Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

not to take offense to that, but ever since becoming a Marine, it was the one constant in his life. The one thing he took pride in every day. He even kept his hair the same high and tight style he'd had when he was in the Corps. He was still a Marine. Always would be. And there was no way to look like anything but. Even as he stood ten feet away in his navy-blue suit.

The other three team members were staggered at various intervals outside the small, invitation-only venue. One of the men had been assigned to check everybody's ID on the way in. McLaughlin scoffed at this. He didn't want his high-society friends being checked like they were being carded by a bouncer at a nightclub. Hodges held his ground and was surprised when his boss finally relented.

He wasn't letting anyone into a closed space with his principal without verifying that they were supposed to be there. If the people he rubbed shoulders with couldn't understand that simple piece of the security puzzle after four bombs had been detonated within the city, then they didn't need to be there, as far as Hodges was concerned. The whole thing was preposterous. He told his boss that he should be lying low until the bomber was caught, but McLaughlin blatantly disregarded him. Hodges backed down when an underhanded comment hinted toward termination.

The timeline adjustment was better than nothing, an indication that McLaughlin had listened to at least something Hodges had said. But with the sidebar conversation he was currently engaged in, the difference was quickly being lost. Hodges built on his boss's decision to shorten his speech by readying a car to pick them up. He could have it here within a matter of seconds, though McLaughlin had shut down the idea of leaving the city by car before Hodges had even completed the sentence. There was no changing his mind.

McLaughlin walked up. The fake smile dissolved from his face. "Are we ready to go?" The politician tucked away his Irish brogue when in public, and it always caught Hodges by surprise when he jumped back into it.

"Mr. McLaughlin, I just got off the phone with Agent Langston."

"What did that prick want? Let me guess…he wants us to take a detour."

"He wants us to stay put. They're sending units our way."

"Did you mention to him I adjusted the timeline?"

"They still don't like it. The train has too many opportunities for compromise. Every one of those station stops is a potential kill zone. And I agree with them."

"I'm not bending my knee to the FBI." McLaughlin leaned in close, and Hodges could smell the old coffee on his breath. "I'm getting on that train. And if you want to keep your job, then you better damn well be right beside me when I board." McLaughlin stepped back. "Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Hodges?"

"No, sir. I'll do my best to keep you safe." Hodges didn't hesitate. He never hesitated. Not when it counted.

Hodges didn't like having to be forced to make the decision, but in some weird way, he understood McLaughlin's twisted rationale. Men who led from the front sometimes did so at their own peril. McLaughlin's slogan, Breathe in the New Boston, would start to ring false if he backed it by driving around the city in a gas-guzzling SUV. When every little thing was nitpicked by a perpetually hungry media monster and analyzed under a microscope, McLaughlin needed to be absolutely perfect if he had any chance of winning.

Deep down, putting all differences aside, Hodges respected McLaughlin and his strength of leadership. During his time in the military, Hodges witnessed the fallout from weak leadership. Although he didn't agree with McLaughlin from a tactical standpoint, his decision made total sense from a leadership one.

Hodges's right hand brushed the SIG 226 neatly tucked against his hip. He would do his best to keep McLaughlin alive, and hoped his best would be good enough.

Hodges visually cleared their path as McLaughlin set a quick pace toward the subway station, leaving Harvard Square behind.

27

The train screeched along the rails as it approached the station. There was a whirl of commotion as the other commuters readied themselves to hop on board when the doors slid open. Everybody except Derek Swanson.

Swanson sat on the ground next to a heating grate and leaned against the cold tile wall behind him. Winter's coming cold was evident in the endless push of tunnel air piercing his coat. Swanson was already weary of winter, and it hadn't even arrived. He liked the summer months. Being homeless was always better in the summer. Sure, all the other things were still a problem—getting food, clothes, booze, or a fix. There was nothing seasonal about those issues. But temperature mattered. In the warmer months, Swanson was always able to find a shady place to cool off, whether under a tree or beside a building. Fighting the New England cold without shelter was like skinny dipping in a frozen lake.

He'd done the opposite of what most homeless do. Swanson's migration had taken him from sunny Florida to Boston. But that was the way his mind worked. Swanson pictured his life in reverse, like he was working toward something better by reversing all the awful things that had led him to his current state.

But in the three years that he'd been living on the streets, he hadn't quite found his way to a better future. In fact, all he'd found was a better subway station to hunker down in and call home. Swanson chose this station because it was warmer than some of the others. The grates here felt better. It was a central hub, a dividing line for both Orange and Red Line traffic on the T. And there were multiple access and entry points to the Downtown Crossing subway station, which meant more people to shower him with their nickel and dime pity payments.

Swanson also loved being under