Deadly Conception
By
Patrick Blake
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE: June 26 – 4 am (Boston)
Chapter 1 – Saturday, July 21 (Martha’s Vineyard)
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 – New York City
Chapter 4 – Sunday, July 22 (Boston)
Chapter 5 – New York City
Chapter 6 – Boston
Chapter 7 – Monday, July 23 (Boston)
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10 – Wednesday, July 25 (New York City)
Chapter 11 – Friday, July 27 (Metropolitan DC)
Chapter 12
Chapter 13 – New York City
Chapter 14 – Monday, July 30 (New York City)
Chapter 15 – Boston
Chapter 16 –Tuesday, July 30
Chapter 17 – Monday, August 6
Chapter 18 – Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo
Chapter 19 – Boston
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24 – Tuesday, August 7
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31 – Tuesday, August 7 (Boston)
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44 – Wednesday, August 8 (Boston)
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48 – Wednesday, August 8 (Metropolitan DC)
Chapter 49 – Thursday, August 9 (Boston)
Chapter 50
Chapter 51 – Friday, August 10 (Metropolitan DC)
Chapter 52 – Boston
Chapter 53 – Metropolitan DC
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59 – Boston
Chapter 60 – Saturday, August 11 (Great Falls, VA)
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63 – New Jersey Turnpike
Chapter 64 – New York City
Chapter 65 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 66 – New York City
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73 – Reston, VA
Chapter 74 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 75 – Sterling, VA
Chapter 76 – New York City
Chapter 77 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 78
Chapter 79 – Crystal City, VA
Chapter 80 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83 – Sunday, August 12 (McLean, VA)
Chapter 84 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 85 – Tysons Corner, VA
Chapter 86 – Great Falls, VA
Chapter 87 – Culpeper, VA
Chapter 88
Chapter 89 – Cayman Islands
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94 – Airborne
Chapter 95
Chapter 96 – Teaneck, NJ
Chapter 97 – Ridgewood, NJ
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103 – Tuesday, August 14 (Boston)
Chapter 104 – Metropolitan DC
Chapter 105 – Boston
Chapter 106 – Wednesday, August 15 (Boston)
Epilogue – Thursday, August 17 (Kinshasa, Congo and New Jersey)
About the Author
Deadly Conception ©2020 Blueline Communications, LLC
Copyright notice: All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at “Attention: Permissions” at the address below.
This is a fictional work. Names, places, characters, incidents, products, and activities depicted are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, products, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Deadly Conception © January 2020
Blueline Communications, LLC
www.authorpatrickblake.com
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my fantastic editor, Victoria Hodge, for her exceptional patience, guidance, and cheerleading throughout the process. Special thanks to Maria, Nate, Roger, Pablo, Quinn and Feryal for their encouragement along the way.
PROLOGUE: June 26 – 4 am (Boston)
“Mary, Mother of God, I hate this. Just one more trip through this miserable frigging tunnel of dirt, piss, and sweat and I can get my money and never look at this hole again.”
Mason “Lefty” Glynn was exhausted. The sinewy teenage “tunnel-man” had spent the last 59 consecutive days digging a narrow underground passageway between a construction site and a bank across the street. Digging out dirt while lying on his belly made his muscles ache. After helping to fill nearly two thousand 25-pound loads of earth in the confining crawl space, the young teen was unsurprisingly moody and irritable. Breathing concrete dust produced by the pneumatic impact hammer-drill triggered agonizing headaches and spinning-dizziness.
The worst part was the emotional exhaustion.
Mason fought off daily panic attacks sparked whenever passing trucks on the surface roads shuddered dirt loose in the dim tunnel. Crawling around in the same filthy, urine-soaked coveralls brought on multiple bouts of depression and anxiety. And the seemingly endless days of near isolation pushed Mason to the edge of paranoia and psychosis.
But things were looking up.
For the last 24 hours he and three other tunnellers dragged 22-pound duffle bags of cash from the bank vault to his accomplices at the other end. Now he was slowly hauling the last of nearly 110 sacks of cash.
Each duffle held roughly one hundred snuggly packed stacks of US currency. Each stack contained a hundred bills. Every bill bore the portrait of Benjamin Franklin.
“A cool million in every bag. A hundred plus duffels. More than a 100 million mothafuckin’ dollars. Damn!”
Mason dug his elbows into the dirt floor, left then right then left, over and over, lurching forward another 24 inches at a time, feeling the tow rope tug around his waist and the tense line between his legs pull at the heavy load a few feet behind him, resisting the effort like a reluctant dog.
“C’mon, Lefty. Move your skinny ass. It’s almost goddamn daylight,” pressured Liam “LiLo” Lohan, one of the three other tunnellers.
Mason, LiLo, and the two others were buddies from the same tough Dorchester neighborhood. Coarse talk, rowdy behavior, and living-on-the-edge of the law was the norm in and around the Franklin Hill Apartments on Shandon Road where they all lived. Mason, the youngest, was a few months shy of turning 15. The others were not much older.
“Piss off, LiLo. I’m goin’ as fast as I
can.”
And he was going fast. Just a few months ago his life of poverty, petty crime, and little-to-no education seemed bleak and endless. But now he was part of bank heist that would get him a quarter million in cash, more money than he could imagine. Money, he wished he could share with his father.
“The old man would be proud, God rest his soul,” Mason murmured prayer-like, worming his way through the steamy tunnel, scratching up his already bloody elbows.
Mason’s father was Donovan “Caveman” Glynn, a highly skilled construction worker who spent nearly a decade working the Big Dig project, rerouting a section of Boston’s I-93 into a new 1.5-mile tunnel. But when the project ended, the elder Glynn’s specialized skills in tunneling were reduced to father-to-son training sessions. Proud, stubborn, and routinely in-and-out of work, Donovan was increasingly distracted by Redbreast Irish Whiskey when he could afford it, or Paddy’s when he could not. Quick-tempered from birth, Donovan’s anger flashed easily, and more frequently when he was on the bar stool. Soon enough, the one-time master tunnel-man ran up multiple drunk-and-disorderly arrests, a few prosecutions for assault, and a pair of convictions for trying to sell off stolen construction equipment.
Old Man Donovan died six weeks ago, falling off a skyscraper under construction, plunging 25 floors to his death. The toxicology report revealed Donovan had a blood alcohol concentration of .24, nearly triple the legal limit.
“Here’s to you, Pop,” Mason whispered inside the stagnant, muggy, dimly lit passageway. “Thanks for teaching me how to tunnel, and for showing me that working for the Man gets you nowhere. Well, that shit ain’t happenin’ to me.”
Dirty, sweaty, bone-tired, and nearly brain-dead, Mason emerged from the tunnel managing a broad smile as his accomplices helped him up and out of the narrow shaft, pulling out the cash-laden duffle, too.
Nino Paolucci, the beefy ‘foreman’ for the job, watched the young, dirty Mason emerge from the tunnel and yelled. “Okay, fellas, wipe it all down, and clean it all out like we planned. Talk to no one. Stick to the plan. Let’s go.”
Nino was twice the age of these Southie toughs, and doubly hard. He grew up in Boston’s North End when the mostly-Italian neighborhood was controlled by organized crime bosses and cops on the take. He was street-wise before he could spell his last name and he didn’t take crap off anyone. Even now, with a hundred million in cash loaded on a truck, he was all business.
“Mason!” he yelled.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Nice fuckin’ work you little shit. Remember to keep your fuckin’ smart-ass mouth shut. And that goes for your little fag friends, too. Got it?” Nino couldn’t help cracking a smile. But he meant what he said.
“Thanks, Nino. I got it.” Mason grinned. “Next time let’s put a toilet in the tunnel, you cheap bastard.”
“There is no next time, punk. Now get busy.”
“Okay, boss, okay. You got nutin’ to worry about. Relax.”
Mason pivoted toward his buddies. “Let’s go, fellas. Let’s clean it up and get outta here.”
He worked with Lilo, bagging up rags, dirty clothes, gloves, and anything else they needed to trash.
“I don’t know how you put up with that jackass, Lefty.”
“He’s just doin’ his job, Lilo. I don’t let him get under my skin.”
“I guess. He’s still a horse’s ass.”
“No doubt.” Mason smiled, and stuffed another black, plastic trash bag full with half a dozen ratty, soiled coveralls.
“Whatcha gonna do with your cut?”
“Dunno. Sit tight for now. I sure as hell don’t wanna dig tunnels. Ever again. You?”
“No way I’m going down a hole again. If I had my way, I’d be on an island…fishin’ everyday…sunshine and cold beer.”
“Yea, yea. Okay Ma. I’ll keep my shirt tucked in and my hair combed,” Lilo teased.
“…and go to church every Sunday, right?” Mason mocked.
“Yea, right. If I went to church, I think Father O’Konsky would call the cops.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot you got caught with Easy Evey in the confessional last Easter.”
“Yup. On Good Friday to be exact. I have no regrets about that. None whatsoever. Zero.”
“O’Konsky nearly put you through a wall. That wasn’t a very good hide out, Lilo. Kinda dumb, actually.”
“Yeah. Well. I wasn’t really thinking about that. I was, you know, distracted.”
“No shit. Straight up, though. Don’t screw it up with Nino. He won’t put you through a wall…he’ll put you in the ground.”
“Jeez, Lefty. Lighten up. I already got one mother ridin’ my ass. I don’t need you pilin’ on. Dude gotta live, my man, dude gotta live.”
Mason rolled his eyes, and the pair finished the cleanup and wipe down.
***
June 26 – 3 pm (Democratic Republic of the Congo)
Lucien Smeets, a 78-year old Belgian expat living in Kinshasa, Congo, was enjoying his late afternoon tea in the climate-controlled sunroom of his expansive estate when his smartphone chimed an incoming alert. The wealthy mining industrialist eagerly read the online news item.
BostonGlobe.com: Authorities are reporting a major bank robbery at The Beacon Hill Bank this morning. Officials have not returned requests for information, but unconfirmed reports speculate more than $100 million in cash was stolen, making the theft one of the world’s largest.
The Beacon Hill Bank is located at 15 Sudbury Street, Boston. The 35-story tower office contains the 11th largest commercial bank vault in the U.S. The huge safe is nearly 50 feet below the surface and is roughly the size of a basketball court measuring eight feet high, 100 feet long, and 50 feet wide.
Federal, state, and local law enforcement investigators are on the scene, blocking off the bank and the Bulfinch Crossing construction site across the street.
Unconfirmed reports and anonymous sources say the criminals leased a nearby portion of the Bulfinch Crossing construction site under the guise of a landscaping and excavation company. The thieves allegedly tunneled to a position under the bank vault.
Investigators have cordoned off a two-block perimeter around the bank and shut down construction of the two 45-story buildings at Bulfinch Crossing.
The old man smiled and immediately placed a call.
“Good morning, doctor.” Smeets was cheery. “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes. It’s fantastic.”
“It is.”
Chapter 1 – Saturday, July 21 (Martha’s Vineyard)
The Jaws bridge on the border between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown Martha's Vineyard along Beach Road was notorious for two reasons. It was the location of a famous shark attack filmed for the 1975 movie “Jaws” directed by Steven Spielberg. Before the movie release, the bridge was called the “jumping bridge” because it was where summer vacationers came and leaped off into the deep, cool channel water 15-to-20 feet below, ignoring the “No jumping or diving” posted sign.
Sixteen-year-old LiLo Lohan leaned against the wet, sandy railing at the center of the bridge, and warmed his narrow, tattooed shoulders in the sun. He had jumped off this bridge once a year since he was six years old, but only as a day tripper. It was different this time.
What a week, he thought. Seven whole days of sun, fishin’, and no friggin’ tunnels. I like what money can buy…a lot.
He smiled and watched the familiar bridge scene. School kids nervously and brazenly plummeted into the channel that separated the Sengekontacket Pond and the Nantucket Sound.
One of the squealing teens was a smokin’ dime named Iona. He’d just met her, and she was making her way toward him.
“Hey, Lilo, you gonna stand there all day? C’mon, let’s jump.” Iona climbed up the railing and then reached down giving a hand to another new bridge-friend, Carl.
“
Slow down, Iona. Damn,” the fifteen-year-old Carl smiled, and ascended the barrier. “I’m gonna do a front flip this time.”
Carl’s competitive younger brother, Ron, stepped up and boasted something bolder. “Big deal. I’m doin’ a back flip.”
The three teens lined up on the rail edge and turned to Lilo.
“C’mon, Lilo. Get up here,” Iona pressed.
“Let’s push off at the count of three,” urged Carl.
“Hurry up, Lilo,” Ron added.
“Awright…awright…keep yer friggin’ shirts on,” Lilo grinned and sprang up onto the top rail next to Iona with a wink. “Hey cutie. I’m thinkin’ cannonball. You?”
“I dunno. Hey, look. It’s my Pop,” Iona waved toward her father and called out. “Hey! Papa! Wanna jump with us?”
“Uh…maybe,” replied Gabriel Sweeney, a divorced 40-something New York City PR pro. He swept back his wet, dirty-blonde hair and leaned over the damp, gritty rail, stretching his broad, once-athletic, shoulders and arms.
“C’mon, Pop. Don’t be a chicken. You’re still in shape. I know you can do it. Let’s do swan dives.”
“Um, okay,” Gabriel tentatively agreed and smiled. “Who are your friends?” he asked as he climbed up and stood next to Liam.
“That’s Lilo,” she giggled. “He’s from Boston. And Carl and Ron are over here. Hey guys…this is my dad. Mr. Sweeney.”
Carl and Ron waved. Lilo extended his hand. “Please ta meechya. Mr. Sweeney. Pretty cool…you doin’ a swan dive and all. You sure about that? Diving off this bridge is dangerous.”
Gabriel laughed and shot back, “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Don’t wuss out, Pop!”
“I’m with you, sweetie.” Gabriel’s toes hung over the slippery, narrow top rail. He rocked back a bit, pushed by a gust. “One of these days, I’m going to do a flip off this damn bridge.”
“You say that every summer, Pop. C’mon now. On three.”
He looked over to Iona, winked, and counted down from three. All five launched in unison.
Lilo pulled his knees to his chest for the cannonball. Carl somersaulted. Ron arched backward into a back flip. Gabriel and Iona pushed outward, spreading arms wide, arching heads back, and angling their bodies at 45 degrees to the water.
Free fall…for barely a second. It felt like more to Gabriel.