CHAPTER 23
Baxter Road
Nantucket, Massachusetts
Plan B.
I was going to sleep in my own bed tonight. Fuck that guy.
I drove back to the market and parked the Defender well out of the cop’s line of sight, then reached into the back seat and grabbed my two gun cases. I slid my .45 into an outer pocket of the SMG bag and tucked the Sig into my belt behind my back.
Everything else could stay until morning.
Keeping to the shadows, I made my way up Front Street. At its north end, I ducked between two of the cottages, walked east for about ten yards, found the footpath along the bluff, did a left face, and began the walk to my house.
Thankfully it was pitch-black along the path, and the odds of anyone being out for a late-night stroll were nil.
The silhouette of my house emerged as I took a knee at the edge of my property.
I scanned my backyard as if on patrol in the bush.
Only about twenty yards of open lawn to reach the back porch.
From my concealed position, I could see light glowing inside the house north of mine. That must be where people more important than me were hanging out tonight. I had never met the owners, but had heard they were doctors from Boston who rented out the place year-round.
I made my way across the lawn to the veranda, then quietly climbed the four steps to the deck.
I tiptoed to the door and gently placed my gun bags at my feet.
Like every longtime Nantucket dweller, I had wedged a key to the dead bolt beneath a loose cedar shingle.
So far, so good. The back door swung open without a sound.
It was pretty dark, but I easily felt my way through the living room and into the kitchen, where I placed my bags on the table. My eyes adjusted to the ambient light, and I walked over to the bar, grabbed a lowball glass, and poured a couple of fingers of Kentucky’s finest.
I win.
Taking my first sip, I thought I saw movement outside my window. I squinted and noticed that my front door was ajar.
That’s strange. Why is my front door open? Was it left open the whole time I was deployed? No way.
In slow motion, reality started to sink in. Intruders.
Good thing I had a career’s worth of experience at close-quarters battle.
I put down my glass, pulled my Sig, and assessed the situation.
There were three avenues of approach to my house: the front door, the back door, and the kitchen window.
In two steps I could move into position to cover two of the three entrances, but I could not defend them simultaneously against multiple teams coming through multiple breaches.
Just knowing this gave me a momentary advantage.
Still, my sixth sense told me something didn’t fit.
As I scanned the room, I heard an unmistakable sound—one I’d heard a million times—as an object bounced off an interior wall and rolled across the floor.
I knew what it was: a small metal canister containing a flash-bang grenade.
The disorientation device was harmless—except for its ability to produce an explosion so loud and a flash of light so bright that I would be unable to react.
Whoever was on the throwing end of that meant business. I had about three seconds.
I spotted the grenade near the front door and instinctively turned my body toward the back door. There was a momentary flash of light, followed by an explosion. They had me.
The attackers knew what they were doing. They were good but not great, lacking the polish I’d come to prize in the people I had worked with over the years. Whatever the reason for what was about to happen, discretion was the better part of valor: Dying was not in the cards for me tonight.
To protect myself, I dropped face down on the floor. That’s when I heard voices.
“Don’t move, motherfucker.”
I heard my screen door being ripped from its hinges and heavy boots pounding across my pine floors. For about five seconds, there was complete pandemonium. Lots of yelling and shouting among the intruders. Flashlight beams stabbing the dark all over the place.
These people were not great at executing the entry. But they definitely weren’t robbers. I heard my furniture being overturned and someone running upstairs as softly as a buffalo.
“He’s got a gun!” someone screamed at the top of his lungs as the lights came on.
Oh, shit. I was lying face down on the floor, my hands spread wide in front of me, but my Sig was lying next to my right hand—and the barrel of a submachine gun was now pointing in my face.
“Move and you’re dead, asshole.” The assailant was dressed in black from head to toe. He wore a Nomex hood that concealed his face and night-vision devices on his helmet.
Someone put their knee on my back, while a second person roughly frisked me from the waist down. I then felt strong hands forcing my arms behind me and applying plastic cuffs to my wrists. I was being manhandled exactly the same way Meg had treated the second Iraqi assassin.
I was someone’s prisoner.
“Easy on the Rolex, asshole,” I spewed.
“Shut your fucking piehole, dickhead.” My captor bounced my head off the floor for good measure. Fucker.
I was pulled to my feet. There were almost twenty people with guns in my kitchen. Judging by their black uniforms, half were some sort of tactical team; the others were dressed like they were on vacation. The plainclothes guys had badges hanging from their necks. Multiple guns were pointed at me.
There were no police uniforms, so they must have been Feds. FBI? Why the hell would any of those people be here? It made no sense. I saw a group rummaging through my wallet and bags, then heard the wail of a siren. Presumably the Nantucket Police responding.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” I barked. “Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” No one answered me, instead firing questions of their own left and right.
“Why do you have all these weapons? Are there others here with you? You were told to stay away from the senator. This is a secure area.”
Senator? What senator?
“I don’t know what the hell you people are talking about. This is my house, for Pete’s sake. What the fucking fuck? I want to speak with my lawyer.”
A five-foot-eight blond woman wearing civilian clothes approached me. She flashed her badge for me to see.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Rowan Anderson, and you are under arrest.”