“What about the girl?” he asked.
“She’s his flavor of the month,” Antonio said. “He’ll have another one next time.”
All the reports Paul had read about Franco showed him to be a monstrous serial killer. They never hinted that his thing was also control.
“Where does he find them?”
“Part of his compensation for protecting our interests,” he said with all the compassion of a manager talking about employee benefits. “We give him innocent, scared girls and he trains them to be like the one you saw down there.”
Paul scanned the crowd, wondering if there was any way he could turn this scene to his advantage, and suddenly spotted Eric. He’d changed clothes, but stood still in a room full of moving people, calling attention to himself. If any of the Grimaldis caught him, or realized Paul knew him, they’d both end up dead.
Franco burst into the room, still bare-chested. He glanced at them and asked, “What happened?”
Chapter Ten
The blonde who had been on stage followed Franco into the room. She wore a full black vinyl bikini. The black wax and red whip marks stood out on her white skin.
As Antonio cleaned up, he described the night’s ambush. Paul tried not to focus on Eric standing in plain view on the floor. He wondered not only why his partner was there but how he knew they’d be there. He also wondered if Eric was being obvious as a signal to meet.
“Who’s he?” Franco asked as soon as Antonio had concluded his story, a massive thumb pointed in Paul’s direction.
“The broker I told you about.”
“Could you get me a Glock P9M with a silencer?” Franco asked Paul.
He’d just performed a sex show, less than an hour ago his brothers had nearly been killed, a man was being operated on in the next room, and Franco’s primary concern was whether Paul could get him a specific type of gun. And he’s asked the question with all the compassion of a man asking a store clerk for some cigarettes.
Paul had met killers and drug dealers before, but there was something about the narcissism of Franco’s behavior that shook him. Before he had time to dwell on it, though, he caught Franco staring at him and remembered he needed to play his part. “The one they made for the German Special Forces?” he said, slowly rotating his arm to see how much movement he had. “It’s rare. I don’t know if there’s one available for immediate purchase, but I’m sure I can find one for you.”
“When you have it, give it to him,” Franco replied, nodding at Antonio.
“Okay.” Paul glanced at Antonio, who made a gesture that indicated he’d pay for the gun.
“Do you have any extra clothes?” Antonio asked Franco, gesturing to himself and Paul. “We can’t wear these outside.”
Franco turned to the blond woman and nodded.
She left immediately.
Even with a killer like Franco in front of him, Paul’s mind kept looping back to Eric and what had happened tonight. He had to talk to Eric as soon as possible.
Giovanni strode out of the operating theater, stare angled at Paul, and said, “How did they know we were there?”
Antonio replied, “We were in a crowded club with you loudly describing the drug deal we made tonight and Mateo waving around his gold-plated handguns.”
Giovanni scowled.
“How’s Mateo?” Antonio asked.
“He’s dead.”
Antonio paused as if thinking, then asked, “How will this affect our drug shipments?”
“Mateo is the youngest son of a high-ranking member of Los Zetas,” Paul said. “His death will not only anger them but also damage their reputation. Which is everything to them. It’s unlikely they’ll ever deal with your family again. They’ll probably seek out your rivals and sell to them while sending men after you.”
Franco laughed. “Let them come.”
“Can you get us drugs from another supplier?” Antonio asked.
“Possibly, but it will take time.”
“Which we don’t have,” Giovanni said. “We’re so close…”
“Giovanni,” Antonio said to silence him.
“This is boring me,” Franco said. “Describe the men who attacked you. I’ll hunt them down and hang their heads from a lamp post.”
Antonio described the men while Paul tried to think of a way to leave and talk to Eric. When the blonde returned with a dress shirt and pants, it gave him an idea. “Is there some place where I can change?” he asked.
“Show him,” Franco said to the blonde.
He left the Grimaldi brothers arguing about the business and how to dispose of Mateo’s body. He needed to hurry. If any of them gave the club floor more than a passing glance, they’d notice Eric.
The blonde led him down the stairs, through a short hallway, and pointed to a men’s restroom. The line was long, but she held the line at bay while he went inside. The men in the queue looked at him with awe.
He quickly changed and tossed his old clothes deep into the trash bin. When he walked out, the woman was gone. His guess was that after she’d completed her orders, she’d run back to the man who had viciously violated her.
Paul hurried away from the restroom, down a dark corridor, and came to a stop at the doorway to the club’s main room. Scanning the room, Paul spotted Eric through a break in the crowd. He was still gazing up at the window to the private office.
Paul grabbed a waitress, scribbled a quick coded note, gave her a large tip, and asked her to hand the note to Eric. Then he hurried outside through the front entrance
He scanned the area. It didn’t appear anyone was waiting to ambush him, so he hustled across the street and waited for Eric at the mouth of an alley. The night air felt crisp on his face, and he allowed it to soothe him even as the local anesthetic was wore off, causing his back to ache once again.
After watching people exit the club for several minutes, Paul finally caught sight of his partner coming out. As Eric looked around, Paul leaned past the alley entrance, calling attention to himself.
Eric spotted him, put his hands in his pockets, and casually walked toward him. As he neared, Paul pulled out his gun but kept it hidden under his jacket. He had no idea what to expect. One of the greatest dangers for an undercover agent was losing yourself and becoming your fake identity. He had no idea if that had happened to Eric, but they were—had been—best friends. He owed Eric the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t going to be stupid about it.
As his partner entered the alley, Paul grabbed Eric’s wrist and swung him around in an arc so that his chest slammed into the wall. Eric’s head cracked against the stone, and the impact knocked the breath out of him. While he was disoriented, Paul frisked him and removed his gun from his waistband.
Paul pressed his arm into the back of Eric’s neck so that his cheek was pressed hard against the wall, jammed his gun into Eric’s back, and pushed his body against Eric’s so he couldn’t move.
“What the fuck is going on?” Paul said.
Chapter Eleven
“Good to see you too,” Eric said, voice hoarse.
Paul surveyed the area. People were walking by on the far side of the street. No one had notice them yet, but Paul had to be quick. “Why did you try to kill me?”
“Part of the act,” he said.
“Act?” Paul hissed. “If those bullets had been an inch or two lower, my brains would be plastered on the roof of that SUV.”
“But they weren’t.” Half of Eric’s face was visible, revealing a smile. A friendly smile. “We had to increase the pressure on the Grimaldis so they’d stick to the deal tomorrow night.”
Paul pushed harder against the wall. “But that, along with the earlier betrayal at the docks, has made them think there’s an informant. They’ve grown overly cautious about the deal.”
“They’ll do it. They’re too overextended not to.”
“They’re bringing in their cousin.”
Eric’s face lit up. “This is what we’ve been waitin
g for. We can take down the entire Ndrangheta cartel.”
Paul wanted to tell him about his plans with Portia, but now wasn’t the time. “And then we’re done.”
Eric hesitated a few seconds before responding, “Yeah, of course.”
Paul stared intently at Eric. Everything he’d said was plausible. So Paul dropped his arm from Eric’s neck and put his gun away.
“How are you going to oversee the deal now?” Paul asked. “They’ve seen your face.”
Eric reached up and slowly peeled the cosmetic plastic off his face. His cheekbones flattened, his eyes grew wider, and his beard came off. Now he was back to his old self. The Grimaldis wouldn’t recognize him.
“The Grimaldis have some stipulations.” Paul quickly told his partner about the last-minute notification of time and place.
“That changes things. I’ll get the diamonds and a tactical team ready.” Eric’s gaze flicked to the road. He was anxious. “We shouldn’t meet again until the deal goes down.”
“I agree.” Paul turned to leave, but a thought occurred to him. “How’d you know I’d be at Franco’s club?”
“I followed Franco once. I scoped out his setup and discovered he had a doctor on call. I figured this was the only safe place for them to come.”
“Okay.” Again, that sounded plausible. “Good luck. Stay safe.”
“You too,” he said as he walked off down the alley.
After giving Eric enough time to clear the area, Paul set off toward the club.
Just as he reached the end of the alley, however, Franco walked out of the club. He pushed past dozens of patrons, straining to carry a large green duffle bag covered with red splotches. The bag must’ve contained Mateo’s body.
Franco hauled the body along with the bored expression of a guy carrying dirty clothes to the laundry.
On reflex, Paul moved back into the shadows of the alley and watched Franco get into a Porsche SUV. As the SUV pulled out into the street, Franco glanced directly at the place where Paul was standing. Franco’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. A predatory smile.
Chapter Twelve
Paul took a taxi to his car and texted Portia that he was on his way home. She didn’t respond.
As he drove toward Portia’s, he thought about how he’d explain why he was so late and what small aspects of the truth he could share.
The drive took longer than expected. When he arrived on Portia’s street, he found a parking space and ran to her building. But as he turned the key to the front door, a horn honked behind him.
He spun and noticed Antonio’s dark BMW idling in the road. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Antonio wasn’t supposed to know about Portia, much less that Paul practically lived at her apartment.
The car’s window rolled down and Antonio yelled, “Get in.”
Paul glanced up at Portia’s window. He desperately wanted to go upstairs and finish their conversation from earlier that morning, but Antonio’s presence indicated two things: One, the Grimaldis knew Paul was dating Portia and that he spent most of his time at her place. Knowledge that demonstrated they could harm her at any time. And two, something had panicked them about tomorrow’s weapons’ deal—and they believed he was responsible.
Every instinct Paul had screamed at him to run. But he knew if he did, the Grimaldis would torture and kill Portia.
He locked the door and dashed to Antonio’s car. As he slid into the passenger’s seat, the green glow of the dashboard lights illuminated a deadly serious expression on Antonio’s face. Paul realized he might never leave the car alive.
Part 2
Chapter One
Hillcrest, Vermont
8 months later
Paul woke up screaming, but his cramped room was at the end of the hall, so no one heard him. The nightmare that woke him was of a searing memory from eight months ago:
He was tied to an old wooden chair. Rusty corrugated steel walls and a creaky wooden floor formed his prison. He struggled to escape, but thick, coiled ropes held him tight, cutting into his skin. The salty smell of the ocean mixed with diesel fuel burned his nostrils. His ribs felt broken, and each breath sent sharp pulsing waves of pain through his body. Something sticky and wet ran down his face and into his mouth. It tasted coppery, like blood.
Before him stood a blurry, opaque figure, and lamplight glinted off a large knife clutched in this person’s hand. Paul focused on the knife as it descended toward him with frightening speed. He tried to move out of the way, but the ropes held him in place. At the last moment, he jerked to the right, and the weapon scraped across his jawline and plunged deep into his left shoulder. Burning pain flashed through him. He screamed and everything went dark.
The memory ended there.
In the here and now, Paul sat on his bed, his chest heaving, and thought the only thing worse than his recurring nightmare was the torture itself. He turned on the bedside light, forced himself to get up, and made himself a steaming cup of coffee. Once he felt partially human again, his gaze drifted out the window. The Vermont countryside was visible in the waning starlight.
Cold winter air pressed through the gaps in the glass, but the chill wasn’t what caught Paul’s attention. The scar running along his jaw and neck stood out starkly in his reflection. He hated seeing it, but he couldn’t help staring. Neither could anyone else. He usually preempted the question people nervously avoided by saying he got the scar in a traumatic Ping-Pong accident, and laughed inwardly when they thought he was being serious.
Paul shifted his attention to the poster-sized Post-it board to the right of the window. He followed the graphic representation of his fragmented memories that, bizarrely, looked like a game of chutes and ladders, and came to the last symbol: a large knife and the word “who” followed by a question mark.
An old fear gripped him—that his dissociative amnesia was a precursor to something worse. Something his mother had.
The phone on his nightstand beeped. Ten minutes left.
He dressed and, knowing how much it would annoy the administration, picked out the most flamboyant tie he owned—one with a Spongebob Squarepants motif. He then grabbed his sixty-four-ounce coffee mug, filled it to the brim, and headed out into the hall. Closed doors lay on both sides of the long, ivory-colored hallway. He checked the time again. Five minutes left.
Paul leaned against the large window at the end of the hall. The first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon, casting streams of yellow, red, orange, and purple light against a towering wall of clouds. A sense of calmness washed over him, as it had every morning since he’d escaped from Italy, and he basked in the quiet moment of Zen before the chaos of the day.
The alarm on his phone went off. It was time.
He strode down the hall, yelling, “Wake Up! If your doors aren’t open in five minutes, you get the horn!”
Students aged twelve to eighteen trudged out of their rooms, carrying their towels and shower kits as they meandered to the community bathrooms. He greeted each of them, reminding some about upcoming exams and chiding a few who moved too slowly.
A senior in a t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms walked up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Mr. T, how are you so chipper in the mornings? It’s really annoying.”
Paul gave him a sly grin and replied, “It’s just the coffee. I’m really crying on the inside.”
The student rolled his eyes and continued to the bathroom. Paul laughed at himself.
Over the next few minutes, he checked each room to make sure all the students were getting ready for school. When he was satisfied, he left the hall and ambled down the stairs.
He opened the door to the second floor, and found Chuck Fitzgerald standing like a bored security guard as he watched the students go about their morning routine. Chuck was short, with fiery red hair, a chubby face, and a furry beard. He wore a white-and-blue plaid shirt, a yellow tie, brown pants, and cowboy boots. The whole outfit made him look like a farm boy who was uncomfortable wea
ring dress clothes.
“Hey man,” Chuck said in a pronounced southern drawl. “You done already?”
“The students are doing what they need to do.” Paul shrugged.
Chuck shook his head. “That’s going to be the death of you. You always expect people to do what they should. These are teenagers, man.” He drew out the word “man” for three seconds longer than necessary. “You have to watch them like a hawk and knock them on their bal seges if they screw up!”
Paul laughed. “Bal seges. That’s West Virginian for ‘butt,’ isn’t it? Is that what they taught you at Princeton?”
Chuck dropped the thick accent and spoke like a college professor. “Not all of us turn down scholarships to Yale. Why did you do that again?”
Paul hesitated. Now that he was back in the States, he could be honest about everything but his work history. Being undercover for so many years, however, made talking about his past extremely difficult. And talking about his mother and father was still a sore spot.
Chuck dropped back into his slow southern twang. “Neva’ forget where you come from, son.”
Paul thought that if Chuck had gone through his adolescence, he’d want to forget it too.
Chuck’s eyes swept the students again. “You goin’ down to get some ZuZu’s in the dining hall, or will you be avoiding your colleagues like always?”
It was a running joke between them. Other than their late-night conversations, Paul kept to himself. He knew Chuck suspected there was more to his past than he let on and always encouraged him to talk about it. Paul could never tell him the details, but he considered sharing vague stories with changed names, dates, and events.
Paul’s phone chirped. He read the text. “Maybe later. Shelly’s pulling up.”
“Your college friend?”
Paul nodded. He couldn’t tell Chuck that Shelly was also the person who recruited him to the FBI. His past work with the bureau was classified and under criminal investigation. “She’s bringing Tiffany back from a mother-daughter night in town.”
The Italian Deception Page 4