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

What was the phrase he said to him today? Take a chill pill? There were four bombings in the city already and they'd just received word about the suspicious package at Downtown Crossing after having passed through. When Hodges made an emphatic press to get off the train, McLaughlin rolled his eyes and said, "We're already past it. Take a chill pill."

Hodges didn't let the moronic comment dampen his efforts to try and convince his boss about the possibility of another attempt. Hodges had experience in such matters. The bombings reminded him of an ambush he'd faced while serving overseas. The enemy had set his team up so that while they were looking in one direction, they were picked off one by one from another. Classic misdirection. He had tried to convey the value of his experience, but it fell on McLaughlin's deaf ears.

Hodges had never left anyone behind. He carried a bit of shrapnel lodged in his shoulder to remind him of that. He'd endured a barrage of enemy fire to retrieve a fellow Marine who was separated from his unit and pinned down by sniper fire in a hostile village. The Marine, a soldier he hadn’t known and never saw again, was wounded after taking heavy fire. Hodges’s team had been called in to extract. An IED nearly took him out, but a wounded Hodges continued to fight his way to the injured Marine. He then fought his way back out with the Marine on his back and got him on the medevac chopper. He never even learned if the guy died. War was like that sometimes. His unrelenting drive got him through that firefight and the many that came before and after. Hodges also prided his survival on his instinct.

Hodges had that tingle at the back of his neck that told him something was wrong. The bomber hadn't made a mistake yet. Every bomb had gone off and the bomber had eluded capture. The cops still didn't have a name, and they had only just released a sketch of the potential subject. The platform bomb failing to detonate seemed outside the pattern. Whatever was going on, Hodges knew it wasn't right. And like his old battalion commander used to say, "If it ain't smell right, sniff it out until you figure out the cause of the stink."

And Hodges still didn't know the cause.

So right now he sat at a bar by himself, without a drink in hand, and watched McLaughlin drink himself into a stupor while laughing with Perkins. Hodges shot another glance toward the bottles. He was seriously considering making his resignation official when he was distracted by a waiter approaching from the kitchen area. He was carrying a cake box and walking toward McLaughlin's table. The laughter continued and so did the drinking, the two oblivious to the approaching waiter.

Hodges knew everything about McLaughlin. Above all, his boss hated surprises. He hated finding out that his dry cleaning wasn't ready. He hated having a meeting pop up unannounced. He hated when the FBI agents stormed into his office and demanded to speak with him.

So, the fact that this surprise box was heading his way alarmed Hodges. Maybe Perkins had ordered a celebratory cake for the official launch of his campaign? Or maybe it was some secret celebration related to their affair? He doubted either one to be viable. The tingle crept up his spine and tickled the back of his neck, causing the tiny hairs to stand on end.

Hodges leapt from the barstool as the waiter stopped in front of the table. McLaughlin screwed up his face at the interruption. Hodges rushed forward as he heard the waiter read the card attached. "I'll see you soon. Ashes and Dust." The waiter smiled and opened the box.

Hodges was a foot from the table and reaching for the box when a blinding light obliterated everything in his path.

32

It took Kelly nearly an hour in traffic to reach the restaurant where McLaughlin was scheduled to be. "How crazy do you think this guy is to be out having dinner right now? The entire city is probably hunkered down in fear that anywhere they might go is a potential target for this maniac. But yet McLaughlin's keeping to a schedule as if it's set in stone."

"That's what I'm saying, doesn't make sense." Even in the Caprice’s climate-controlled environment, Langston's mustache continued to percolate with sweat.

"So, what's our play?"

"I've only got a few years left on this job, and I don't have time to wait around for some nerd back at Langley to tell me exactly how to connect the dots. I'm a face-to-face, press-the-flesh, and look-in-their-eyes kind of guy. So what I want to do is get in there, get in his face, interrupt his world, and have a little conversation about what's really going on here."

"How do you think that will go over with the brass when he complains?"

"Never much cared for the brass, either. They've taken their shots at me. I survived. I'm still here, still doing the job that matters. I'm hunting the people who hurt other people. The other stuff, the politics of it, I don't get into. Never have. I've got just a couple more years left before I get to hang it up for good."

"I thought there was a way to stay beyond the mandatory retirement age?"

"That’s true. I could transition to an administrative role. But I'd still have to hang up my gun. And for me, it's not the same job without it. I'm not administrative material." Langston chuckled. "So what do I think of the brass? I think they can kiss my ass. And if I think there's a remote possibility of stopping this guy, then I don't care whose feathers I ruffle."

"I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. We're not so different after all."

"Why do you think I asked you to come with me instead of Salinger?" Langston gave his