A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [6]
Dillon had a replica of Holley’s Colt in a holder on his right ankle. He drew it now, ran to the entrance and fired at Murphy, who was trying to open the door of a green Lincoln. Murphy fired back wildly, then turned, ran across the road and up the stone steps leading to the walkway, the East River lapping below it. At the top, he hesitated, unsure of which way to go, turned, and found Dillon closing in, Holley behind.
“No way out, Patrick. So have you told me the truth or not?”
“Damn you,” Murphy called, half blinded by the heavy rain, and tried to take aim.
Dillon shot him twice in the heart, twisting him around, his third shot driving him over the low rail into the river. He reached the rail in time to see Murphy surface once, then roll over and disappear in the fast-running current.
Holley moved up to join him. “What was all that about? Sometimes you play games too much, Sean.”
“Sure, and all I wanted was to make sure he was telling the truth. He’d lied at first—isn’t that a fact?”
“So is the name really Jack Kelly?”
“We’ll see, but for now, it’s time for the joys of the Plaza and our first meeting with the intriguing Captain Sara Gideon.”
“Definitely something to look forward to,” Holley said, and followed him down the steps.
At the same time they were driving away in their delivery truck, Patrick Murphy, choking and gasping, was swept under a pier two hundred yards away downstream. He drifted through the pilings, banged into stone steps with a railing, hauled himself out, and paused at the top, where there was a roofed shelter with a bench.
He sat down, shivering with cold, pulled off his soaking jacket, then his shirt. The bulletproof vest he’d been wearing was the best on the market, even against hollow points. He ripped open the Velcro tabs, tossed the rest down into the river with his shirt, struggled back into his jacket, and walked through the rain to the warehouse.
He expected Dillon and Holley to be long gone and went straight inside and up to his office. He peeled off his jacket, pulled on an old sweater that was hanging behind the door, then lifted the carpet in the corner, revealing a floor safe, opened it, and removed a linen bag containing his mad money, twenty grand in large bills. He got a valise from the cupboard, put the money into it, and sat there thinking about the situation.
He had to get away for a while, the kind of place where he’d be swallowed up by the crowds. Vegas would be good, but he needed to cover his back, just in case he wanted to return to New York. He rang a number and, when a man replied, said, “I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Mr. Cagney.”
“And what would that be?”
“You sent me a nice piece of business. The man from Ulster, Michael Flynn.”
“What’s happened?”
“I had a client calling himself Grimshaw. He said he was seeking a consignment of weaponry, but the truth was he wanted information about the Amity and who’d been behind it.”
“And did you tell him about Michael Flynn?”
“Of course I did. He and another man with him killed Ivan and threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t tell them. Anyway, your client’s name isn’t Flynn, it’s Jack Kelly. He got careless using my phone one night.”
“How unfortunate. Have you any idea who these people are?”
“One posed as an NYPD officer, had an Ulster accent, and was called Dillon. The other was English, named Holley.”
“They seem to have been rather careless with their names.”
“That’s because I was supposed to end up dead, which I nearly was. Look, they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA. I thought your client, Flynn or Kelly or whatever his name is, should know about that.”
Cagney said, “I appreciate your warning, Patrick. What do you intend to do now?”
“Get