“I need to be alone, take me to the boat.” He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating his words. “I’ll need another truck soon.”
“Peter, we’ll get you another truck.” MacJames was somewhat at ease; Mitchelli was speaking. Buckala was right, the cigar was easing his nerves. “Last night you did what you had to. You fought to survive and you did.” MacJames looked at him. “We have to stop beating ourselves up. We made a decision, both of us. I’m not going to try to convince you anymore to run, but don’t ask me to leave you. It ends here, right now; we get through this together.”
Mitchelli squeezed her hand. His mind was an inferno; thoughts fired rapidly across his soul. He had to hang on to MacJames, as he did his children during his mental lapse. MacJames would ground him; keep him focused on living, winning his battle. Mitchelli had to keep his reckless instincts in control.
Freed approached MacJames and Mitchelli with his gun drawn and held at his side. “We have to cuff him, Angela we have no choice.”
“He’s right,” Angela said gently. “Peter, give your shotgun to Sal. We have to make it appear that you’re a suspect.” MacJames attempted to take the shotgun from him. Mitchelli would not release it. “Peter, there are too many witnesses, it’s the only way. We have to take you into custody.”
Mitchelli’s heart burst. His trust in MacJames shattered as he listened to her rationally explaining why he needed to be handcuffed, humiliated, treated like a criminal, and led away from the scene where he had fought for his life. Ann was right, I’m too damn gullible. I can trust no one. What a fool I’ve been. Mitchelli unloaded the shotgun from the bottom loading port. He carefully placed each of the rounds in his bandolier. He tossed his shotgun to Buckala with the breech open so Buckala could see the weapon was empty. The narcotics detective knew what to do.
Freed went to put the handcuffs on and Mitchelli grabbed him by his shirt just under his chin and pulled him close. “What’s your hurry, Bob?” He pushed Freed away. “You don’t have the balls to cuff me. Angela, since you feel it’s so damn important, you do it.”
“Peter, please don’t do this.”
Mitchelli grabbed the handcuffs from Freed and slapped them firmly into MacJames’s hand. He turned around and placed his hands behind his back. MacJames hesitated for a moment then quickly slapped the cuffs on, one wrist at a time and clicked them tight. Freed grabbed Mitchelli’s arm to lead him away, but Mitchelli swiftly pulled his arm away and looked at MacJames, his eyes filled with hatred. MacJames knew if Mitchelli was going to be humiliated and treated like a mad criminal, she was responsible--no one else. She firmly grabbed his arm leading him away.
As Mitchelli walked from the rim with MacJames at his side, Buckala, Coarseni, and Freed quickly moved into position around him. His team surrounded him. The firemen called his name nodding their heads as he past. Clarence is a small town, many of them knew Peter Mitchelli, the younger brother of their own Chief. Peter Mitchelli would be forever tied to the murder of six men and the destruction of three trucks. The men called out, but Mitchelli could not reply. His eyes carefully scanned their faces. Some men nodded, others saluted, surfs up, winner, sign of the raging bull.
Once in the car, Mitchelli’s handcuffs were removed, MacJames sat by him in the back seat. Coarseni drove, Buckala sat by his side. They headed into Amherst towards MacJames’s house. Exhausted, Mitchelli fell in and out of consciousness, but kept quietly mumbling, “Ann…”
At first MacJames did not understand his request. She considered Mitchelli may be hallucinating. Then she realized he wanted to go to the mausoleum. MacJames got on the phone and called Patrick Mitchelli who gave her the location of the mausoleum. The government car quickly made its way into Cheektowaga. It was not yet seven a.m., and rush-hour traffic was light. As they pulled into the cemetery Mitchelli pointed to the mausoleum and Coarseni parked in front of the entrance.
Coarseni took up position at the rear of the mausoleum and Buckala stood watch at the front door with MacJames at his side. Mitchelli entered the mausoleum. At the far end was a large glass window, beyond it a hill with the stature of the crucifixion, Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalene kneeling below the cross. MacJames could not help herself--she turned and watched Mitchelli through the glass doors.
Mitchelli could barely feel his feet; his extremities were numb. The names on the markers blurred his vision, disrupted by his Mind Kill. His path to Ann memorized, he had made the journey hundreds of times first to see his parents then one marker away to visit Ann. He reached in his pants pocket and removed a Rosary with Black beads. Mitchelli knelt in front of Ann’s marker. He placed his right hand on her marker, his left across his heart. Holding the Rosary beads he began to pray. He stopped for a moment to kiss her name on the marker and returned to his prayers. Our father who art in heaven, Ann forgive me, I need your guidance. Hallowed be thy name. His large body cowered before his wife.
MacJames watched as Mitchelli kneeled, praying by his wife. Her eyes began to well up with tears. She could see Coarseni across the mausoleum wiping his eyes. She heard a sniffle and then Buckala sucking air through his nose and spitting the mucus in his mouth into the shrub bed. Buckala turned to look in the window, his face covered with tears, his nose running. MacJames handed him a tissue from her purse. Buckala blew his nose; the noise was loud enough to cause Mitchelli to look up. Embarrassed, the three agents nervously looked away from Mitchelli, attempting to appear they had given him some privacy.
Mitchelli intended on saying the Rosary by his wife’s side as he had done in the hospital. He did not care how long it took or what his partners thought. His mind was failing, the mighty combatant stricken by his self-induced mental anguish. His head throbbed, the pressure in his head building. He pressed his face on the marble marker to steady his body from falling to the floor. Hail Mary, full of grace… I have to finish, God give me strength; fill me with your spirit, the Holy spirit…What have I done, whose brother was the redhead?
Buckala, Coarseni, and MacJames stared at Mitchelli giving him no privacy, tears flowing down their faces. “The three of us are pathetic,” Buckala whispered. “We can’t give the guy a half an hour alone to pray. We’re lost souls, clinging to a man who’s willing to put up his whole life for those he had no association or responsibility for. This wasn’t his fight.”
MacJames’s voice cracked. “We didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t believe Peter had anything to offer. You signed him on to patronize your Washington boss to keep your jobs.”
MacJames wiped the tears from her eyes with a tissue, trying not to mess her makeup. “He would’ve been selected if he didn’t meet the criteria.” She knew Sal was right, but she was a fighter and she wouldn’t back down. “We didn’t think he’d get this involved. He…”
“Murder, you never thought they go after him, kill him, and kidnap his children. I didn’t think so either. But I knew what he was capable off; I told you he’s one focused son of a bitch. Is Washington going to protect him once Freed tells them Peter decapitated three thugs he killed? You better tell him to keep that out of his frickin’ bullshit report. They’ll do just what my superiors did to me, look down their clean judgmental big noses and tell you Peter’s crazy. Then make it your shitty job to distance their department from his horrendous actions; cut him loose, throw him to the same murderous sons of bitches that killed your missing agents!”
Mitchelli struggled to get to his feet. He leaned on the Ann’s tomb to steady himself. Blood covered her stone from her husband’s hands and face. He turned towards the statue. Dazed, he realized he was headed in the wrong direction and he corrected his course towards Buckala and MacJames. As he walked towards MacJames, she did not look away. The further he walked from Ann’s tomb the more erect he stood, his body getting stronger with every step. MacJames looked at his eyes, which had turned black, as though he lost his soul in the rolling gun battle fighting for his life. She had to hold him, look
into his eyes, study his face. Her heart raced. She couldn’t be soulless; Buckala had to be wrong. She could not go to him; she had to be the professional. She was the Deputy Director; she was in charge. Mitchelli pushed the door open and stood directly in front of MacJames and Buckala. Sweat poured from his brow, the dried blood moistened from his perspiration began to run down his face. MacJames could feel his pain; she did have a soul.
“Peter, we’re taking you to my house. Let’s go.” Mitchelli did not answer.
“You got your head screwed on partner?” Buckala asked. “You locked and loaded? Because the war’s not over and I don’t care what anyone tells you, this is no longer an investigation for Peter Mitchelli; it’s personal, deadly personal and you have to be a hundred percent. Let’s get you to Angela’s house, cleaned up, fed, rested, and ready to rock, comprende?”
***
Handly waited for O’Connor in a coffee shop on Main Street in the town of Clarence. The coffee shop was two Miles from Handly’s house, five from Mitchelli’s smoldering truck. O’Connor walked into the small town coffee shop and the patrons (mostly retired old men) turned to look at her sensual body as she walked in.
“Jesus, Katherine! Did you have to wear that dress? You’re going to give these old geezers a heart attack. So, did my boys come through?”
O’Connor sat down and started to drink her coffee. “Your boys were a disaster. You have no boys; the Marauder shot them all and burned up the stolen trucks.”
“Katherine, don’t fool around. What did our source tell you?”
“Leo, when have you known me to fool around? The team you assembled is dead, every one of them. They tried to take Mitchelli down last night at about two a.m. on Route 5 in the town of Newstead. He killed all of them. They must have given him a hell of fight though. Mitchelli’s truck is riddled with bullet holes, and…”
“What? Say it for Christ’s sake!”
“It’s weird Leo, real creepy…he cut their heads off and threw Stanley’s brother’s head at a state trooper.”
Handly gritted his teeth. “He’s a nut, a crazy man, he’s always been crazy! Someone should have killed him when he was a kid.”
“Leo you know him? Why didn’t you tell me, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Leo sipped his coffee. “I’ve been trying to forget about him for the last thirty years. Now killing him is my obsession. I won’t rest until he’s dead.”
“You’d better put your childhood obsession on hold. We need Mitchelli alive and we need our merchandise or your partners in Chicago, or our associates in every major city in the eastern third of the country are going to come after us in hordes.” Handly stared into his coffee cup? “Leo, did you hear me? We need Mitchelli alive. We’re in trouble here, deadly trouble.”
“He’s a curse, a scourge that needs be sent to hell! I want him alive because I’m the one who should kill him, after we get our merchandise. Don’t look so smug sweetheart, you’ve met him.”
“Leo, you sick son of a bitch don’t screw with me. Hundreds millions are at stake, including my life as well as yours.”
“I didn’t recognize him, but then once I knew he was the Marauder, his moves, his mannerisms, it all came back.”
“You’ve lost it, you’ve totally lost it. I’m calling Chicago for help.” O’Connor started to leave the booth.
“He took a cigarette from you, right out of your mouth. He put it back between your lips. You exchanged pleasantries and you kissed him goodbye. You frickin’ kissed the Marauder, the man that stole a three hundred million from us.”
O’Connor froze and she sat back down in the booth. “That was the Marauder? The smooth middle aged guy outside the club? He bummed a cigarette off me. He’s middle aged, old like you. He’s big but I can’t believe he’s our guy. What a sweetheart, that old guy could have taken me home in a minute, are you sure?”
Handly Containers been doing business with Mitchelli Construction for over forty-five years. I wasn’t sure until the facilitator gave me his name. But then it all came back. He was at the club, following me.”
“I thought he was trying to make a pass at me, I was on the phone, he was trying to listen in on my conversation. Leo, he’s smooth.”
Handly slammed his fist down on the table. “Don’t start that shit again! Do you hear me? I’ve heard it my entire life, don’t start! He’s dead, I tell you, he’s dead and I’m going to kill him.”
The senior citizens turned their heads around to look at Handly. “Leo, we should call Chicago. They will send reinforcements, it can only help.”
“Katherine, you call Chicago, I’ll call New York. You make our associates know that the soldiers work through me, make it clear.”
“Leo, how do you think that’s going to go over? You’ve already lost ten men, some of them our associates.”
“Make it clear, understood?”
O’Connor left the coffee shop and called Chicago from her car. “He told me to call concerning that problem we have, we need your help.”
“He waited too long; these situations have to be handled quickly. Time is a weapon, a strength, an advantage we could not afford to lose. Your boss is relatively new to this type of situation, his inexperience is his weakness.”
“When will you send help? He’s going to ask me…”
“Immediately. Our contacts in the Middle East are concerned--they have not been reimbursed.” The deep voice hesitated, “They fly planes into buildings, we don’t want to make them angry.”
“When will they arrive?”
“Three days. Our friends have been watching us closely. We cannot travel by road or commercial planes. They will travel by boat, as my ancestors did years ago, it seems our friends are afraid of the water, they are missing some of their companions.”
“Leo did something right. Understood, make it clear to them everything, I mean everything, is directed locally.”
“Incompetent, egotistical fool!”
“We believe the locals have a better understanding of the situation, and the fool has made his associates very rich. I think you’ll agree.” O’Connor closed her eyes and held her hand over her chest, hoping to avoid an argument.
“They will contact you when they arrive, take care of them. We insist you keep us informed of your progress.”
***
Six men loaded two forty-foot express cruisers in the rain. In the distance the skyline of Chicago towered above the boats. Two men loaded long black vinyl cases. At first, they would have appeared to be a band traveling to the outer harbor islands for a concert. Such was not the case. The men were loading instruments of death. These men were not inexperienced punks; they were professional killers. They handled the tools of their trade carefully; their livelihood depended on it. Each man had a job. Weapons, drivers, and provisions were all assigned in advance. The drivers took their positions at the helm and the engines rumbled, the water bubbling from the exhaust. The lines cast and the two boats moved away from the docks in unison. The journey would take several days. They would use this time to rest their bodies and minds--both were tools of death—and sleep was a necessity they needed to function. They would receive updates from Buffalo; details were forthcoming. They believed the capture, torture, and death of their target was inevitable.
***
MacJames took Mitchelli to her house where Dr. Stazi would dress his wounds. The rest of the team was working franticly investigating the six men slain by Mitchelli. Buckala was following up with the bartender from Runners who had driven through Mitchelli’s neighborhood. Two of the agents getting off duty at Mitchelli’s house were on the way to MacJames’s with his Mercedes coupe.
Coarseni wasted no time ordering Mitchelli a new truck. Freed directed him to contact Molly Richards, Secretary Stuart’s assistant. Coarseni passed the specifications of the truck to Richards. Her intern passed the information directly to procurement marked critical. The head of procurement electronically forwarded the information to Ford M
otor Company headquarters in Michigan. The Ford truck assembly plant in Dearborn Michigan received their instructions; a chassis was selected which was in the appropriate stage of assembly. Serial numbers were removed, electronic engine upgrades were downloaded to the engine computer, enhancing its performance. The truck would exceed Mitchelli’s expectations from its interior to the state of the art engine and drive train. The Dearborn plant was also installing aftermarket items, such as the refueling tank bolted to the bed of the truck and the grab bars mounted on top of the rear fenders on either side of the box. Mitchelli’s truck was on its way to Buffalo in less than ten hours. Washington gave a directive, departments followed their commands, contacts were made, a few clicks were made on a computer, and the task was complete. The Galaxy Star lifter cargo plane that had ferried Mitchelli to Quantico for his original training left the runway at eleven a.m., its destination Dearborn Michigan, its cargo priority: Peter Mitchelli’s new Ford F-350 Super Duty pickup truck.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 44