The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

able to see in. If we're wrong and we just walked up on a regular old mob hit, we've got to stop your friend before he pulls the trigger. Otherwise, he's going to be looking at a heavy sentence. Nothing either of us will be able to do to help with that."

It was like Gray had read his mind. Here he was, a fed, out of his area, but somehow he understood the level of connection Kelly had with McDonough. It must have been the military in him. He understood brotherhood at the take-a-bullet-for-a-friend level. And Kelly was impressed Gray was at least willing to help stop his friend before he did something stupid and irreversible.

The two pushed themselves up, using the fireplace for balance as their feet slipped on the iced-over patio slab.

McDonough stepped closer, disappearing behind a shed protruding from the back corner of the house.

Kelly and Gray were now moving quickly, or as quickly as they could while trying to maintain noise discipline over the crunch of each step. Both withdrew their duty weapons, keeping them low.

Kelly didn't like the thought of having to point a gun at his best friend, but it wouldn't be the first time the two had been in a standoff together. The last time, Bobby McDonough had pulled the trigger to save Kelly’s life. Even though Kelly had worked hard in the aftermath to conceal his friend's involvement, a life debt is one that is never truly repaid, and Kelly knew that. Now, here he was, sneaking up on his friend with a federal agent on his heels. Not the debt repayment he intended.

At the invisible, fenceless border between the yards, they tucked in behind the twisted trunk of a maple tree and peered out from alternate sides.

Kelly had an angle from which he could see McDonough, who was hunched over at the door, working to disable the locking mechanism. Watching him pick the lock, Kelly wondered how many other skills his friend had accumulated over the years of service to one of Boston’s most notorious.

"It looks like he's picking his way in," Kelly whispered. “When do you want to move in?”

"You got eyes on the door?” Gray asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, let him get it open. Maybe we'll get a look at our guy."

There it was again. Kelly heard it in Gray's voice. The hunt was on, and Gray could taste how close he was. He was willing to forgo stopping this crime in progress for the chance of seeing The Penitent One’s face.

A second later, McDonough stood erect.

"I think he's got it," Kelly said.

McDonough peered through the window of the back door. Kelly could see his friend's hands were gloved, obviously the work of a seasoned professional.

"He's in," Kelly relayed, watching his friend disappear through the open door.

McDonough left it open a crack. Most likely to make for a quick and easy egress should the need arise.

Kelly and Gray left the cover of their tree trunk, making a hasty crossing of the short distance between the two yards.

They slowed as they neared the door, guns up. No sign of McDonough. Each closed in on the door, Kelly peeling to the left side and Gray to the right.

Kelly nodded at Gray, who nudged the door open wider without making a sound.

Kelly stepped into the opening quickly, filling the void—the fatal funnel, as it was known in tactical circles—and entering the home of the unknown person. Gray was tight on his six.

They were in an indoor/outdoor hallway separating a two-car garage from the house. It was basically an elongated mud room but unlike any Kelly had seen. It was immaculate. The floor was spotless, except for what the intruders tracked in.

A door ahead and to the left led to the house. Still no sign of McDonough.

Kelly took the lead as the two closed the distance to the door. It was open and ajar. Kelly stopped at the frame. Gray stacked up behind him.

Gray tapped Kelly on his shoulder, indicating he was ready to move. Kelly pushed the door wider and visually cleared what he could.

Kelly stepped into the kitchen. Light flooded through a window above the stainless-steel sink. The kitchen had a U-shaped layout with a large marble-covered island in the center. McDonough was nowhere in sight. Kelly moved in slowly. He heard something in the hallway and ducked behind the island, Gray wedging in beside him. Footsteps, those of somebody attempting to step lightly but failing miserably, could be heard approaching from the front hallway.

The footsteps grew louder. Whoever was making them had just entered the kitchen area. Kelly heard the transition of sound from the hardwood to the kitchen tile.

Kelly coiled like a rattler ready to strike. Gray gave the ready tap, just as he did in the hallway.

Kelly took two quick breaths and a slow exhale, preparing himself, then sprang upward with his department-issued Glock pointing toward the sound.

Gray moved in synchrony with Kelly as he stood.

McDonough had his hands on a doorknob, his gun tight to his ribs but pointed out toward the closed cellar door. He spun on his heels, now facing Kelly and Gray. The silenced pistol followed his body’s turn and was now directed at them, McDonough’s left hand still clinging to the doorknob.

Kelly felt sick. He was looking at his best friend down the sights of his gun. The silence that followed could have been measured in milliseconds but to Kelly felt like an eternity. Not a word was spoken. No commands were given by either side.

McDonough released his grip on the door and slowly moved his hand toward his face. He pressed his index finger to his lips, signaling them to be quiet, and then shot a glance at the closed door to his left.

Kelly reached out with his left hand, silently pleading with his friend to lower his weapon. McDonough did, but just slightly. Kelly could see the tension in Bobby’s face.

Neither Kelly nor Gray lowered their weapons.

"Get your friend under control," Gray whispered.

"I'm trying,"