‘I was doing just fine.’
I lowered my voice and pointed toward a clearing up ahead. ‘Here comes Gautier now.’
Agent Gautier had just left Boylston Street. He was walking slowly across the Fens toward the Muddy River. I knew the area pretty well from an earlier scouting trip. During the day this same section of the park was called the ‘Victory Gardens’. Area residents raised flowers and vegetables, and there were signs pleading with night visitors not to trample them.
The team leader, Roger Nielsen, spoke in a whisper that seeped into my earphones. ‘Male in the watch cap, Alex. Stout guy. You see him?’
‘I’ve got him.’ Watch cap was talking into a microphone on the collar of his sport shirt. He wasn’t one of ours, so he must be one of theirs – the Wolf’s.
I began to scour the crowd for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the hell else could it be?
Nielsen said, ‘I think he has a mike on. You see it?’
‘He’s definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us,’ I said. ‘Talking into his collar too. They’re moving on Gautier.’
Chapter Eighty-Seven
There were three of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small, dark park?
The kidnappers were keeping close to Park Drive, and I figured they had a van or truck out on the street. They looked confident and unafraid. They’d done this before: grabbed purchased men and women. They were professional kidnappers.
‘Take them now,’ I told Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘Gautier is at risk.’
‘Wait until they grab him,’ the response came back. ‘We want to do this right. Wait.’
I didn’t agree with Nielsen and I didn’t like what was happening. Why wait? Gautier was hanging out there too much and the park was dark.
‘Gautier is at risk,’ I repeated.
One of the men, blond, wearing a Boston Bruins windbreaker, waved to him.
Gautier watched the man approach, nodded his head, smiled. The blond had some kind of small flashlight in his hand. He lit up Paul Gautier’s face.
I could hear them talking. ‘Nice night for a walk,’ Gautier said, then laughed. He sounded nervous.
‘The things we do for love,’ the blond said.
The two of them were only a few feet apart. The other abductors held back, but not far.
Then the blond whipped a gun out of his jacket pocket. He pushed it against Gautier’s face. ‘You’re coming with me. No one will hurt you. Just walk with me. Make it easy on yourself.’
The two others joined them.
‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Gautier.
‘Oh, and why is that?’ asked the blond. ‘I’ve got the gun, not you.’
‘Take them. Now,’ came the order from Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘FBI! Hands up. Back away from him!’ Nielsen shouted as we ran forward.
‘FBI!’ came a second shout. ‘Everybody, hands up!’
Then everything went crazy. The other two abductors pulled out guns. The blond held his to Agent Gautier’s skull.
‘Back off!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll shoot him dead! Drop your guns. I’ll shoot him, I promise you! I don’t bluff.’
Our agents continued to move forward – slowly.
Then the worst thing happened – the heavy-set blond shot Agent Paul Gautier in the face.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Before the shock of the gun blast faded, the three men took off running very fast. Two of them galloped toward Boylston, but the blond who’d shot Paul Gautier sprinted out on to Park Drive.
He was a big man, but he was motoring. I remembered hearing from Monnie Donnelley that great Russian athletes, even former Olympians, were sometimes recruited into the Mafia. Was blondie a former jock? He moved like it. The confrontation, the shooting and everything else, reminded me of how little we knew about the Russian mobsters. How did they work; how did they think?
I took off after him, an overload of adrenaline rocketing through my body. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. It could have been avoided. Now Gautier was possibly dead, probably dead.
I ran as I shouted, ‘Take them alive!’ It should have been obvious, but the other agents had just seen Paul Gautier gunned down. I didn’t know how much street action, or combat, any of them had seen before. And we desperately needed to question the kidnappers once we caught them.
I was getting winded. Maybe I needed more time in the physical-training classes at Quantico, or maybe it was because I’d spent too much time sitting around inside the Hoover Building these past few weeks.
I chased the blond killer through a tree-lined residential area. A moment later, the trees cleared and the towers of the glittering Prudential Center and the Hancock loomed ahead. I glanced back. Three agents trailed behind, including Peggy Katz, who had her gun out.
Then the man running ahead of me turned on to Boylston Street. He was approaching the Hynes Convention Center with four FBI agents racing behind. I was closing a little ground on him, but not enough. I wondered if maybe we’d gotten lucky: could this be the Wolf up ahead? He was hands-on, right? If it was – then we had him for murder. Whoever he was – he was still moving well. A long-distance sprinter.
‘Stop! We’ll shoot!’ one of the agents yelled behind me. The blond Russian didn’t stop. Suddenly he made a sharp, sliding turn down a side street. It was narrow and darker than Boylston. One-way. I wondered if he’d thought about his escape route before this. Probably not.
The extraordinary thing – he hadn’t hesitated when he shot Agent Gautier. I don’t bluff, he’d said. Who would murder so casually? With so many FBI watching?
The Wolf? He was supposed to be fearless and ruthless, maybe even crazy. One of his lieutenants?… How did the Russians think?
I could hear his shoes slapping down hard on the pavement up ahead. I was gaining on the Russian a little, getting a second wind.
Suddenly he whirled around – and fired at me!
I threw myself down on the ground fast. But then I was up just as quickly, chasing after him again. I’d clearly seen his face – broad, flat features, dark eyes, late thirties to early forties.
He turned again – planted – fired.
I ducked behind a parked car. Then I heard a scream. I whirled around and saw an agent down. One of the males. Doyle Rogers. The blond turned and started to run again. But I had my second wind and I thought I could catch him. Then what? He was ready to die.
Suddenly a shot rang out behind me! I couldn’t believe what I saw. The blond dropped face down, fell flat on his chest and face.
He never moved once he hit the ground. One of the agents behind me had shot him. I turned – and saw Peggy Katz. She was still in a shooting crouch.
I checked on Agent Rogers and found he’d only been hit in the shoulder. He’d be okay. Then I walked back alone toward the Fens. When I got there, I discovered that Paul Gautier was still alive. But the two other kidnappers had gotten away. They’d left their van, but commandeered a car on Park Drive. Our agents had lost them. Bad news, the worst.
The whole operation had blown up in our faces.