“Dom, I was watching the training on closed circuit TV at the time. But, I didn’t watch closely, not until the fight started.”
“You weren’t in love with him then, he was fat, sorry but it’s the truth. We digress. You see Angela, Mitchelli wouldn’t give up. The younger men in the class left to take a piss, some guys went half speed. Not our Italian friend, full tilt and the defensive end kicked his ass over and over again, drill after drill. He didn’t get mad; it was a fair fight. He just kept getting up, limping, gasping for air learning from each blow. He looked like he was going to drop. Remember when the instructed held a gun on him? Jesus it’s a wonder he survived the training, let alone the gun battle by the lake. Anyway, gradually he starts to hold his own with the tall trainee. He begins to look pretty good for a fat middle-aged dago. THEN THE SON OF A BITCH BEATS THE SHIT OUT OF THE BEST COMBAT INSTRUCTORS AT THE ACEDEMY. WHAT THE HELL!” He smiles and looks at MacJames. “Sorry Angela, but man, wasn’t that something? I said to myself, Dom do your job, get out of bed, get to work, and don’t let Peter Mitchelli down. Mitchelli doesn’t give up, Coarseni’s not giving up. The guy nobody wanted: Embarrass him, beat him, shoot him--he doesn’t stop. The frickin’ guy negotiated his way out of the hospital with big tit…Stazi. Hey, you think those fun bags are real?” Dom, you moron shut your big mouth. He had forgotten whom he was talking to and froze, fearing his boss’s response.
MacJames smiled. “Maybe those are two reasons why he doesn’t give up. As for the ‘fun bags,’ ask our builder; it appears they’ve known each other for a long, long time.” MacJames looked in the bedroom. The kids were touching Mitchelli’s wounds and Stazi was patiently explaining how she repaired their father. “He’s something! Isn’t he Dom?”
Coarseni said, “I’ll say, look at this house. Three families could live in here.” MacJames is actually softening up. “Cool as a jewel, that lucky SOB, he’s cool as a jewel.”
CHAPTER 22
Mitchelli stood by his bed sorting his clothes. His mother-in-law entered the room and dropped off several pairs of jeans. “I just washed these,” she said.
“Have you seen my black cargo pants, Lillian? Kaitlin was using them as a pirate flag when she was playing with the neighborhood kids.”
“I wondered what that was; she filled the pockets with candy. I’ll get them.” She went to leave the room and stopped at the door. She spoke with her back to Mitchelli. “I don’t like this; you should be home with your children. Are you so sure you’re alright?”
MacJames was out of view in Mitchelli’s closet getting his clothes. She paused when she heard the question. Her intentions were not to eavesdrop but she was responsible for Peter Mitchelli, so she listened intently. Mitchelli did not answer.
“Peter, you’re like a son to me. I know it’s been difficult for you since Ann left us. I’m here not only for the children but for you, I have nothing else. Ann wanted you to be happy and with the children. I don’t understand, all these men, government men! You’ve already been shot twice, how much more can you take?” She paused, her voice quivering with emotion. “Your brother Phil told me about your issues, you know your depression.”
“He talks too much!”
“Is he right?” She turned to look at Mitchelli. Her hands began to tremble, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid… Ann told me things about you…” She approached him. “She told me how you get these thoughts, and they tear at you, making you miserable. She tried to get you to relax and focus on the children. She worried that your mind, your obsession would kill you.” The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Was Ann right? Are all these men are they here because of your mental demons?”
“Does it matter? I’m too involved. It’s too late; I can’t turn back now. Every day I have to convince myself the glass is half full, not empty.” Mitchelli paused. “Sometimes I lose the battle, like today. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself the sun’s going to rise in the morning. Why should I get out of bed? Everyone would be better off without me. I bring them nothing but pain. I gave Ann the life she didn’t want.”
“That’s not true!”
“I wish I would have listened to her.” He looked away from his mother-in-law. “Mom, this may be hard for you to understand. You need to trust Angela without question. Promise me that. The children’s lives depend on that trust.”
“That promise is important to you?”
“It’s critical. It’s one less demon I have to cope with.”
“What would Ann say?”
“She’d give me hell, up one side and down the other. Ann was a fighter; she would never let anyone push her children around. She’d fight them tooth and nail.”
“I understand, I will listen to Angela, it seems the children like her.”
“Dad, can you play dolls with me?” Kaitlin appeared in the doorway. MacJames covered her mouth, holding in her laughter.
“Kaitlin, can’t you see I’m busy here? I don’t have time, I have to finish packing.”
Kaitlin walked around her grandmother pursuing her father for the answer she wanted. “But Dad, you promised.”
“Damn it, Kaitlin, I never promised. Don’t play that game with me!” Mitchelli raised his voice, but his daughter was not intimidated.
“Please play dolls? Please Dad, please!”
The rage began with a painful pressure surging in his temples. “Kaitlin, get out!”
Lillian tried to ease the tension. “Kaitlin, Grandma will play dolls with you.”
Mitchelli looked in his daughter’s eyes. He had a premonition this might be the last time he would be able to play with his daughter. The guilt was there. He had no choice, “Damn it to hell. I did promise to play dolls. But I get the red head with the big…well she has that convertible.” Ok Ann, you win. I’ll play dolls I know it’s important to you. His journey would wait.
“Yeah, ok. But the plane is mine.”
“The jet, hmm deal. The plane is yours.” Mitchelli held his daughter’s hand as they walked to her room. His world was on hold; his Mind Kill subdued, he played dolls with his daughter.
***
Coarseni and Buckala were in charge of ordinance. They packed an assortment of holsters consisting of ankle, waist, shoulder, and cross draw. All the holsters were compatible with Mitchelli’s forty caliber Glock. The Walther PPK would not make this trip. It had performed well at the grain elevator, but Mitchelli needed the large capacity magazines of the Glock, fifteen rounds verses seven. The forty-caliber bullet round had three times the stopping power of the nine-millimeter short round of the PPK.
They packed the Remington 870 Express. This was Mitchelli’s favorite hunting gun. The twelve-gauge pump shotgun was flat black, with an extended magazine tube which raised its shell capacity from five to nine. Mitchelli installed a sidesaddle that held six rounds mounted on the frame of the shotgun opposite the ejection port. This was the gun the Mitchelli impressed Buckala with during his shoot-up of Hogan’s alley. The Remington was a police riot gun on steroids. Mitchelli had shot many deer with this shotgun. Hunters stayed clear of the large man with deep dark eyes who hunted with the black, short-barreled shotgun.
They packed Mitchelli’s Colt AR-15 semi automatic the civilian version of the M-16. This was the least favorite of Mitchelli’s arsenal. It was packed for its long range, high capacity, and quick rate of fire. Like his shotgun, the barrel was short. He liked the tactical advantage of a short barrel; it was less likely to be hung up on tree limbs or the roll bar on his Ranger.
Mitchelli was in the garage with Buckala and Coarseni loading his truck. A low cloud of smoke hung just above the roof of the truck. Buckala was smoking his cigar and Coarseni was complaining. MacJames entered the garage and asked to be alone with Mitchelli. The two men left. MacJames wore tight blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and black boots. A black holster with dark brown accent leather held Mitchelli’s Glock on his right hip, a magazine pouch on his left hip held two magazines, and a total of 45
rounds were on his belt. Hundreds of rounds were packed behind the front seat. MacJames stood behind Mitchelli wrapping her arms around him. Mitchelli moved her hands to his lips. They faced each other, their bodies pressing against one another’s.
“Do you think your mother-in-law was satisfied with your answer?” she asked.
“I don’t know it was pretty slim, she’s a smart woman. I’m hoping you can do better over the next couple of days.”
“Where are you going, Mister? Don’t forget I’m the boss over you.”
“A woman with rank, that’s dangerous.”
“More dangerous than an armed contractor on a mission… Who would have thought? Peter Mitchelli, you don’t fool me. Are you running away from me? A man headed into harm’s way. This is our task, the government’s mission. We work as a team, remember?”
“No, it’s personal now. They’re after me, and possibly my children. I have to draw them away from Kaitlin and Peter.”
“If they come after you, what then?”
“The first person I’m going to call is you, pretty damn quick, so you’d answer your phone.”
They embraced. Suddenly, Mitchelli stepped away from MacJames. “I’m checking one of my buildings, then heading to the boat,” he said. What am I doing? Something’s wrong, I need distance, time to think by myself. Mitchelli was convinced the FBI had an informant, a mole who had given his name to Handly; it was only a matter of time before Handly’s men made contact.
MacJames moved towards Mitchelli. “I’ll meet you at the boat,” she said.
He backed away from MacJames. He turned cold, his eyes quickly turning dark. “Angela, stay clear of me.”
“Peter, don’t tell me what to do.” She read his face, looked into his eyes she was not going to win this battle but she had to try. “We’ve been through this before; I’ll see you at the boat, no bad dreams tonight.” They separated and Mitchelli got in his truck. He turned the key. The starter wined, the turbo chargers whistled, and the engine clanged and snorted to life, sounds of his industry. The diesel truck idled out of the garage. He nodded to MacJames while the truck moved slowly down the driveway. Mitchelli was looking, watching, making sure the men guarding his children were vigilant.
Mitchelli stopped at a coffee shop and picked up a large coffee, half decaf with skim milk. Driving his truck and drinking his favorite coffee eased his mind. He drove east on Route 5, heading away from his boat; he wanted to check a Mitchelli rental property. Weeks ago when he was at work, his sister had told him there was a new tenant moving into one of their warehouses. He wanted to verify if the tenant had taken occupancy. The drive to the warehouse was his attempt to distract his mind from its torment. He hoped the ride would settle his nerves. He enjoyed driving at night; when he drove his lowboy across New York state, he always preferred to travel at night. The night was mysterious, ruggedly adventurous. Night was Mitchelli’s world.
There was a cigar on the dashboard. Sal left me a present, I shouldn’t, ah what the hell? Mitchelli lit the cigar and opened the window. A white pickup truck sped by the driver’s side of the truck, but Mitchelli barely noticed. The truck merged into his lane and Mitchelli slowed slightly to keep a safe distance between the two trucks. He was in no hurry and he had to turn in several miles to check his building.
Mitchelli reached towards the radio to change the station. When he looked up again, there was a red pickup truck alongside of him attempting to pass. The glare of the taillights from the white pickup temporary blinded Mitchelli and instinctively he pressed the brake pedal to slow his big heavy-duty pickup truck. When his eyes adjusted and his head cleared, he could see the white pickup was breaking hard, boom! What the hell you dumb son of …Oh man this is it!!! Mitchelli hit his brakes hard. His truck slowed and the red pickup alongside his matched his breaking and swerved towards him, attempting to push his truck against the guardrail. Phone, do I make the call, or gain distance? Speed distance, altitude is a pilot’s best friend.
The four-hundred dollar ten ply tires dug into the hot asphalt. In an instant the antilock brake system rapidly slowed his truck. He created a gap large enough for the Ford to turn behind the red Chevy reversing his course and gaining distance. Mitchelli turned hard left while he braked, the tires screamed under the strain. A semi’s horn wailed as Mitchelli’s truck crossed its path, and the truck just missed Mitchelli. He couldn’t help but notice the large red letters on the side of the semi’s door, it was the name of the trucking company that leased the warehouse. Well seems like they moved in. Mitchelli’s truck skidded into the shoulder of the road. There was a thump as the accelerator hit the floor and the turbo chargers whistled to life. Mitchelli looked down at his speedometer, forty, fifty, confident he was gaining speed he checked his rear view mirrors. The two trucks slid sideways coming to a violent stop, each pointing in a different direction. The drivers failed to cross steer as they applied their brakes, causing the soft suspension of the light duty pickups to fail under maximum braking, tipping the trucks severely. It was apparent to Mitchelli the drivers were not familiar with driving pickup trucks. The trucks were not theirs, but used as an attempt to match the weight and size of his truck.
Mitchelli never let up on the accelerator and he began to search his pockets for his phone. His hand went to his shirt pocket but he was wearing a t-shirt, with no pocket, he ran his hands over his front pant pockets. Did I take the phone? Got it! Mitchelli hit the button on the top right corner of the phone and the screen illuminated. He then moved his finger to the small phone icon at the bottom of the screen, but he hit the day planner icon by mistake. These icons are so damn small! Mitchelli had to push a button at the bottom of his phone to reduce his calendar and attempted to press the phone icon again.
His eyes quickly jerked from the road back to the phone attempting to guide his thumb to the icon, the ten thousand pound truck speeding at ninety miles an hour. Mitchelli’s eyes widened as he stabbed at the phone icon and the dial pad filled the screen. Crack! Ping! Crackle! Stones were hitting his truck, Mitchelli had driven onto the shoulder of the road. The truck hit a pothole. The stiff heavy-duty suspension and the hard ten ply tires bounced the truck out of the pothole. The violent force of the impact at ninety miles an hour threw Mitchelli’s head back. His body lifted off the seat and the seat belt tensioned rapidly as designed, driving his body quickly back into the seat. His phone was thrown from his hand as his foot slipped from the accelerator. The truck swerved into the center of the road, sliding sideways, loosing precious speed. Mitchelli turned the steering wheel to the right then left, attempting to correct the course of the truck. He looked out his rearview mirror and saw the light duty trucks were gaining ground on him. Mitchelli’s diesel engine was powerful, power made for towing, not racing. The gasoline engines of the light duty trucks were closing the gap. Mitchelli’s eyes scanned his truck, attempting to find his phone. He checked his mirrors again; the trucks were an eighth mile behind him. An arm extended from the passage window of the white truck, pointing a chrome pistol at him. The trucks drew nearer. A pistol appeared out the window of the red truck, the shooter attempting to steady his pistol on the mirror. A flash appeared and the sound of the gunshots followed. Mitchelli knew he could not outrun the smaller faster trucks. The red and white trucks closed to within a hundred feet and Mitchelli swerved violently, attempting to make his truck as small a target as possible. More gunshots rang out. He heard the sound of breaking glass; his rear window had been hit. You fool, you can’t make five tons of truck disappear. Mitchelli’s eyes glanced up quickly focusing on a street sign, Bud Road. He mashed his foot on the brake; the red truck glanced off his rear bumper and traveled ahead of Mitchelli’s truck. The white truck came screeching across the road into the oncoming lane. Mitchelli cranked the steering wheel to the left, accelerating down the dark country road, which was void of streetlights. Ditches and cornfields lined the road. The three trucks raced down the road. For a moment Mitchelli’s heart raced before the t
rucks caught up and he became overwhelmed in the silence. His adrenaline was pumping, his hearing was diminished, sounds were muffled, and his vision narrowed. The super duty’s high beams were piercing through the darkness. The smaller truck’s collision with Mitchelli’s truck had done little harm. He checked his mirrors and could see the trucks were closing in on him. He scanned his interior searching for his phone again; no sight of it, he was on his own. Call Angela, I will call Angela, she’ll be the first I call. Where’s my phone! You’re alone, on your own no one is on their way. You’ve been here before totally alone, facing death and you knew what to do. Mitchelli the Marauder! More gunshots rang out as the trucks drew closer and more glass broke around Mitchelli. Then the white truck pulled alongside of him, smashing into the side of his truck. Mitchelli jerked the wheel to his right in an effort to reduce the damage from the impact. The passenger in the truck extended his pistol out the window and fired two shots; one hit the door jamb just above Mitchelli’s face. The bullet shattered as it hit the heavy steel of the door frame, the lead and brass fragments piercing Mitchelli’s neck and throat. Mitchelli the Marauder right! I’m a builder, a truck driver! You broke Ann’s heart, she knew you were a killer, a hired assassin. Mitchelli’s eyes locked on the Super Duty decal on his windshield. TRUCK! SUPER DUTY TRUCK! Come on BIG STUD let’s push your weight around and show them who’s boss. Mitchelli realized his truck could not outrun the lighter faster trucks, but it could out muscle them. Peter Jakob had named the black truck, Big Stud after a World War II fighter. Mitchelli turned his truck into the side of the white pickup, knocking the truck across its lane and into the ditch. The occupants bounced in their seat their heads hitting the ceiling. As the truck maneuvered out of the ditch the Super Duty slammed into the side of it sending the red truck across the ditch into the cornfield, cornstalks flying.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 41