Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) by Brian Shea (novel books to read TXT) 📗

the past three weeks, during most conversations he'd overheard, the suit had never once spoken a word of kindness. He'd never once said thank you.

He knew men of power felt those sorts of things were beneath them. To offer an apology, to show another human being common decency, was a sign of weakness. He'd known this because he'd been on the other end of it for the better part of his life. But here, now, sitting in front of the lukewarm coffee, he held the power.

Nobody in this room noticed him. He was a pigeon. He was invisible, but not for long.

He stood without attracting even a glance from the other patrons. On his way out, he returned the newspaper to the rack. He dropped the nearly full cup of coffee into the circular trash hole at the sugar and cream station.

He left, walking out into the brisk morning breeze as the city came to life. Nobody had noticed that he left his backpack tucked against the wall beside the creamer station. Nobody had cared. They were busy in their own worlds.

Time was ticking, but none of them knew it.

The businessman would stay for roughly ten minutes, as he did every day before heading back to his office.

He looked at his watch. 9:54.

The seconds ticked by as he watched the secondhand spin on the face of his Citizens watch, the one thing he'd taken from his father. The only piece of his past he carried with him.

He was a block away when the second hand made its way around to the 12.

The explosion rocked the street in front of the café, sending a ball of fire out toward the park. Screams filled the air and pigeons took flight as he disappeared into the crowd of panicked bystanders.

Time was the truest source of power. And for the six people on his list, he controlled it completely.

2

Kelly sprinted forward with a sudden burst of energy, pushing himself past the wall, his breathing syncing with each step. The red-stone arched bay doors to Boston's oldest firehouse, Engine 33 Ladder 15, were open. A handcrafted wood bench was between them and etched into the backing was the slogan: “Keep Running, Boston, Boston Strong.” The words were obscured by the big man sitting on the bench.

Dale Hutchins smiled at Kelly. He knew him from the neighborhood. Even though they'd grown up on the same street, they'd picked different paths. Each served the city of Boston in equally important ways.

"Looks like you’re suckin' wind, Kelly." Hutchins laughed while scooping up a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Kelly slowed to a jog to better address the muscular firefighter enjoying his breakfast while taking in the morning commuters. Nationwide, firefighters received favor above their law enforcement counterparts. In Boston, that love showered down on them, especially since the release of the calendar fundraiser. A shirtless Hutchins was featured on the cover, making him a welcome surprise to the young women passing by on their way to work.

"Don't you have a cat to go save," Kelly spouted between breaths.

Hutchins set his plate of eggs atop a folded copy of the Herald on the ground beside him, then reached into a cardboard box on the other side of the bench and grabbed a calendar. He waved it in front of his smiling face. "You need a copy? I'll even autograph it for you."

"Nah. I'm good. Got enough toilet paper at my house."

"See you tonight at the ball?"

"Gonna try."

A couple girls giggled when they passed. Hardly giving Kelly a second glance, they ogled over Hutchins and stopped in front of him. He stood, grabbing a stack of calendars in his enormous hands, and smirked. "Duty calls."

Kelly picked up his pace from a slow jog to a hard run to close the gap with Barnes. "Tend to your fans, Hutch. I'll catch you tonight."

"Got a date?"

"She's getting away from me as we speak." Kelly pointed at Barnes.

Hutchins gave a nod of approval as Kelly ran to catch up with her.

"Slow down," Kelly wheezed. Barnes slowed her relentless pace and Kelly pulled alongside her.

"How do you know Hutch?" she asked.

"Better question: how do you know Hutch?" Kelly laughed, hoping to mask his jealousy.

"The bombing. He was there on scene, working extra duty near the finish line when it detonated. We worked together to help triage the victims and provide aid," Barnes said between effortless breaths. "Good guy. Seems like, at least."

"He is." Kelly wiped the sweat from his brow. "A bit of a meathead. But all-around good guy. Grew up a few doors down from me."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice?"

Kelly laughed again. "Me? Of muscle man back there? Nah."

"I got one."

"One what?"

"Calendar." This time it was Barnes's turn to laugh. "I had to support a good cause. Maybe I should run back to my apartment and get it so Hutch could sign it for me?"

She was playing with him, and deep down Kelly liked it. He played back. "You're not planning on putting that thing up in your place?"

"I'll only put it up on the nights you don't sleep over." Barnes taunted him with her eyes. She winked as if to punctuate the sentence.

Over the past few months, when Kelly didn't have his daughter with him, he slept over at Barnes's apartment. It had been nice. Really nice. There'd been hints at going further with the relationship over the last six months. They were older in life and smarter in love. And therefore, by default, things moved quicker. Kelly's mother was fully recovered from her broken hip, albeit she still had a bit of a limp. She no longer needed Kelly's constant support.

"That's not happening."

"What's not?" She dropped to almost a walk.

"No way that thing is going up in our apartment." He met her gaze and gave her a wink of his own.

"When did my apartment become our apartment?"

"It didn't." He came to a stop before crossing Dartmouth Street. The sun battled against a thin layer of clouds lining