The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) by Brian Shea (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📗

is going to be hard to come by. Best-case scenario, we're looking at close to three days. With the worst being much longer."

"Well, not to add insult to injury," Gray said, "but I've run the name that the house was purchased under, a Clint Vesper. Everything I can find matches the info from the mortgage company. I crosschecked it using Accurint. Clint Vesper bought that house five years ago.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t find a Clint Vesper anywhere in the system. Not that I thought it would be that easy. It was a longshot that a killer who had been able to cover his tracks for the last fifteen years would use his real name to make a purchase. A guy who’s rigged his house to blow up is not likely to make such a mistake. But still, I was hoping it would give us something to go on, maybe a dead relative or friend. But as far as I can tell, Clint Vesper doesn't exist."

"I feel like we're starting at square one all over again. The closer we get, the further away I feel from catching this guy," Kelly said, venting his frustration out loud. He normally internalized his angst when it came to a case, but he felt that he and Gray were synced, that they got each other. They both had the same drive. If not for the same motivations.

Just then the radio crackled to life, and on it, he heard Jimmy Mainelli frantically calling for help, issuing a Code 99 at their location. Kelly and Gray were already running for the door before the transmission ended.

All the detectives in the Homicide unit began clearing out. When a Code 99 came across, it was an all-hands-on-deck call to action. Kelly ran down the hallway, Gray close on his heels. As he ran down the stairs and out into the parking lot, Kelly realized they had a third member in their group, running along with them. It was none other than Sergeant Halstead.

Kelly was momentarily shocked. He had been conditioned by Sutherland's slow amble. Seeing his new supervisor keeping stride for stride with him was a nice change of pace.

Less than two minutes later, all three piled into Kelly's Caprice and tore off toward Connor Walsh’s home.

The Caprice fishtailed slightly as it swerved onto the street. Kelly heard Barnes's voice on the radio, calmer than Mainelli's but equally chilling, telling them there were already two down. "DRT" was her acronym. Cop speak, meaning Dead Right There. Kelly knew it well. He didn't like it. And he knew Barnes well enough to know that she was already preparing to enter the fray, if she wasn't already in it.

Kelly floored the gas pedal. Even as the Caprice, with sirens wailing, raced forward, he felt as though no speed would be fast enough. Nothing would get him from downtown to Dorchester in time to save her and Mainelli.

Something was jammed against the door, making it nearly impossible to open. Barnes pushed against it with all her might, trying to force her way in. "I need a little help, Jimmy!"

The larger detective got low and leveled his thick shoulders against the heavy door, ramming into it again. He was met with resistance, but it started to give just a little.

Prying it open about six inches, Barnes quickly realized why they were having such difficulty. It wasn't barricaded. There was a body in front of it.

That brought the count to four. The killer inside that room had dispatched four of Walsh's best men in a matter of minutes, and he was likely still somewhere inside. That left only two of Walsh's security detail and Walsh himself.

Barnes pressed hard, and with Mainelli's support they were able to force the door open, shoving the body along the floor. The opening gave Barnes enough wiggle room to squeeze inside. Harder for Mainelli, who kept his expletives to himself.

When she wriggled her way in, Barnes took up a prone shooting position using the dead mobster’s body as a human sandbag of protection.

She saw nothing, even though it was an open layout. Walsh's master bedroom and office were ahead to the right. The mobster had given them the layout when the security detail was assigned in the event something broke bad. Something definitely had.

There was a six-by-four marble pillar in the center of the room dividing the bar from the living room. Inside the pillared centerpiece was a fireplace with access points to both sides of the room.

Gunfire kicked up again before Barnes had a chance to formulate a plan. One of Walsh's men popped up from behind the bar and was firing wildly toward the pillar. His rounds skipped off, chipping away at the marble.

"He must have a visual on him," Barnes said just loud enough for Mainelli to hear.

She took aim where the mob man was firing but didn't see anything.

The mobster ran his weapon dry. In the split second it took him to drop the magazine and dig into his pockets for another, two muffled bangs came from the other side of the room.

The mirrored wall behind the bar was instantly painted in the mobster’s blood and brain matter. He swayed for a moment as his body remained in a brief suspension, already dead before he hit the ground.

Barnes still couldn't see the shooter. She didn't want to take her eyes off the fireplace pillar, the direction of the gunfire.

Did he hear us enter? Does he know we’re here? Her mind was racing. She knew the only chance she'd have would be the element of surprise. Barnes waited in the quiet seconds that followed the last shootout.

The bedroom and office doors were closed. It was like a game show. What's behind door number one, door number two? Except guessing wrong could end in death. Where would the killer go? Where did Walsh run to? Mainelli tried to squeeze himself next to Barnes, but she waved him back with her free hand.

"He's over there," she