything. Above us, the gull did another long sweep.

"Well," I said finally, "it's an easy plan to remember."

We got out of the car. Hawk opened the trunk and took out two dark-blue Kevlar vests. He handed me one. I put it on and adjusted the Velcro straps. Hawk put his on.

"Don't tell Vinnie we wore these," I said. "He'll think we're sissies."

"He don't have to know," Hawk said.

We started up the driveway. Hawk had his big.44 out and concealed behind his right leg. I had brought my Browning nine-millimeter.

"Put the gun away," Hawk said. "We get in, I take the Ukrainians. You take Boots. I don't want him dead."

"Okay if I tickle him?" I said.

"Long as he don't die," Hawk said.

I holstered the Browning.

It was a long walk up the driveway. Except for the easy long cycle of the seagull's pattern, nothing happened as we walked it. No dogs barked. No alarms sounded. No one yelled, "Hey you." No one shot us. Only the slow silence and the seagull. It was a white seagull with some gray. There are actually many kinds of seagulls. Maybe this one was a herring gull. Maybe it didn't make all that much difference what this one was.

At the front door, Hawk put his left hand over the peephole and rang the bell.

There was movement, then silence, then a voice said, "What?"

Hawk said something in a language that might have been Ukrainian. And after a moment, the door opened on a chain. Hawk and I hit it simultaneously as it opened, and the chain pulled loose. The door flew open, and the man who opened it staggered backward, raising a handgun as he staggered. Hawk shot him once in the face, under the left eye.

"Lyaksandro," Hawk said, as if he were checking him off a list.

We were in a high foyer full of heavy furniture. Two men appeared in the archway to our right. One of them was Boots, with a small handgun. The other man had an Uzi. I dove at Boots. I heard Hawk fire. I rammed into Boots and he went down. I got hold of the handgun and twisted it sideways as he fired. He kept firing. I kept twisting. The bullets splintered into some of the heavy furniture. He struggled to turn it toward me and failed. Then the gun was empty. He let it go and began to fight me. With my left hand, I got hold of his hair and rolled sideways, twisting him with me. He was flailing at me with both fists, but I was too close to him for him to get much behind the punches. He didn't have much of a punch, anyway. I put my forearm under his chin and pressed it against his throat. He tried to bite me. I pressed harder. He was having trouble breathing.

"Okay," he croaked. "Okay."

I took my forearm off his neck, kept hold of his hair, and got us both on our feet. Hawk was looking down at the man with the Uzi.

"Vanko," he said.

It was hard to hear him. The room still seemed full of gunfire. My ears rang. Hawk put the.44 away and looked at me and Boots.

"What the fuck?" Boots said.

"Shut up," Hawk said.

He looked at me.

"Bring him," he said, and turned and walked past the two dead men, out the front door, and toward the car parked down the hill.