Free Patriots & Tyrants by Ian Graham Page A

eyes to adjust. Once they had, he couldn't see or hear anything that looked like a threat. He tried the door latch and to his astonishment it wasn't locked. Gently, he pulled, hoping the metal hinges had enough moisture left to avoid making loud as he opened the door. Natural light from the full moon stabbed the darkness and revealed a small machine room. The floors were covered with dust and it was obvious it had been a long time since anyone had passed this way. An aged and sloppily greased air compressor occupied the room next to the exit, which lacked a door. Pulling the outside door closed behind him and returning the room to darkness, Declan stayed low and button hooked into the doorway leading out of the machine room, clearing the room ahead of any threats.
    The warehouse opened in front of him, yellow moonlight piercing the darkness from the few dingy windows that hadn't been boarded up. The air was damp, the smell of mildew and rot invading his nostrils. Looking up, he saw that the second and third floors consisted only of wide catwalks with a large rectangular opening in the center overlooking the first floor. While the building had appeared to be six stories from the outside, on the inside it was only three floors with tall ceilings designed to allow the free movement of whatever freight the warehouse was to hold. Looking through the open ceiling he could see the second floor was filled with crates, some of them he recognized as ones he'd helped unload from the Revenge in recent days. Parked just inside a two car garage door along the warehouse's street entrance was O'Rourke's pride and joy, a late model Lotus Espirit, half covered by a canvas tarp. Declan laughed silently as he caught a view of the vehicle's license plate from a dim bulb that hung from the ceiling,
Luk E 1.
That was a lie if ever he'd heard one, in the last month alone O'Rourke had probably lost more money betting on horses than Declan had ever seen in one place at one time.
    Moving further in he saw a forklift parked in front of a freight elevator along the rear wall. Next to the elevator, a rusted metal staircase lead up, switch backing several times as it climbed to higher floors. At the base of the staircase, he paused and listened for voices. Hearing none, he took the stairs slowly, inching up two at a time and being careful to make as little noise as possible. At the second floor, he button hooked into another doorway with his pistol aimed, finding nothing but dusty crates.
    Suddenly the sound of the first floor garage door opening drew his attention and he bolted out of the doorway into a small alcove created by double stacked crates. Overlooking the first floor, he watched a silver Mercedes enter. The garage door closed behind the vehicle and its driver sounded the horn in three short bursts as an apparent signal to the buildings occupants.
    "Hey! He's here!" Declan heard a voice echo from the third floor, he was pretty sure it was the voice of Cameron Kelly, but with the echo, he couldn't be certain.
    The Mercedes' engine turned off and the driver's door opened. An older man with white hair and a goatee stepped out. Wearing a tan trench coat over a three piece suit, the man's appearance screamed mobster. As he passed under the dim bulb in front his vehicle Declan got a full view of his face and recognized him as Richie Sheehan, a boss in the local dockworkers union and one of the men O'Rourke often made contact with. What exactly Sheehan's position was in the mob, Declan wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find out Sheehan was involved in Abaddon Kafni's assassination. The man's blood ran in shades of gray and green and Declan was sure that if you looked close enough dollar signs could be seen in the pupils of his eyes. His attention shifted as a man appeared on the third floor balcony. Even in the low light, he recognized the bulbous frame of Ethan Boyle. In a thick Boston accented voice Boyle announced