Whose Greater Good Read online

  A minute passed, then the SUV pulled out into traffic. Behind it, a second, nearly identical vehicle peeled out. The two vehicles drove to South Boston, with Dawson following, where they parked a block away from a housing complex on Ninth.

  The garden apartments here single story, one and two bedroom, simple brick units. Since it was the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, the complex was quiet. A breeze rustled the trees, forcing the drier, more colorful leaves to drift down lazily toward the ground.

  When Breuer and three other men got out of the lead SUV, three more men jumped out from the second vehicle and joined them. Each man was dressed in bullet resistant, dark blue flack jackets with U.S. MARSHALS printed in bold, bright white letters across the back. They quietly gathered. Two of them carried riot shotguns, one carried a door breach and the others were armed with agency-issued .40 caliber Glocks.

  The driver of Breuer’s SUV passed around a photograph. “You’ve all seen this,” he said. “Jose Aguilar is dangerous and will most likely have quick access to weapons. That’s how he rolls. Frank, you and Torres take the area out back. There’s a slider so if we fuck up inside and don’t get him subdued, that’ll be the way he’ll try to head out.”

  Frank Breuer nodded, and Torres who didn’t look a day older than twenty, appeared grim.

  “Everybody ready?” The lead marshal’s eyes slid across each face. The men returned his gaze, determined expressions staring back. “Good, then let’s go. Frank, we’ll give you five minutes to get set up, then we’re going in.”

  “Got it.” Breuer dropped the clip from his Glock, checked the load then snapped it back into place. He and Torres trotted around to the rear of the complex. There, they located the third set of sliders and moved into position across from the building, where a line of cars was parked facing a wooden perimeter fence.

  Seven minutes later, the battering ram smacked into the front door. That was followed quickly by the dull thump of two flash-bang grenades. The explosions shook the building, sounding a lot like distant thunder. It was easy to imagine the five-man team swarming through the apartment—down the narrow front hallway, yelling: U.S. Marshals!

  A deputy would clear the kitchen to the left. A second one would clear the combination dining room/living room ahead. The last three would rush down the hall to the right to clear the two small bedrooms and the bath.

  What came as a shock was the sound of a shotgun blast in response to the flash-bangs, followed by the patio slider opening and a tall, thin figure running into the alley wearing a wife-beater tee shirt and striped boxers, carrying a shotgun.

  “U.S. Marshals!” Torres shouted, his Glock in a classic two-handed grip. “Drop the weapon!”

  Jose Aguilar did not drop the weapon. He spun around and fired.

  Torres dove for the ground but not before buckshot peppered his vest and ripped through his shoulder and upper arm.

  Breuer returned fire as he ran for cover, hunched behind the row of cars before slamming his back into the green perimeter fence. Breathing hard, he shouted, “Drop it, Aguilar. There’s nowhere left for you to run.”

  “Listen to him,” a marshal called out from Aguilar’s apartment.

  Aguilar answered by shooting back into the apartment causing the patio slider to explode in a spray of sparkling white glass. On the ground, Torres twisted and fired at Aguilar. His angle was bad and his positioning awkward: his shots went wide. Aguilar returned his attention to the downed deputy. He aimed the shotgun at Torres’s head.

  Breuer moved between two cars, lined up his shot and fired. Once.

  Aguilar’s body jerked. His arms flapped in the air and he fell back, his arms pin-wheeling. Three bullets had torn holes into his chest.

  Breuer twisted, looking for the source of the additional two shots.

  Dawson had watched this all as it unfolded. Now he stood a step behind Marshal Breuer, his arm outstretched. His Kimber .45 pointed at Aguilar.

  Breuer opened his mouth to speak but never got the chance. Dawson snaked his arm around the marshal’s neck, applied pressure to the carotid artery using a figure-four chokehold and counted off the long seconds it took for Breuer to lose consciousness.

  When Breuer finally succumbed and went limp, Dawson spun him around, draped him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and trotted off to his waiting van.

  -----

  THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Frank Breuer came to. He found himself handcuffed to a chair in the middle of an abandoned factory building. Sunlight shone through the wire-embedded windows in smudgy streaks, showing up steel support columns that were rusted and flaked. Puddles of brackish water pooled on the debris-strewed floor and water dripped somewhere in the distance.

  The federal marshal rattled his handcuffs, but they were secured to the back legs of the metal folding chair. No hope of breaking either the chair or the cuffs.

  A figure stepped out from behind one of the support columns, a man who wore black jeans, a black hoodie and a baseball cap. He remained in the shadows, his face concealed in the darkness. Yet Breuer recognized him as the man who’d helped him put down Jose Aguilar, saving Torres’s life.

  “Kidnapping a U.S. Marshal is a federal offense.”

  “You have information I need.”

  What could the man be thinking, Breuer wondered? He was facing life in prison for a stunt like this. “You ever think of just asking me?”

  “Tell me where Ali Aftab is.”

  “Okay. No. I can’t tell you that.”

  Dawson pressed. “I need to find him.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Does to me.”

  “Why is he in federal protection?”

  Somehow this guy knew Breuer was Aftab’s case officer. Clearly there was no point in denying the truth. “How do you know about that? Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What do I call you then? Hey, you really won’t cut it.”

  “Dawson.”

  “That’s it? Just Dawson?”

  “Just Dawson.”

  “Well then, just Dawson. You’ve gotten yourself into a whole lot of trouble, all for nothing. No way I’m giving up my witness.”

  “We’ll see. Tell me why Aftab is in witness relocation?”

  “Why else.” Breuer shrugged, not betraying anything admitting it. “He has information.”

  “Against whom? What is he giving you that’s so important?”

  “Forget it, man. You’re getting nothing out of me.”

  For a long time, Dawson didn’t move while Breuer squirmed, feeling like a lab specimen as Dawson studied him. Let him. Breuer would never give up a witness. Not even a scumbag like Ali Aftab, not even if he had to die to keep his silence.

  But if he got Dawson to talk, he could find out what this was all about, and maybe it would give Breuer time to figure a way out of this mess. So long as he didn’t give up Aftab’s location, what harm could there be in simply talking?

  “Fine.” Breuer said, filling the void of silence. “What do you want to know?”

  “Aftab. Why are you protecting him?”

  “Because we made a deal with him. He faced a near certain conviction—”

  “For attacking and raping Amy Seleski.”

  Surprised by Dawson’s conversance with the case, Breuer nodded. “We arranged to make it go away, granting him immunity and relocation in exchange for actionable intelligence against Angel Retana. You know who that is?”

  Dawson nodded. “What about him?”

  “Retana is the head honcho of the local NPC here in Boston, been running the drug and gun operations for them for years, ever since he gunned down Manuel Batista Garcia Gomez.”

  “The head of the rival gang, Los Sustantivos,” Dawson observed. “That murder’s unsolved.”

  “Yeah, it’s unsolved. Officially, that is. But we know Retana did it. We just could neve
r prove it. Until now.”

  “Aftab is giving you Retana?” Dawson sounded almost impressed. Breuer hoped he’d scored a point.

  “That. And a ton more. His whole operation.” As Breuer spoke, his mind was at work trying to figure out a way to escape, to get away from this man before they came to the real reason Breuer was here, what Dawson really wanted to know. Where he could find Ali Aftab.

  “And that’s worth letting Aftab go? Letting him get away with beating and raping and sodomizing a fifteen-year-old girl?”

  The way Dawson said it sent a surge of anger straight through Breuer. “Hell no! Aftab’s garbage. He’s scum and he deserves the death penalty, and worse. Not just for that little girl either.”

  “Amy. That little girl’s name is Amy.”

  It was Breuer’s turn to study Dawson. Who was this guy? Why was he doing this? Was he the girl’s father?

  Breuer licked his dry lips. “You think we like doing this kind of thing? We like making deals with drug dealers and murderers and rapists? Giving them new identities and new homes, cars and money, a new lease on life? You think we like that? We don’t. Not one goddamn bit. Not the protection, not the immunity, not the plea bargains. They should all rot in jail, or better yet, hell.” Breuer paused, catching his breath after his tirade. “But we do what we’ve got to. Not because we like it, but because we have to. We do it for the greater good. You understand that? We do it for the greater good.”

  “The greater good, huh?” Dawson fisted his hands, causing the leather of his black gloves to creak. “Whose greater good, Breuer? Yours?” He shook his head. “Not Amy’s. Not all the other people Aftab’s killed and maimed and scarred. All the people whose lives he’s destroyed. What about their greater good? Who’s looking out for them?”

  Breuer heard the tightness in Dawson’s voice and felt defeated. “I don’t know, Dawson. You tell me who’s looking out for them. A guy like you?”

  When Dawson didn’t answer, Breuer pressed him. “The girl, Amy, she mean something to you? You a friend? A relative? Or are you just some do-gooder, a vigilante out to put the right back in the world? Who are you, damn it!”

  “I’m a person who knows evil, Breuer. Ali Aftab is evil.”

  Breuer couldn’t argue that. “Look. I agree. Aftab’s shit, but he’s not getting a pass. He’ll be constantly monitored. Marshals will be assigned to him, watching every move he makes. He steps out just once—”

  “He will. Men like him always do.”

  “Then we’ll be there and we’ll put him away. Then he’ll get what he deserves.”

  “At what cost? After there’s another victim? After he’s destroyed more lives?” Dawson shook his head. “Not good enough.”

  “Look. I don’t like it any better than you do. Really I don’t. But…” Breuer took a deep breath. “We need Aftab to take down Retana. We’ve tried for years. The guy’s insulated. Untouchable. There’s no other way.”

  Dawson slipped his gloved hand into the front pocket of his hoodie. He took something out. Concealed in the shadows the way he was, Breuer couldn’t make out what that something was. Two scraps of paper? Pictures maybe?

  Dawson took a step out of the shadows. He held out items. Breuer ignored them, trying to get a good look at Dawson instead. But the ball cap, pulled low, kept his features in shadow, except for cold blue eyes. Breuer shivered.

  “Look,” Dawson commanded.

  Breuer looked and fought down a fear that made him shake. Until that moment he hadn’t been afraid, not really. He knew as long as he had something Dawson wanted, he was safe. Now he was terrified.

  In Dawson’s hand was Breuer’s driver’s license, complete with his home address, and a snapshot Breuer carried in his wallet. A picture of Breuer’s family: his wife and their two girls.

  “There’s always another way.” Dawson returned the license and picture to his pocket. “Tell me where Aftab is?”

  Breuer swore. The threat was clear. Frank Breuer didn’t have a choice. He gave up his witness.

  -----

  DAWSON WAITED OUTSIDE the strip club on LaGrange Street until, finally, three Latino men wearing NPC colors came out. It was after one in the morning and they were drunk. Dawson recognized the tall one in the middle: Angel Retana.

  Amber light lit the gravel parking lot and the half-dozen cars parked right there. One was a pimped-out late model Oldsmobile sedan. Dawson guessed it to be Angel’s ride.

  He waited until the trio had walked away from the front entrance, concerned someone might come out at the wrong time and get caught in the crossfire. Then Dawson climbed out of a white panel van unnoticed as the three street thugs gathered around the jacked-up backend of the Olds, the shortest one searching the pockets of his oversized cargo shorts, looking for something.

  “Lo que el infierno, Héctor? ¿Dónde poner el puto claves, dude?” Angel slurred his words. Hector shrugged, giving him a sheepish grin and swayed.

  Angel shook his head and snickered. To the other one, he said, “Yo, Ernesto.” He cupped his hands over his chest, pantomiming large breasts. “Puta que había senos más grande que su mamma.”

  Ernesto pushed Angel away. Angel stumbled and laughed.

  “Angel Retana?” Dawson called out, walking toward the three men, closing the distance between them to about five feet. He held an unregistered, untraceable, Sig Sauer 9mm behind his leg. Out of sight. “Are you Angel Retana?”

  Angel looked up. His swarthy face went from laughing to serious. “Who wants to know, homeboy?”

  Hector stopped fishing for his keys, and Ernesto turned to face Dawson as well.

  “I do.” Dawson brought the Sig up and shot Ernesto in the leg before he could pull the little, junk .25 Dawson saw tucked in his waistband. Hector and Angel were both clawing at their oversized plaid shirts, trying to get to the weapons they carried. Hector got his hand on what looked like a revolver before Dawson’s second shot hit him in the shoulder, a through and through that spun the little gangbanger around and left him doubled over the trunk of the car.

  Angel Retana pulled a Glock 19 from his pants, bringing it up in a sideways grasp. Gangsta-style.

  Dawson shot him in the thigh.

  Angel screamed and dropped down onto one knee. He clutched at the flowing blood from his leg. “La puta, madra! Son-of-a-bitch!”

  With his gun still in his hand, he fired twice at Dawson.

  The shots were so far off the mark Dawson didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the gun and wrenched it out of Angel’s hand. Dropping the Glock into his coat pocket, Dawson hauled Angel onto his feet. “Come on.”

  “I’ll kill you for this.” Angel limped alongside Dawson, but glanced back over his shoulder at Hector and Ernesto, looking for help. Ernesto rolled back and forth on the ground. Hector remained doubled over the trunk of the jacked-up Olds. Both were moaning. “Wait. Mis muchachos?”

  “They’ll live. Which is more than I can say for you.” Dawson shook Angel’s arm to get his attention. “Unless you do exactly what I say. Got it?”

  “What is this? I’ve done nothing to you. Go easy homes, this shit hurts, man.” Angel hobbled and winced with every step, his hand pressed tightly to his thigh. His pants were soaked red and blood seeped out through his fingers.

  Dawson pulled open the passenger door of the van. “Get in. Try and run and I’ll shoot you. Get blood on the seat…I’ll kill you.”

  Angel climbed in and Dawson shut the door. He kept an eye on Angel as he walked around the front of the van. Angel didn’t try anything. Dawson climbed in and away they drove.

  -----

  IT WAS THREE-THIRTY in the morning when Dawson pulled the van into the Emerald Forest Motel off Route 93 in Brookline. Angel sat in the passenger seat, grimacing from the bullet wound in his leg. Breuer sat on the bench in the back, uninjured, but looking just as miserable. The L-shaped motel had two stories and a dozen rooms on each floor. Parked in front of room twelve
was a midnight blue, plain-wrapped Crown Vic.

  Dawson shook his head. A neon sign flashing feds staying here would be less conspicuous.

  He parked the van and pulled the keys from the ignition.

  “What are we doing here, man?” Angel asked from the passenger seat.

  Frank Breuer sat in back. His expression said he had the very same question, though he knew where they were. Inside room twelve of the Emerald Forest Motel a deputy US marshal sat babysitting Ali Aftab.

  To Breuer, Dawson said, “Wait here. You’ll know when to come out.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  Dawson leveled him with a stare. “Think about your family.”

  Dawson got out of the van, walked through the glow of the headlights, then yanked Angel out from the passenger side. The gangbanger had a bandana wrapped around his thigh, a sloppy field dressing already soaked through with blood. Dawson pushed Angel out ahead of him. Exaggerating his limp, the leader of the NPC hobbled along, wincing and mumbling under his breath. Cursing Dawson every step of the way.

  Dawson said, “Do exactly what I tell you to do and maybe you’ll survive this night. Screw up once, you’re in the ground. Understand?”

  “Si.”

  “Good.” Dawson stood Angel in front of the door to Ali Aftab’s room. He put a finger to his lips, signaling Angel to keep his mouth shut, then he pounded on the door with the back of his fist. In his hand was the Glock 19 he’d taken from Angel outside the strip club.

  “Fitzgibbons. Open up. It’s me. Deputy Breuer!”

  Dawson could hear muffled sounds inside. “Frank. That you?”

  “Yeah. Open up.”

  The door opened a crack, just enough for Deputy Marshal Fitzgibbons to see Angel Retana standing in the doorway. It took less than an instant for Fitzgibbons to realize who Retana was and guess why he was there. NPC didn’t tolerate rats. “Aw shit!”

  Fitzgibbons tried to push the door shut again. He was too late.

  Dawson shoulder-slammed the door, and the chain lock ripped out of the door frame, sending little javelins of wood flying into the room. The door knocked Fitzgibbons aside before it smashed into the wall.