Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

He said, “I cannot believe you are here. It fills me with life and despair. You are here, but not for me.”

  “I would spare you the pain if I could.”

  He said, “I will test him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I will kill him in round one. If I cannot, I will kill him in round two. This will prove he is not worthy of you.”

  “What if you cannot?”

  “I can. But should the miraculous happen, if he survives until round three…”

  “Yes?” said Veronica.

  “Then…because I love you, I will let him live. On a condition.”

  “Thank you, Prince.”

  “He will still die. The security will catch him. And there is a rumor of an assassin,” he said.

  “I heard the rumor. What is your condition?”

  “If I kill Mackenzie during the first two rounds, you must marry me.”

  “Marry the man who killed my husband?”

  “Marry the man who exposed him as unworthy,” said the Prince. “I would kill a thousand men for us.”

  “I wouldn’t love you.”

  “With enough time, I will win you over.”

  “Very well,” said Veronica. “He will not lose to you. But if he does, you and I will marry. If not, you help me.”

  “The bargain is made. The best chance he’ll have is to escape during the fight.”

  “That cannot be true. He’s in a cage.”

  “Think about it, my love. Security will be busy with problems. The crowd will be rowdy and overflowing. You must create a diversion in round three. I will open the cage, and he can disappear into the bodies. All armed personnel will be in that arena. Once he is out? No one will catch him.”

  “How will you open the cage?”

  “I know a way.”

  “What kind of diversion?”

  He said, “A big one. A power outage. Find a way. But only in the third round. At the beginning.”

  “Prince, thank you.”

  “Do not thank me yet, my love. He will die. Because you are a woman worth killing for.”

  40

  Bright and early the next day, they sat around a wrought iron table in a nearby palazzo drinking caffè. Marcus was replaying a video on his phone, footage captured by Veronica’s purse. On screen, Rossi was bragging about his invincibility and the helpless plight of the opposing Camorra clans.

  Veronica asked, “You think it’s enough?”

  “Should be.”

  “I show them this,” said Carlos. “They storm city and kill the jefe.”

  “But they can’t get in. Rossi has all roads blocked until after the tournament.”

  “We find a way, Señora Summers.”

  “I got an idea about that,” said Manny, mixing collagen into his coffee. “Carlos, you work up an army to attack the gate, I’ll open it from the inside.”

  “How?”

  “Pure Hispanic machismo. Just tell me when and where.”

  Veronica said, “Let’s assume we can break down the gates so the disgruntled local soldiers can get in. I think the Prince is correct—a power outage would work wonders.”

  “Got that covered too.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved a phone. “This morning, while you fat lazy mafia crime lords slept, I went exploring.” He punched up a few photographs and slid the phone across. “The power lines are underground. But this place, behind the hotel, near the loading dock…”

  Marcus said, “What am I looking at?”

  “Electrical boxes. Transformers. Power supply. All that.”

  “Ain’t guarded?”

  “Very guarded. Behind a sturdy fence. But still, Imma blow it up.”

  “That so,” said Marcus.

  “That so. Should knock out power, until generators kick in.”

  “You believe you can?”

  “You offend me, mamita. I blow up what I wanna. You know how?”

  Veronica said, “Pure Hispanic whatsits.”

  “Machismo.”

  Marcus held up five fingers. “First, raise the army. Second, bring’em in tomorrow night, cause a ruckus. Third, knock out power during the third round. Fourth, find Mack after he escapes during third round. Fifth, get the hell out of here. I’ll have the car ready, and private jet waiting.”

  “Drumming up a mob is no easy thing,” said Veronica.

  “I won a small fortune off Mackenzie’s victory last night,” said Marcus. He rubbed his thumb across the tips of his first two fingers, a universal signal for money. “Gonna reinvest it into the cocaine shop down the street. Mob needs convincing? We’ll coke’em up.”

  “That’s a lot of cocaine.”

  “I bet a lot of money.”

  “What about the assassin?” asked Veronica. “Everyone knows the Kings hired one.”

  “Jump off that bridge later. I’ve asked a lot of my contacts. No one knows who it is. We get home and ace Robbins? Contract goes away.”

  A small white van braked to a stop on the cobblestone street and a gray-hired man in a vest leapt out.

  “Look who I find sucking nectar in my palazzo!” cried the tailor. “It’s you, the gods and goddess of my dreams. Aphrodite and her harem.”

  Veronica tried to rise and greet the tailor, but he pushed her back into the chair and knelt before her. “I cannot stay. I only stopped to worship. Because of you, fair-haired maiden nymph, my store is almost empty. The blushing billionaires came with open wallets and they purchased everything. They want to look like the blonde girl in the evening gown, the blonde girl with perfect breasts at the pool, the blonde girl in heels with legs that never end, and you send them all my way. Because of you, I am wealthy.”

  Veronica laughed. “Reaping what you sow, haberdasher. You gave us a fortune in fashion.”

  “I cannot stay. If I could, I would throw myself at all of you, such a gorgeous nubile table.” He took her hand and kissed it twice. “But alas, I’m off to dress the champions.”

  She sat up straighter. “Both?”

  “Both. I am the very best.”

  “You’ll talk with the American?”

  He said, “Of course. The man is so beautiful that I might linger.”

  “I need a favor, good tailor.”

  “Anything. I would slay a dragon for you. I would sacrifice my child, if I had one.”

  “Pass him a secret message, from me.”

  The man gasped and clutched her hand tighter. “Yes! Intrigue! Drama! Conspiracies and secrets, yes, absolutely.”

  “No names,” muttered Marcus. “Just in case.”

  “I must fly!” cried the tailor, glancing at his watch. “Already I am late.”

  “Tell the American I’m here,” said Veronica, and her voice betrayed her, choking with emotion. “And that I love him. And that I will release him. Tomorrow.”

  41

  That night, Carlos flipped the lights on, the harsh unwelcome glare.

  Veronica woke with the awareness that it wasn’t time. She checked her phone and groaned. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. What’s wrong?”

  “The Camorra clans,” said Carlos, breathing heavy, tight red t-shirt threatening to rip at the seams. “They come now. There will be fighting.”

  The other bedroom light snapped on and Marcus appeared, rubbing his eyes. “Supposed to be eighteen hours from now.”

  “I show them the video. They are a mob ready to fight. Thousands,” said Carlos. “They come to kill Rossi and they come to watch the final match.”

  “Watch Mackenzie?”

  “Half love Señor Mackenzie. Half love the Prince.”

  “Look like I didn’t need to buy suitcases full of cocaine,” said Marcus.

  “They are coming now.” Carlos went to the mini fridge and snatched a bottle of water. Twisted the top and guzzled half. “We cannot stop them.”

  Manny rolled out of bed and bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, awake and fresh immediately. “Where?”

  “Coming up Ta
ngenziale di Napoli.”

  Manny whistled. “The main gate.”

  “I snuck up the side. Rossi’s police are at the barricade. The Camorra clans want to attack at three, Señor Martinez, and then move up Via Frencesco Cilea.”

  “Well then.” Manny grinned and reached for a pair of pants. “We don’t have a minute to lose. Carlos and I, we will crack open the door to Vomero.”

  Marcus nodded. “Summers and I stay here. The mob attacks? We might bust down August’s door. Stay in phone contact with me.”

  Yanking on pants and shoving feet into sneakers, Manny laughed, flushed and gorgeous with energy and enthusiasm. “The game is afoot, amigos! This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  42

  Vomero, the small town on the hill in the middle of Naples, essentially had one point of ingress—the four-lane ramp looping up the side of the mountain off highway A56. On either side of the incoming ramp the land fell away precipitously. The ramp intersected Via Frencesco Cilea on the brow of the hill. If you wanted to get a car into Vomero or if you wanted to move a lot of people into Vomero in a hurry, you had to go through that intersection, making it a natural chokepoint for the polizia and Rossi’s forces to barricade.

  Hundreds of glistening black uniforms waited with shields and gas canisters and firearms.

  Up the long ramp came a small cavalcade of trucks and SUVs, occupying all four lanes. Marching boldly behind, in the middle of the highway, thousands of soldiers from the angry clans. The police used powerful spotlights from above to keep the soldiers in sight and to blind them.

  Manny and Carlos emerged onto the roof of the closest residential building—a modern seven-story, pale blue structure set with glass balconies and windows. Two police nests had been hastily erected here, set around two of the powerful spotlights. Carlos quietly surprised the southern nest with his heavy shotgun, holding the barrel at their eye level and stumbling through his Italian; the police got the gist and they didn’t move. Manny wrapped used elasticuffs to tie the hands of the officers, men relieved to be taken out of the fight.

  The two insurgents moved through the darkness to the northern police nest and repeated the drill. Only one man resisted and Manny shot him in the forehead with his silenced HK.

  Carlos turned off the radios and double checked the bindings while Manny crouched beside one of the spotlights. He unslung the rocket launcher from his shoulders and removed one of four RPGs from his backpack.

  “This is so beautiful I could cry,” he said, fondling the steel tube with affection. He had a recent Italian variant of the Russian RPG-7 launcher with a single-stage HEAT warhead, good for making a mess.

  The eyes of the nearest subdued police officers widened at the weapon.

  Carlos typed into his phone, communicating with his contacts in the Camorra mob.

  Manny carefully slid the projectile into the launcher until the display beeped and turned green. He stood, weapon perched on his shoulder, and peered down at the dramatic diorama below.

  Carlos said, “You ever fired one of those, Señor marshal?”

  “First time for everything, Señor outlaw. Tell your amigos, I’m ready.”

  Carlos typed into his phone and hit send.

  A minute later, the Camorra trucks and SUVs ascending the ramp accelerated to five miles per hour. The ranks of soldiers behind kept up. A quarter mile from the bristling barricade, coming around the final turn, the vehicles kicked it up to ten.

  Manny aimed, one eye screwed shut.

  He asked, “So lovely up here, you noticed?”

  “I notice. Good temperature. Smells like cooking sausage. You doing that right?”

  “Hope so.” Manny’s finger snaked around the trigger. “Bendita madre, guía mi furia.”

  The unguided rocket roared and leapt away, so quick and hot it was like magic. The next instant, the cluster of cruisers and cement roadblocks on the outbound lanes burst. Blacktop and tires were flung into the air, followed closely by the sound of a detonation.

  “Touchdown!” laughed Manny, already loading another RPG into the tube. “I’m so happy."

  The Camorra militias released a war cry and sped up, emboldened by the allied show of force.

  The police and guards suddenly found themselves confused and surrounded. Discipline and resolve melted.

  Manny aimed again…and fired.

  Nothing happened.

  Carlos reached up and shoved the projectile further into the launcher, and the display beeped green.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Squeezed the trigger…and fired.

  A hot blast and the second salvo punctured the barricade. The police turned and ran from the invisible foe raining death. Onward came the Camorra, their enemies dissolving.

  “Mischief, take thou what course thou wilt,” said Manny.

  “Que? What?”

  “I’m quoting Mack. But making a mess of it. Text Marcus, tell him the army is on the way. And let’s me and you, vamos.”

  43

  Veronica waited by the door, wearing the closest thing she had to battle gear - flats, loose palazzo pants, and a wraparound black linen shirt. She looked ready to attend a private runway showing of next Spring’s fashion trends, except for the .380 pistol she slipped into her clutch purse.

  Marcus stood at the mirror, examining the way his jacket covered the HK pistol in his shoulder holster. He hated those things, meant for the damn police, not him.

  The first angry Camorra soldiers were already in the hotel—they’d witnessed the arrival from their window. Time was ripe to free Mackenzie.

  Someone knocked at the door. Veronica froze. So did Marcus. They weren’t expecting visitors.

  The lock was activated with a master key and the door swung open. In stepped two security personnel that Veronica recognized—Rossi’s men.

  The first man saw her and released a long breath. He said, “Sei una donna difficile da trovare.”

  You are a hard woman to find.

  “Ti ci è voluto abbastanza tempo. Cominciavo a pensare che Rossi avesse perso interesse,” she replied.

  Took you long enough. I was beginning to think Rossi had lost interest in me.

  The guard, a tall and brooding Italian with thick eyebrows, didn’t smile. In Italian, he replied, “Follow me, please. I will escort you to Signore Rossi’s private box.”

  “His private box?”

  “For the fight,” the man said.

  “But…the fight is not for eighteen hours. And we heard the hotel was being stormed by local thugs.”

  “It is. Those loyal to Di Contini, they are here to protest Signori Rossi.”

  “Rossi, your boss.”

  “Yes,” said the man, and he looked unhappy about it. “Signori Rossi has decided the fight will happen immediately.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “It is the middle of the night.”

  “Let me speak openly, ma’am,” said the man. “It has not been pleasant since you left Signore Rossi’s side. He blames us for being unable to find you. If you do not follow me willingly, you will be taken. Our lives are at stake.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you alone?” he asked, frowning at the two beds.

  “Yes. Except for…” Veronica snapped her fingers. Marcus, listening out of view, stepped forward. “Except for my body guard, Marcus. If I join Rossi in his private suite, he will accompany us.”

  “Signori Rossi did not mention a body guard.”

  “I am ready to follow. But if I go, Marcus goes.”

  The two sentries exchanged a glance. The second man shrugged.

  “Very well. Follow me,” said the lead guard. “The fight begins soon.”

  The two sentries bracketed Veronica in the passage and walked for the elevator. Sounds of shouting came from down distant hallways. Marcus took out his phone. While they walked, he sent a text to Manny.

  >> Ronnie and I, taken to Rossi’s box.
Fight starting soon. Get ready to cut power. Wait for signal.

  44

  Timothy August and Sheriff Stackhouse sat at a dim booth at Blue 5 restaurant in Roanoke, Virginia, eating dinner and listening to the live band—soft jazz tonight. Long past his bedtime, Kix stared vacantly at the sax player. Uneaten pieces of mac and cheese were held but forgotten inside Kix’s tiny fists, and his eyelids drooped.

  Timothy August set down his martini and said for the third time that evening, “You think the kids are okay?”

  Stackhouse smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m sure of it, babe. That’s a dangerous crew we sent over there. We’ll get a text soon with a picture of them sipping drinks on an Italian beach. Try not to worry. Mack is fine.”

  Timothy nodded to himself. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  45

  Manny and Carlos bounced in the bed of a truck fishtailing through town near Castel Sant’Elmo. Such a ruckus was being raised by the invaders that Manny couldn’t help joining in.

  “Free the woman!” he cried.

  Carlos fired his pistol in the air.

  Manny continued, “Especially the fine señoritas!”

  The phone in his pocket buzzed. With one hand on the truck’s cab, he steadied himself. With the other, he retrieved the phone. Opened. Read the message from Marcus. Get ready to cut the power, it said.

  “Time for more fun, amigo!” He pounded the roof of the cab and shouted in the window, “To Teatro di Montagna!”

  46

  Veronica’s escorts were forced to take multiple detours to reach the top of the arena. The incoming Camorra soldiers clotting the passages weren’t dressed in sharp uniforms like the hotel’s security force, and they weren’t powerful Gurkhas like Rossi’s private detail. They were a motley crew in ratty jeans and soccer jerseys. Boots and ball caps. They carried old rifles, revolvers, and bottles of whiskey. Many were mere boys. But they were overwhelming in number, they were passionate about the Gabbia Cremisi, and they hated Rossi.