MacJames delicately touched his triceps on his extended left arm. She ran her finger in the V of the muscle and slowly up his neck. She then stroked his bicep of his right arm, the mass of muscle with its center vein protruding from the rest of the mass. She ran her fingers through his hair, amazed at how grey it had become since Ann’s death. She remembered studying his features as he slept in Quantico. She was pleased with the big man’s delicate features, his perfect ears and long eyelashes. Now his body was more toned, bandaged, and poised to box. He looked like a man who had fought for his life the last three weeks. He continued to fight, grinding his teeth, clenching his fists as he slept. There was no break from the Mitchelli Mind Kill. The Marauder was ready to fight in his sleep.
MacJames whispered to herself, “Baby, are you fighting in your sleep?” My god is he having a nightmare. He stopped grinding his teeth.
Mitchelli’s body relaxed. He pushed his left arm under MacJames and pulled her close to him. His head came to rest on her chest and she gently stroked his hair. “Peter, why don’t you stay in bed today and rest? I’ll make you lunch, you need to be eating more.” Mitchelli did not answer. Instead, he wrapped his right arm over her body so she could not move. “I could make lasagna that will stick to your body. Do the kids like lasagna?” Do the kids like Lasagna, come on Angela what are you thinking? You’ll never make Lasagna good enough for the Mitchellis.
Mitchelli’s arms squeezed like a boa constrictor around her body. “They’ll like whatever you make as long as you’re eating it with them,” he mumbled. “They really like corn beef and cabbage.”
MacJames lightly slapped Mitchelli’s arm. “Ok, it was a stupid question. I didn’t mean to stereotype your children.”
“You mean profile my children?”
“That’s not the FBI’s policy.”
MacJames grabbed Mitchelli’s hand. “My friends expected my mother to be wearing a black dress and shoes,” he said. “Her hair done up in a bun, standing by a pot of spaghetti sauce all day cooking. It didn’t help when she would pick me up from ball practice in a gold Cadillac. Even the teachers joked my father was in the mafia.”
“Peter we all lived with ethnic stereotyping. Overcoming it makes us stronger.”
“When my sister started to mature, her seventh grade history teacher used to call her chest ‘little meatballs.’ He called her ‘dago grease ball princess’ in class. She’d come home crying because the kids chanted ‘dago princess’ when she got on and off the bus. ” Mitchelli shook his head, “Prejudiced bastard.”
“Did your mother speak with the principal?”
“Yes, Mr. MacGlaughlin said he would look into the matter, but insisted it would help if my sister wore typical clothing from a universal department stores so she would blend in with the children who had Northern European ethnic heritage.”
“Are you kidding? Come on.”
“He told my mother not to let her get to much sun, her skin was already too dark. Parents were beginning to spread rumors.”
“What did your mother do?”
Mitchelli smiled. “My mother was a soft spoken woman. Those who mistook her kindness for weakness made the mistake of their lives. She politely asked the principal to put his comments in writing because her English was not very good. She asked him to be as detailed as possible. She implied her husband may beat her if she did not get the principal’s instructions correct. She insisted that my father wanted the family to blend in with the other lighter skinned German and Irish families in town. He was so arrogant, he wrote it out on the spot on his school letterhead leaving his home phone number for my father should he wish to call him for further instructions.”
“Peter, what did your mother do?”
“She gave the principal’s ethnic instructions to her Italian friend who had a Scottish last name through marriage which had helped her get elected to the school board. She was shocked and convened an emergency meeting of the board, half of whom had some ethnic Italian lineage buried in the family tree. Within a month, the principal was fired. The teacher never made tenure and was let go. My mother bought my sister a tanning lamp and took her to New York City on a shopping spree.”
“Wow, your mom was my kind of woman! She had spunk, good for her.”
Mitchelli was awake, well rested, and his mind was clear. “Angela, has Freed discovered the mole in his office?”
“Why do you think it is in the FBI office?”
“That’s the only place I’ve been referred to as the Marauder, in addition to bandit, mafia, and raider. The mole is in Freed’s office, he knows it I’m sure. He would have never dispatched a security detail for my children, unless he felt they were in jeopardy.”
“Peter, you have to stay in control. I’m not going to abandon you. I agree if anyone involved in this operation was tagged as the Marauder it should be you. We have to maintain our composure; we are professional investigators. We will stay on the trail and flush them out.”
“I can maintain my composure, I’m Mr. Composure, remember?” MacJames busted into laughter, her torso bending towards her knees pushing Mitchelli’s head off her chest. “What’s so funny? I’m calm, cool, and collected. I’m composed, I’m Mr. Composure.”
MacJames began to laugh even harder and her eyes were watering, “Ca- Ca- Calm…Co-collected. My God Peter, you’re killing me.”
“You told me last night I’ve been through a lot, I’ve handled the stress…” Mitchelli began to laugh uncontrollably. “Pres...sure well.” Both were laughing hysterically.
“You’ve beat up more agents in FBI buildings in the last week than criminals have done in the field in five years. You’re spazz man!”
Mitchelli stopped laughing and turned his head towards the headboard, which was against the exterior wall of the house, adjacent to the driveway below. MacJames could see that he was concentrating; she could hear nothing. Mitchelli pushed off the mattress, his massive thrust causing a wave in the mattress, which bounced her off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Mitchelli was wearing black spandex shorts that hugged his body. He quickly moved to his armoire, which was to the right of his bed. He reached with his right hand up to a black box, his palm resting on top of the box. Four toned sounds came from the armoire as he pressed the buttons and a door flopped open, resting flat on the armoire shelf. He reached inside the safe and removed a Glock pistol model 22; a forty caliber full framed all black pistol. He set the pistol on the safe door and from another shelf removed a nylon duty belt. He quickly wrapped it around his waist, and snapped the buckle. He removed a magazine from the magazine pouch and quickly loaded it into the pistol magazine well, pulling the slide to release its lock. As the slide moved forward, it chambered around. He holstered the pistol and then took a third magazine off the shelf and loaded it into his magazine pouch, replacing the one he had just loaded in his pistol.
MacJames watched as he quickly prepared his weapon for action. She was still on the floor, her head just above the mattress. She had paused just for a moment to watch Mitchelli without hesitation put a tactical pistol belt and holster around his waist wearing only his underwear. Before she could ask him what was wrong, he grabbed a wooden axe handle from behind the armoire and walked towards the door, exiting the bedroom.
Mitchelli walked quickly into his son’s room, which had a large window overlooking the driveway. He carefully made sure to stay far enough away from the window so he could see the car in the driveway but he could not be seen from outside. He sliced the pie horizontally using the bottom of the windowsill as concealment. Parked in his driveway was a blue Ford Taurus. Two men in black suits sat in the front seat and two men stood outside the car on their cell phones. Mitchelli looked at the license plate; it began with a Z, signifying it was a rental car.
“You can’t hear the TV or radio, how did you hear them outside?” MacJames asked, her eyes quickly scanning the men below.
“I don’t know, maybe I felt the doors slam shut, or the exhaust e
choing off the adjacent house. What difference does it make?”
“Ok! Well it’s just…surprising.”
“Angela, go to Kaitlin’s room, see if the FBI security car is parked in the street.”
MacJames quickly went to Kaitlin’s room and looked out the window. The FBI car was not there. She moved closer to the window looking to her left and right, up and down the street respectively; the car was gone. Ok, stay calm Angela. Call the car for their location. Where did I put my phone? Great, I left it downstairs on the coffee table by the photo albums.
As she turned to run downstairs, Mitchelli was in the doorway. “Is the car there?”
“No, I’ll call the team; there has to be a reason.” They heard a faint metallic sound coming from downstairs; then a click, and thud—the sounds of someone pushing against the outside door. MacJames’s eyes widened as Mitchelli moved rapidly towards the stairs. Ever aware of his size, he resisted running so as to not be heard by the men downstairs.
MacJames followed after him trying not to yell, but enunciating quietly, “Peter, stay calm. Remember, we’re professionals.” I’m amazed how quietly the big man moves through his house. He doesn’t look half bad in his duty belt and underwear. Focus, MacJames, focus! As she stepped off the bottom step, she looked down the long hallway to the side entrance. Two tall young men with dark hair and black suits were entering the mudroom. Halfway down the hall from the mudroom was the dining room, with a wall perpendicular to the hallway. Mitchelli’s back was against the dining room wall. He looked at MacJames. He was holding the axe in his right hand, at the side of his leg. MacJames moved to her left, so Mitchelli could see her, concealing herself from the view of the men entering the hall. She drew her pistol. As she looked from the foyer into the great room she could see her phone on the coffee table next to the photo albums. A red light was flashing on the corner of the phone, indicating she had a message. She suddenly remembered she had turned the ringer off so she did not disturb Mitchelli’s rest. As the men moved down the hallway, they slowly drew their pistols and turned, placing their backs against the hallway wall, increasing their field of view. They whispered to each other.
MacJames continued to move to her left, staying outside the view of the men in the hall; working around the perimeter of the foyer into the dining room and next to Mitchelli. Her bare feet moved quietly across the wood floor. The first man moved to his left was logically scanning the larger great room, away from Mitchelli as the hall opened to the dining room, great room, and foyer. The second man moved to his right just behind the first man. As he continued to move to his right, his pistol and gun moved in front of Mitchelli, parallel to his shoulders. MacJames raised her pistol. As the second man’s face appeared around the end of the wall, he saw Mitchelli quickly raise his axe and crash it down on his hand smashing it. His pistol dropped to the floor. On the downward swing, Mitchelli quickly transitioned the axe handle into his left hand. Holding it at both ends, he thrust the handle under the second man’s armpit, lifting him momentarily off the floor. Mitchelli’s sudden powerful thrust drove the second man into the first man just as he turned in reaction to Mitchelli’s first strike. Mitchelli stopped, and with a final push the second man collided with the first man, both falling to the floor. The first man kneeled on the floor, attempting to raise his pistol. Mitchelli swung the axe handle with his left hand while drawing his pistol with his right. The hickory handle smashed into the first man’s hand releasing his pistol; it slid across the floor and down the basement stairs. The first man raised his hands above his head while on his knees; the second man raised his hands above his head lying on his back. Astonished, shaken, and panic stricken, the young men looked up at Mitchelli clad only in his underwear, barefoot, pistol in one hand, hickory axe handle in the other. Mitchelli’s face showed no compassion; his eyes were squinting like a panther before pouncing. His weary muscles flexed and tensed, ready to pound flesh. He pressed the axe handle into the throat of the man lying on his back while he pointed his pistol at the man kneeling on the floor.
Mitchelli cursed them. “Who sent you? I want their names or I’m going to push this wood through your partner’s throat!” He pressed the axe handle against the man’s throat. The man attempted to speak but could not.
“Peter, stop! This doesn’t make sense.”
“If they move Angela, don’t hesitate like Hoss, shoot to kill. There are still two in the car. We need to send Handly more bodies. I’m…”
MacJames interrupted him, “Peter, let me get to my phone. Someone called. They don’t look like hired guns. Cover the door while I call.” Holding the men at gunpoint, MacJames moved to the great room, picked up her phone and retrieved her messages. Her eyes rolled as she listened to the message from Agent Hoss conveying that four agents had arrived from Baltimore to fortify their security team. He had checked their credentials and received confirmation from Coarseni they were to set up security positions in the house, and eventually two more teams would arrive, on for each of Mitchelli’s children. Hoss was going to fuel the car and be back in twenty minutes.
MacJames spoke slowly to the cowering men on the floor, “Special Agents, slowly, and I cannot stress that enough, with your right hands remove your bureaus credentials. Hold them in front of you between your middle finger and index finger for Mr. Mitchelli to review.”
“Oh! That’s Marachelli?” The second agent nervously stuttered.
MacJames quickly corrected the agent, “Mr. Mitchelli.”
“Yes, Mr. Mitchelli, were here to protect you and your children.”
Mitchelli quickly replied, “You think you can protect my family?”
“Yes sir!” The young agent’s hand was beginning to swell, “We’ve seen your training video—all of us have seen it. They’re making it a requirement for training.” He was referring to the video of Mitchelli’s last day of physical combat training in Quantico. The agents presented their credentials for Mitchelli’s review. “We thought the doorbell didn’t work and after several knocks no one answered the door. We heard voices, screams upstairs and thought someone was hurt, or being tortured, so we entered the house while Hart and Smith called for backup.”
“Jesus! Angela, what the hell is going on?” Mitchelli holstered his pistol. He grabbed the second agent’s right hand, quickly jerking him off the floor to his feet, “Garron, get your pistol; it’s under the dining room table. Chef, stand up; move! Your pistol’s on the basement landing. God damn it, move, wait a minute!” Both agents stood by each other gazing at Mitchelli, star struck. “Do either of you want a formal report on this incident?”
“No!” Both men replied in unison.
“Ok, then police up your pistols and let’s forget it ever happened. Angela, call Hoss and cancel the backup while I get some icepacks for their hands.” Mitchelli looked at the two men as he awkwardly held the axe handle in his hands, shaking his head. “Guys, how do you think it’s going to look when the two agents in the driveway come inside and see both of you picking your pistols off the floor? I’ll tell you, not good, please hustle it up.” The men scattered, searching for their pistols as MacJames spoke with Hoss.
MacJames locked eyes with Mitchelli as she hung up her cell phone. “Don’t say it Angela, just don’t say it. This is not my fault.”
“Mr. Composure, how about putting some clothes on before the other agents meet the infamously famous Mr. Composure himself, Peter Mitchelli in his spandex underwear and his new modern state of the art weapon of choice, a piece of wood?”
“Cute,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower, and put my axe handle back. We’ll reflect on your comments later tonight. Please get our new associates some ice, please.”
***
The sun rose to the east of the grain elevator, casting a shadow across each of its cylindrical storage containers three hundred feet above the water; the shadow resembling a serpent slithering back to the lake. The sand at Ghetto Beach gleamed like gold dust in the early morning light. B
rian Mores sat in the passenger seat of a maroon midsized SUV, sipping his coffee and looking at his watch impatiently. He stared at the grain elevator and imagined how freighters had once docked alongside the tower, empting their grain into the giant storage cribs. Except for the occasional seagull, the waterfront was quiet and the beach parking lot was empty. He quickly looked at his watch; its chrome hands indicated it was six forty-five. The doctor said he should have been awake by six thirty. What the hell? Brian turned and looked towards the driver’s seat. Mitchell Garez sat in the seat, his hands duct taped together in his lap, the seat slightly reclined. He was unconscious. Suddenly, he moaned.
“Garez! Garez wake up, damn you.” With his left hand, Mores shook Mitchell Garez, the man Mitchelli had chosen to live. “Mitchell Garez, wake up!” Mores yelled and simultaneously shook the drug trafficker.
“What! Where! I didn’t do anything.” Garez’s eyes opened wide, staring at the inside of the vehicle as if he didn’t believe he was awake.
“Come big man you’re alive, I’m alive, your prophecy didn’t come true. Your boss didn’t kill all of us. Wake up, you have work to do.”
“You’re dead you just don’t know it yet.”
“Bullshit, get that crap out of your mind. I’m your savior. Four days ago you were sitting in your own feces drooling all over yourself. Now because of me and my people you have a chance to be a hero.”
“Like hell, please my almighty savior; tell me how I’m going to be a hero.” Garez held his hands in front of his chest and bent his torso bowing to Mores.
“Ok my disciple, I’ll tell you what you need to do. Listen carefully because if you screw this job up it could mean the end of your little criminal life.” Mores sipped his coffee and looked away from Garez out the window. “You’re going to take an offering to your boss, a peace offering.”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 37