Facing the Storm (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 1) Read online

  Bannon remained there leaning against the fender of his truck and looking at the house, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and wondering if his imagination was playing tricks on him. He inhaled the pleasant saltwater air and the scent of fresh cut grass.

  Still, Bannon couldn’t shake the feeling there was something more going on here. Unable to force himself to leave while dark thoughts continued to gnaw at him, Bannon pulled out his cell and put in a call to Kayla Clarke.

  She picked up on the second ring. “First Coast Guard Division, Lieutenant Clarke speaking.”

  “Hey, Kayla, it’s Brice.”

  “Brice who?”

  “Very funny. Brice Bannon.”

  “That would be Lieutenant Clarke to you, Mr. Bannon.”

  “Ouch.”

  Bannon had served fifteen years in the Coast Guard, most recently as captain of the Deployable Operations Group, DOG, the Coast Guard’s version of the Army’s Special Forces or Navy’s Seals operations. Unfortunately, the command was decommissioned in 2013. Rather than accept re-assignment, Bannon retired from the full-time Coast Guard.

  Kayla had yet to forgive him.

  “I’m still a reservist,” he reminded Kayla. “And still retain my rank of Commander, Lieutenant.”

  “He explains to a career judge advocate, like she doesn’t know how it works.” Kayla worked for the Judge Advocate General of the Coast Guard. She was what the other branches called a JAG officer, though the Coast Guard did it a little differently. Kayla was assigned to First Division, stationed out of Boston, Mass.

  “Touche’.” This was a game they played often because Bannon often called her for help. He got right to it. “Need a favor.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “See what you can find out about a woman—”

  “I’m not Match.com, Brice.”

  “Ha. Ha. It’s for a case, sort of.”

  “Sure it is.”

  Bannon ignored the jab. “Hendrickson, early-to-mid thirties. Has a nine-year-old son named Tommy.” He gave her their address. “I don’t believe there’s a husband in the picture.”

  “Dead or divorce.”

  “Don’t know. Let me know what you come up with.”

  “That’s all the intel you’ve got? Not even a first name?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You don’t give a girl much to work with, do you?”

  He grinned, knowing she enjoyed the challenge. “Consider it a test. You pass, you drink for free down at the Keel Haul.”

  “I drink for free there now.”

  “Let me rephrase, counselor. You get to continue to drink for free. Thanks, kid.”

  “Someday your charms and good looks are going to fail you, Commander Bannon.”

  “I hope not today.”

  “No, Brice, not today.” He could hear the laughter in her voice. “I’ll call you in a few.”

  As Bannon closed the call and pocketed his phone, a black Dodge Charger came roaring down the street and whipped recklessly into the Hendrickson’s driveway, heavy bass music thumping from the closed interior of the car.

  Bannon tried to get a look at the driver as he pulled in but the windows were tinted nearly black, too dark to see inside. The engine shut down and the music stopped.

  A minute passed then a tall, thin man stepped out of the car. He wore an oversized red and black bowling shirt over a white T-shirt, gray slacks, and a thick, gold chain around his neck. His black hair was combed straight back. A shiny oil slick held it in place. He had a swarthy complexion and a long, narrow face with a perpetual frown. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. On his right hand was a large gold pinky ring.

  He cast a suspicious eye over at Bannon, turned and checked for something in his car, then slammed the door closed. He crossed the yard and got in Bannon’s face.

  “Can I help you with something, Bub?”

  Unfazed, Bannon said, “You live here?” He indicated the Hendrickson’s house.

  “My girlfriend does. What’s it to you?”

  “You’re John?”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  Bannon shrugged. He agreed with Tommy. He didn’t like the guy.

  “You don’t want to answer me, fine. I’m going inside my house. If in five minutes I look out and you’re still loitering out here, we’re gonna have an issue. Got it?”

  Bannon nodded. “Got it.”

  John seemed confused by Bannon’s response. Maybe he expected Bannon to turn tail and run right there, maybe he expected a fight. Whatever, he clearly didn’t know how to react to Bannon’s lack of reaction.

  John shook his head, a confused expression etched on his face as he turned and walked away.

  Once John was inside the house, Bannon called Kayla back. He asked her to do a DMV search on John’s car, giving her the make, model, and license plate number.

  Less than five minutes later, Kayla returned his call. “Okay, here’s what I’ve got. We’ll start with the Charger. It’s registered to a John Pagliaro.”

  She gave him Pagliaro’s D.O.B and home address. It was in Southie, a mostly Irish section of Boston.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “That’s he’s scum, for starters. He’s got a rap sheet that could wallpaper the commandant’s office…twice.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Be quicker to tell what’s not here.” Bannon heard the clicking of computer keys over the open line. “Drug possession, public intoxication, resisting arrest, a couple of small time burglaries, assaults, robberies, two arsons, and that was just the sealed juvie records. When he hit the big time he was pinched for numerous assaults, more robberies, and a couple more burglaries before moving into gambling, gun-running, racketeering. A kidnapping, that earned him a five year stretch in Walpole.”

  The medium security state penitentiary in Massachusetts.

  “Let me guess, his known associates are a who’s who of the New England crime family.”

  “You win the Kewpie doll. How’d you know?”

  “The pattern of crimes, the escalation. He’s an enforcer for the New England syndicate.” Bannon didn’t have many dealings with the Boston crime family but he did know they operated two factions: one out of Providence, Rhode Island, the other from Boston.

  “And I just met him.”

  “What are you up against this time, Brice?”

  He detected the concern in her voice. He looked at the quiet house in the sleepy coastal neighborhood of Seabrook, New Hampshire. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “What did you find out about the woman and Tommy?”

  “Only that her first name is Betty.” He heard more computer tapping. “And that before a year ago, they didn’t exist.”

  “What do you mean?” Bannon glanced at the house.

  “Well, for one thing, the house is a rental property, owned by a third party. I traced ownership through three shell companies before hitting a digital brick wall. She signed a lease but it contains no prior address, no credit check, no references. It’s a dead end. The social security numbers have zero activity on them before a year ago. Zilch. For the kid that might make sense, maybe. But unless Betty never worked, never borrowed money, never opened a bank account, and never went to school, ever, I can’t explain it.”

  “So there’s nothing?”

  “Nada. No marriage certificates, no divorce decree, no birth certificate records, no medical records prior to their appearing in New Hampshire last year. I’m baffled.”

  “I’m not,” Bannon said as he noticed the curtain in the front window move. Had to be Pagliaro, seeing if he’d left yet. Bannon waved.

  “What do you think’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you all about tonight.”

  “What’s tonight?” Kayla asked.

  “When you join me for drinks at the Keel Haul. Free, remember?” Bannon smiled as he hung up and pushed off the fender of his truck. He looked forward to seeing Kayl
a again.

  Bannon climbed the stoop and raised his hand to knock on the door. He stopped when he heard voices shouting inside. They were muffled behind the thick door so he couldn’t make out what was being said, but the anger and the fear they conveyed came through loud and clear.

  He twisted the doorknob and was relieved when the door opened.

  Inside, ahead of him was a carpeted set of stairs to the second floor, a living room off to his left, and straight ahead, a hallway to the rear of the house.

  “Who is he, Betty? What does he want?” Pagliaro’s voice. Loud. And he sounded stressed.

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  Bannon reached the archway leading into the kitchen. It had a breakfast nook and French doors out to a deck and a lush, green backyard. He stood facing Pagliaro and Betty.

  He said, “Ask me.”

  Pagliaro had a hand tightly gripping Betty’s arm. She was recoiled, her back arched over the counter separating the kitchen from the table and chairs set up in the breakfast nook. Pagliaro’s right hand was curled into a tight fist, posed to strike.

  He swung his attention toward Bannon. “I thought I told you to get lost.”

  “You did. But I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re about to hurt this nice lady, I can’t let you do that.”

  “Is that so?”

  Bannon nodded. “Let her go.”

  “And if I don’t.”

  “You’ll regret it.”

  “Screw you.”

  Bannon crossed the space between archway and counter so fast Pagliaro barely had time to release his grip on Betty to face the threat coming at him like a freight train.

  Bannon drove his fist straight into the man’s face, rocking his head back like a bobble head doll. Blood dribbled out of his nose. He howled. Bannon hit him in the solar plexus and the thug doubled over making a sound like a tire springing a leak.

  Bannon pulled Pagliaro away from where Betty had retreated into the corner.

  The mob enforcer took a feeble swing at Bannon’s face, missed, and Bannon delivered a devastating roundhouse punch to the man’s jaw, causing him to spit blood.

  Not sure if Pagliaro would give up the fight, Bannon stepped closer.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Tommy stood at the doorway from the kitchen’s breakfast nook to the dining room. He stared at Bannon hovering over Pagliaro.

  Betty rushed to the boy. “It’s okay, baby.”

  Distracted by Tommy’s sudden arrival Bannon was slow to see the mobster yanked a nine-millimeter Glock from under his bowling shirt. He aimed the weapon not at Bannon, but at Betty and Tommy.

  “Get out!” Bannon shouted.

  He lunged and grabbed Pagliaro’s arm with both hands. He shoved his shoulder into the would-be assassin’s chest, slamming him into the refrigerator behind them.

  Betty shielded Tommy with her body and shoved him through the doorway into the dining room. The gun went off—the noise deafening in the enclosed space of the kitchen. Betty screamed. Tommy shouted, “Mom!”

  But the bullet had hit the door frame inches from where the two had been a split-second earlier, splintering the wood.

  Bannon slammed Pagliaro’s hand into the kitchen island countertop; once, twice, the third time his fingers sprang open, dislodging his grip on the gun. The Glock skidded across the counter then clattered to the floor out of reach.

  Bannon grabbed Pagliaro by the front of his bowling shirt, straightened him up, and pelted his face with punches until he was sure the thug had no fight left. Bannon let the bloodied, semi-conscious body slip to the floor.

  Without moving too far away from the moaning Pagliaro—in case he got a sudden, second wind—Bannon scooped the Glock up off the floor.

  He tucked the gun behind his belt at the small of his back. “You guys okay? It’s safe.”

  Hesitantly, Betty peeked around the corner of the doorway, her eyes drawn to the bullet hole in the wood. Then she stepped into the kitchen. Tommy followed, close behind her.

  “He had a gun,” Betty said, in a bit of a stupor. She stared down at Pagliaro slumped on the floor, his legs splayed out, his chin resting on his chest, blood staining his bowling shirt, his breathing low and raspy.

  “We should call the police,” Bannon said.

  “No.” Her head snapped up to stare at Bannon, her eyes wide. “No police.”

  “Then the Marshals Service. I assume you have a deputy marshal assigned.”

  Betty’s mouth dropped open. “You knew?”

  “I figured it out.” He explained what he’d learned about John Pagliaro. “It was pretty clear your identity had been compromised.”

  “He was here to kill me.” She pulled Tommy into a tight hug, still coming to grips with it. “To kill us.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I’m a waitress, in a diner in Exeter. He sat at my table one night. After that he kept coming back. He became a regular. We talked. He was nice.”

  Bannon nodded. “Sounds like a chance encounter but then somehow he recognized you. How long have you known him?”

  “About six months. Why now? Why not when we first met?”

  “It’s only a guess, but I’d say it took some time once he suspected who you were to verify he was right. Then more time to get the okay to proceed with…” Bannon glanced down at Pagliaro who’d stopped moving and was now gently snoring through his broken nose. “The mob doesn’t issue those sorts of orders lightly. Whoever you can hurt, they’re high up.”

  “They are and I can’t tell you who they are.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you too.”

  “In the meantime, how can I ever thank you, Mr. Bannon?”

  “By calling me Brice, please.”

  “Okay, Brice.”

  “It’d be nice to know your real names.”

  “Felicity.” She patted Tommy’s shoulder. “This is James.”

  “Jimmy, Mom. How many times do I gotta tell ya?”

  She tousled his hair, smiling. “Jimmy.”

  “And only if you’re comfortable, how did you land in WITSEC?”

  Felicity smiled weakly. “Seems only fair, seeing as how you risked your life to save ours. But, I won’t tell you names.”

  Bannon nodded. “I understand.”

  “Seven years ago, before Jimmy was even born, I worked in a club in Boston, in the Back Bay. I was a bartender. I witnessed a murder.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “And like an idiot I reported it. Told the police everything I saw.”

  “You identified the killer?”

  “Yup, victim too. Picked the murderer out of a lineup, the whole nine years. I did my civic duty. The worst mistake of my life because the case went nowhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was no body. By the time the police arrived at the scene, the body was gone. All these years it never turned up. The victim remained a missing person even though I told the police what I saw, who’d been killed and who did it, right in front of my eyes. But the prosecutors, they said without a body they had no case.”

  She shook her head and wiped at the tears that tracked down her face.

  “All these years I’ve lived with the knowledge, the fear, that the Office—that’s what the mob’s called here, I have no idea why—knew I’d identified one of their guys as a murderer. All these years I’ve worried they’d retaliate, come after me and kill me, kill my family for opening my big damn mouth.”

  “But they didn’t until now. What changed?”

  “The body. They found it. During the demolition of some old factory building in Providence, Rhode Island, they dug up the concrete floor in the basement and found remains. The police tested it, confirmed it was the victim I told them about years earlier and now the District Attorney’s got a case. The Marshals grabbed me,” she gave Jimmy a hug, “us and so, here we are while they put their case together.”

  Bannon smiled. “Well, you’re safe now, thanks to Jimmy
. He sensed something was wrong and he paid attention to his instincts. He’s the hero here today.”

  Jimmy shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

  “Again, I don’t know how to repay you. The stipend the government gives me doesn’t…”

  Bannon held up a hand. “There’s no need. The bill’s been paid. In full.” He winked at Jimmy. To Felicity, he said, “Call your case officer. I’ll stay until they arrive.”

  She got up and walked into the other room to make her call. Jimmy walked over to Bannon. The two of them looked down at Pagliaro still on the floor, the fight still out of him.

  Bannon eyed a cookie jar on the counter. With a mischievously raised eyebrow, he asked, “Think your mom would mind?”

  Jimmy grinned. “Nope.”

  He dug out two cookies and handed one to Bannon: homemade chocolate chip. They touched their cookies like they were clinking glasses for a toast. They ate.

  Bannon chewed, savoring every bite. “That is one good chocolate chip cookie.”

  Jimmy nodded. “The best.”

  ###

  BLOOD IN THE WATER

  BENTON WALSH LEANED against the weather worn upright of the wide wraparound porch of the Oceanic Hotel. He crossed his ankles. A bottle of Sam Adams summer ale hung loosely from between his fingers. Condensation dripped off the cold wet glass. The Oceanic occupied an atoll on Star Island, seven miles off the Maine and New Hampshire coastline, one of a grouping of islands called the Isles of Shoals.

  He stared westward over a meadow of lush green seagrass and the calm water between Star Island and the New Hampshire seacoast. The late afternoon sun, a burnt orange orb, dipped slowly below the horizon. It colored the ribbon of purple clouds stretched low across the sky in shades of pink, maroon, and blood red.

  A good sign, Walsh thought, remembering the old adage: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.

  With the gathering dusk, the pleasant salty sea breeze, so welcome during the high heat of the summer day, had turned chilly. Walsh wore white denim jeans and boat shoes but the short sleeve polo shirt would soon prove inadequate for the cool New England night.

  Just as well.

  Retiring early and getting a good night’s sleep fit right into his plans. He needed to be up and out before dawn’s first light anyway. Not that the Oceanic or Star Island offered much in the way of a night life. The island was closed to the general public. The only people there at night were the staff—mostly college students—and invited guests for whatever conferences and scientific or educational endeavors were being sponsored by the island’s controlling interest: the Star Island Corporation.