Gone for Good by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online

McGuane?"
    McGuane turned to his companion. Fred Tanner was huge, the approximate size and consistency of a city brownstone. His hands were manhole covers with sausagelike fingers. His gaze was one of supreme confidence. Old school, Tanner was still with his shellac-shiny suit and the ostentatious pinky ring. Tanner always wore the ring, a garish, oversize gold thing, twisting and toying with it whenever he spoke.
    "I'm fine," McGuane lied.
    The limousine exited Route 22 at Parker Avenue. Tanner kept fiddling with the pinky ring. He was fifty, a decade and a half older than his boss. His face was a weathered monument of harsh planes and right angles. His hair was meticulously mowed into a severe crew cut. McGuane knew that Tanner was very good a cold, disciplined and lethal son of a bitch for whom mercy was about as relevant a concept as feng shui. Tanner was adept at using those huge hands or a potpourri of firearms. He had gone up against some of the crudest and had always come out on top.
    But this, McGuane knew, was taking it to a whole new level.
    "Who is this guy anyway?" Tanner asked.
    McGuane shook his head. His own suit was a hand-tailored Joseph Abboud. He rented three floors on Manhattan 's lower west side. In another era, McGuane might have been called a consigliore or capo or some such nonsense. But that was then, this is now. Gone (long gone, despite what Hollywood might want you to believe) were the days of backroom hangouts and velour sweats days Tanner undoubtedly still longed for. Now you had offices and a secretary and a computer-generated payroll. You paid taxes. You owned legit businesses.
    But you were no better.
    "And why we driving way out here anyway?" Tanner went on. "He should come to you, no?"
    McGuane didn't reply. Tanner wouldn't understand.
    If the Ghost wants to meet, you meet.
    Didn't matter who you were. To refuse would mean that the Ghost would come to you. McGuane had excellent security. He had good people. But the Ghost was better. He had patience. He would study you. He would wait for an opening. And then he would find you. Alone. You knew that.
    No, better to get it over with. Better to go to him.
    A block away from the cemetery, the limousine pulled to a stop.
    "You understand what I want," McGuane said.
    "I got a man in place already. It's taken care of."
    "Don't take him out unless you see my signal."
    "Right, yeah. We've gone over this."
    "Don't underestimate him."
    Tanner gripped the door handle. Sunlight glistened off the pinky ring. "No offense, Mr. McGuane, but he's just some guy, right? Bleeds red like the rest of us?"
    McGuane was not so sure.
    Tanner stepped out, moving gracefully for a man carrying such bulk. McGuane sat back and downed a long swig of scotch. He was one of the most powerful men in New York. You don't get there you don't reach that pinnacle without being a cunning and ruthless bastard. You show weakness, you're dead. You limp, you die. Simple as that.
    And most of all, you never back down.
    McGuane knew all that knew it as well as anyone but right now, more than anything, he wanted to run away. Just pack what he could and simply disappear.
    Like his old friend Ken.
    McGuane met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath and nodded. The car started moving again. They turned left and slid past the gates of Wellington Cemetery. Tires crunched loose gravel. McGuane told the driver to stop. The driver obeyed. McGuane stepped out and moved to the front of the car.
    "I'll call you when I need you."
    The driver nodded and pulled out.
    McGuane was alone.
    He pulled up his collar. His gaze swept over the graveyard. No movement. He wondered where Tanner and his man had hidden themselves. Probably closer to the meet site. In a tree or behind a shrub. If they were doing it right, McGuane would never see them.
    The sky was clear. The wind whipped him like a reaper's scythe. He hunched his shoulders. The traffic sounds from Route 22. spilled up over sound