The Santini Vendetta

by Christopher Fox

  At 7:30, Louie closed his book and stood.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Kyle closed his laptop and returned it to the satchel, then collected his bag and followed Louie out of the room. A customs official stood behind a lectern just before the door to the jet-way. He casually inspected Louie’s and Kyle’s passports and placed an exit stamp on them. The rain had stopped and vapour now rose from the concrete surfaces. The clouds had cleared and a myriad of stars studded the ink-black sky. A Gulfstream jet sat on the apron and maintenance crews were finishing the fuelling. The co-pilot stood at the top of the gantry and Kyle followed Louie up the stairs, ducking slightly to clear the doorway. The interior of the plane was plush with generous amounts of walnut trim and leather seating.

  “This is Andrew,” Louie said as he introduced the co-pilot. “He is our co-pilot.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Kyle said as he offered his hand. “I’m Kyle.”

  “Pleased to meet you Kyle,” Andrew said as he relieved him of his suitcase and stowed it. “Take any seat you want. They all recline to a flat position if you want to lie down and have a nap. Wheels up in fifteen minutes. Once we get to cruising altitude, I will be back to offer snacks and beverages.”

  “Thanks,” said Kyle as he selected one of the front seats. He elected to sit in a forward-facing seat as he deemed it more natural than to travel backward. A small table separated the seats on which he placed his satchel.

  “You will have to stow that during take-off,” Andrew said. “You can place it below the seat.”

  “OK,” said Kyle as he tucked it under the seat and buckled his seatbelt.

  Andrew left to join Louie in the cockpit while Kyle sat back to enjoy the flight. After a few minutes, the engines started one at a time and the cabin lights dimmed. Kyle had to crane his neck downward to see out of the small oval-shaped windows. Ground crew were standing with their red-tipped flashlights waiting for the signal to guide the plane from the apron to the runway. The engines spooled up and the plane began moving. The ground crew waved their lights, beckoning the plane forward. Before long, they sat at the end of the runway after following several commercial jets likely delayed by the weather. The engines whined as they built up thrust until the pilot released the brakes, pinning Kyle to his seat as the Gulfstream jet accelerated down the runway and climbed into the night sky. The lights of San José filled Kyle’s view as the plane banked sharply to the left as it gained altitude. Before long, the cabin lights illuminated and Andrew appeared again.

  “Anything to eat or drink?” he asked.

  “No thanks. Just had a snack in the terminal.”

  “How about a beer? Wine? Liquor?”

  “Maybe a Bailey’s, if you have it.”

  “Sure. Straight up or on the rocks?”

  “On the rocks please.”

  It was an uneventful flight and Andrew returned a few hours later with a choice of hot or cold snacks and more alcohol. Kyle declined the alcohol as he did not know when the meeting with Lorenzo was, and he did not want to be in any way intoxicated. It was closer to 1:30 a.m. when they landed at Chicago’s Gary airport, situated about 30 minutes from downtown Chicago. As they taxied onto the apron, Kyle spied a large black limousine waiting for them. He deplaned and walked over to the limousine, thanking both Louie and Andrew for their hospitality. A uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door for Kyle while Andrew placed his suitcase in the open trunk. Kyle got in and sank into the plush upholstered seats. The driver got in and manoeuvred the large car away from the many aircraft and around the many hanger buildings. He pulled up to a gated exit post and a customs officer emerged from his hut. Kyle’s window came down, the officer lowered his head, shone a flashlight in Kyle’s face and asked for his passport, which he scrutinized.

  “What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked.

  What was the purpose of his visit? Kyle thought. I’m here to negotiate the payment of 10 million dollars from a Mafia kingpin and ask him to send two of his men to Costa Rica so someone can kill them.

  “I’m here for a business meeting.”

  “How long do you plan to be in the United States?”

  “One or two days.”

  “Anything to declare?”

  Yes. I want to declare that I must be crazy.

  “No.”

  “Enjoy your stay,” he said as he returned the passport to Kyle.

  The driver eased out of the exit when the gate raised, and turned left onto airport road. He made his way to Route 912, and joined the I-90 to downtown Chicago. Taking the 41 turnoff, he headed toward downtown to E. Walton Street and turned into the Waldorf Astoria where he pulled up to the front entrance. He popped the trunk lid, got out and opened the rear door for Kyle, then retrieved the suitcase, pulling the handle up and handing it to Kyle.

  “There is a room reserved in your name,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Kyle.

  Kyle wheeled his suitcase and walked up to the front doors that parted as he approached. A cheerful young black man smiled at him from behind the reservations desk.

  “Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria,” he beamed showing a perfect set of teeth.

  “Kyle MacDonald. I’m told I have a reservation.”

  “Ah, yes Mr. MacDonald. We have been expecting you,” he said as he punched a few keys on his computer. “Do you need help with your bags?”

  “No thanks.”

  “One of our best rooms,” the receptionist said. “The Gold Coast Suite, room 906. Your personal concierge will see to any of your needs.”

  Kyle thanked him, accepted the offered key-card and made his way to the elevators. Although he got an hour or so nap on the plane, his head was too wired to sleep deeply. He was now tired and wanted to crash, so he kicked off his shoes after entering the lavish suite, walked into the bedroom, slipped his satchel bag off his shoulder and let it drop to the floor, then sat on the bed. Kyle laid back and instantly fell asleep.

  Three

  Kyle MacDonald was the oldest of three sons born in Canada to a Scottish immigrant father and a French-Canadian mother. Angus MacDonald, a sergeant in the British Army, entered Canada in 1960 as an explosives expert to assist in training Canadian Special Forces. During this time he met, fell in love with and became engaged to Denise Lalonde, a French-Canadian corporal in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He returned to Britain and submitted an application for immigrant status to the Canadian Consulate in London. Returning to Canada in August of 1966, they married in Ottawa on a cold February day the next year.

  Angus worked for several construction companies as a demolition expert and eventually set up a business as an explosives consultant in the small town of Smiths Falls, approximately 50 kilometres south of Ottawa. While Angus was in Britain, Denise applied to teacher’s college and when they moved to Smiths Falls, she taught at the local school. When Kyle was born in July of 1970, Denise opted to stay home and devote her time to the new family. A year-and-a-half later, she gave birth to Daniel and by the time Kyle was three years old he had gained another brother, David. Angus became popular amongst the residents of this small town of less than 10,000 people. He belonged to all the service clubs and after a few years as a councillor, ran for Mayor. He served in that position for 14 years until an untimely death, at 55 years old, from complications surrounding what should have been a simple appendectomy. At 20 years old, Kyle thought his world had ended, but as the oldest son, knew he needed to be strong to support his mother and brothers during their time of grief. At the time, he started his third year of an electrical engineering programme at Ottawa University, but his two brothers had left school at grade 12 and 13 respectively, and started a small painting and decorating business with experience they gained from previous summer employment.

  Denise moved to Ottawa to be close to her sons and returned to teaching. David was the motivation behind the business and built a large clientele whereas Daniel knew how to get the w
ork completed and manage the workforce. Within three years, they had a thriving business employing ten tradesmen working on renovations, additions and remodelling of houses. Kyle graduated magna cum laude and applied to the Armed Forces, enrolling in their Officer Programme, initially specialising in generation equipment for the many portable and standby plants and spent a lot of time travelling to the various bases, overseeing maintenance inspections and upgrading control sequences. After four years, he enrolled in their Special Forces Program, designed to combat the growing incidences of terrorism, especially with the increase in hi-jackings. Kyle not only became an expert in Close Quarters Combat, but also developed an expertise in Special Electronics and Surveillance. This included bomb disposal training and knowledge of the various explosives in use by terrorist groups. After eight years of service he received an honourable discharge due to an injury received while in combat training. Joining forces with a representative of one of the diesel generator manufacturers, they formulated a company building diesel generator sets. At first, they handled small units for farm use and pumping stations, which were assembled in an old warehouse originally used for manufacturing machine parts for the war effort. The demand grew significantly when they won several contracts with DND (Department of National Defence) for larger generators used for mobile operations. Within five years, the company expanded to a new assembly plant and won a major contract with DND to provide continuous duty generator sets, with 100% redundancy, for the NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) early warning sites forming an arc along the northernmost reaches of the Canadian arctic.

  Just before his discharge from the services, Kyle met Casey—a tall, buxom, fair-haired interior designer at one of his brothers’ business gatherings. She provided the design layouts for much of the remodelling and although Daniel offered her a permanent position, she preferred to stay with the design firm. Casey infatuated Kyle from the start, but she continually declined his offers to have lunch or go to a movie. He later found out she was separated, had a three-year-old son, and still being abused and harassed by her husband. Understandably, she was somewhat disillusioned with men in general. At the time, Kyle was not keen on inheriting a family, but the infatuation with Casey continued to gnaw away at him. When he opened his business, and wanted to remodel his offices, he called Casey for a consultation, but insisted they meet for lunch. She agreed and he finally won her over during the ensuing months. Casey filed for divorce on the grounds of cruelty and six months after it was finalized they married.

  Kyle was tall and filled out his 1,880 mm frame, although he still referred to height in the older, imperial units as 6' 2". Since Canada adopted the metric system in 1971, Kyle had converted his mind to adopt temperature and distance in metric, but still stuck to the older system for most other things. Most construction still uses imperial measures and continues with 2x4s for studs and 4' x 8' sheets for drywall and plywood. Although topping the scales at 91 kilos, again referring to the old measure of 200 lbs., he was devoid of excess fat, due mainly to a rigorous exercise routine. During the winter months his activities included cross-country skiing and once the golf courses opened in April, that’s where you would find him. He also became a certified SCUBA diver and each year would plan a trip to one of the Florida or Caribbean dive centres. A thick crop of black hair and dark features framed a handsome face with deep-set brown eyes. A wide and prominent nose gave way to a thick and healthy moustache. On occasion, he would grow a beard, but since meeting Casey, she convinced him it hid his handsome features, so he shaved it off and kept just the moustache. Thin lips surrounded a wide mouth that frequently formed a smile to reveal a perfect set of white teeth.

  Kyle had developed a love for cars and collected some of the classics, owning a 1969 Series 2 Jaguar XKE, referred to as an ‘E-Type’, and a rare 1978 Ferrari 308GTS. His favourite, however, being a 1960 Bentley S2 sedan.

  Casey’s son, Bobby, adapted to Kyle the first time they met and Kyle grew to love him as his own. Strangely, they never got around to planning any more children and Bobby became an only child. They purchased a ten-acre hobby farm in Kars, on the outskirts of Ottawa, which had over 300 m of frontage on the Rideau River. Casey devoted her time to Bobby, busying herself with small design jobs for her brothers-in-law while Kyle spent endless hours at work. For recreation they enjoyed boating and built a permanent dock to moor their 18-foot Glastron bow-rider.

  Casey’s ex-husband, Brian, was a dentist and became involved with cocaine, both as a user and later, a dealer. After a deal had gone bad, desperate for money with nowhere to turn, he looked to Casey and her new husband Kyle.

  * * * *

  Ottawa, Canada. August, 1999

  “Call for you on line 2,” Kyle’s receptionist said when he picked up the phone.

  “Thanks,” he said depressing the line key.

  “Kyle MacDonald.”

  “Mr. MacDonald,” said the unfamiliar French-accented voice. “This is Inspector Thibodeau of the Ottawa Police. I’m afraid your wife and son were involved in a car accident. I am at the Ottawa General. Can you come down here?”

  Kyle felt a surge of adrenaline pump through his body. “What?” he said. “How…? Jesus Christ, are they OK?”

  “Your son is fine but your wife is in critical condition I’m afraid to say.”

  “OK, I’ll be right there”.

  Son of a bitch he thought grabbing his coat and shooting out the door. His mind raced. Casey in critical condition? God! Let her be OK.

  The office was less than fifteen minutes from the hospital, with little traffic to slow progress on a Saturday. He pulled into the hospital entrance and parked the car in a ‘No Parking’ zone because he was not prepared to waste time parking in the public parking lot. The automatic doors of the Emergency Admissions slid open as he approached them and he scurried over to the main reception desk.

  He was informed by the receptionist that Casey MacDonald was in Intensive Care in the Trauma Unit on the second floor. “Follow the yellow line to the elevator. Up one floor and check in at the Station on your right,” the courteous Negro woman directed. Kyle detested the antiseptic smell of hospitals and visited them only as often as necessary. Beds cluttered the corridor occupied by patients with a variety of maladies or injuries. Other patients sorrowfully sat in wheelchairs, an umbilical cord of life-giving nectar dripping from intravenous bags dangling on portable stands. He followed the directions and came upon the Nursing Station with a sign over it saying:

  B-206 TRAUMA UNIT

  He addressed the attractive dark-haired nurse seated behind the counter.

  “Casey MacDonald. I’m here to see Casey MacDonald,” he said with nervousness in his voice.

  “Are you Mr. MacDonald?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Mrs. MacDonald is in surgery right now. A police officer over there would like to talk to you,” she gestured to her left.

  To Kyle’s right stood a fair-haired man of medium build, dressed in a light brown suit, white dress shirt and pattern-less dark brown tie. He acknowledged Kyle with a nod as he looked in his direction, then walked up to him.

  “Are you Kyle MacDonald?” he asked in French-accented English.

  “Yes, I am. What’s going on?”

  “My name is Inspector Thibodeau,” he said, offering a card. “Please sit down.” He gestured to a well-worn leatherette-upholstered couch over by the wall and guided Kyle to it by the elbow. They both sat down and the Inspector produced a small notebook from an inside pocket, which he flipped open, then selected a pencil from the other inside pocket and poised it over the paper.

  “Monsieur MacDonald. Your wife and son were involved in a shooting,” he started.

  “My son too? A shooting? What…?”

  “Please, Monsieur. I will explain everything I know. Your wife is in surgery now. I believe she is in critical condition. She took a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Your son has received a nasty blow
to the head, but his condition is stable—concussion I believe is what the doctor said. He should be fine and is in the Children's Hospital.”

  “Casey? Oh no.” he buried his head in his hands. “Who did this? How…?”

  The inspector held up a hand. “As far as we can piece together now, the shooting was an unfortunate accident triggered by a collision between the car your wife and son were travelling in and a truck running a red light. We think a Brian Dolan, your wife’s ex-husband…”

  Kyle's face flushed with anger at the mention of her ex-husband's name. “Brian? That creep? What the hell did he have to do with this?”

  “As I was saying,” the inspector continued, “from what we can piece together, Brian Dolan, who is also a convicted drug offender, was likely holding them at gunpoint. The gun was obviously being held with the safety off—he no doubt had little gun sense—because it went off when the vehicles collided.”

  Kyle felt dizzy. His stomach also felt nauseous and he thought he might throw up.

  “Monsieur? Are you OK? I know this is not easy. Do you wish to lie down?” he signalled a nurse.

  “No. I’m OK. Just a little dizzy. I want to see Casey—and Bobby.”

  “That may not be possible right now for your wife. I understand she is in surgery having the bullet removed.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “I do not know. We will have to wait until she comes out of surgery. We have many questions also to ask when she is able to answer. We are treating this as an attempted murder.”

  “What about that bastard Brian? Have you arrested the son-of-a-bitch?”

  “He was killed in a police shoot-out at the scene of the accident.”

  Kyle had trouble believing this was happening. His initial reaction was, of course, denial. He had known Bobby for 10 years–since he was three years old–and treated him like his own son. And Casey. His sweet, adorable Casey. In critical condition? This can’t be happening.