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Neighbors and Other Strangers

Page 15

by Gordon Parker


  “I hate that jerk,” he was mumbling. “‘You screwed up, Ietro. You left the door open when you parked the car.’ I did not leave the door open, Guy,” he said, turning and speaking louder. Just a little louder. He didn’t really want whoever Guy was to hear him. He was scared of Guy.

  “And your name isn’t Guy,” Ietro continued. “It’s Gaetano. You should be proud of your heritage.” He was back to mumbling.

  There must have been a silent alarm system they had tripped when Nancy picked the lock. The kidnappers would be on the alert. No matter. The team’s attack was fully committed.

  Nancy and Christopher were pressed into doorways on the man’s left; Trent was on his right. He would pass Nancy first. Christopher didn’t like it but he nodded to her, indicating that she should take him out.

  Nancy let him take one step past her before stepping out of the doorway and bringing her semiautomatic down on the back of his head like a hammer. Trent stepped up and caught him before he fell. Christopher grabbed the rifle before it clattered to the floor.

  Nancy quickly cuffed the man’s hands behind his back. Trent ripped a strip of cloth off the Mafia soldier’s shirt, which he used to gag him. He ripped off another strip to bind his ankles.

  Christopher held up one finger. “One down,” he indicated.

  They didn’t think the other Mafioso would go down as easily.

  Scott felt sick when he looked at Miles, bruised and bloody. It was all his fault. He knew that. Darcey had only one red mark on her cheek, as though she had been slapped. Miles had been the focus of punishment.

  They were in the first floor’s large main room. Miles and Darcey were sitting side by side on an old sofa. Neither was bound. In addition to the one who called himself Guy, there were four other armed men in the room.

  “So you’re the husband,” Guy taunted. “Your wifey has been telling us about you.”

  “I doubt that,” Scott replied, with as much confidence as he could muster. “Our relationship isn’t something Miles would choose to discuss with scum like you.”

  “He’s just lucky Don Rossi gave me orders to lay off. I was planning to have a lot of fun with him. And when I had him worn out, then I was going to start on her,” Guy said, wrapping his hand in Darcey’s hair and jerking her head back.

  Scott said nothing. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of an emotional response.

  “So are you crazy or what?” Guy asked, releasing Darcey’s hair. “What are you doing here? Did you think you would just come in here and leave with these two? Does Don Rossi know you’re here?”

  “No, he doesn’t know I’m here,” Scott answered. “And yes, I do plan to leave here with Miles and Darcey.”

  Guy picked up his FN Herstal P90, pointing the strange but highly effective personal defense weapon at Scott.

  “Maybe I should just blow you away right now.”

  “Your boss might not like that,” Scott said, struggling to keep his fear hidden. “He might be angry at me now but he still needs me.”

  Guy was obviously uncertain about the situation.

  “Then maybe I should shoot your wifey,” he said, swinging the short weapon in Miles’ direction.

  “If you do that, then you might as well shoot me, too. That’s the worst thing you could do.”

  Guy’s uncertainty was intensifying. He found his phone in his pocket.

  “I’d better call the boss.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Scott questioned. “Rossi might be curious about why you let the first person to knock on the door come right in.”

  Guy laughed nervously. “How did you know where to find us? Did someone talk? Who was it? I’ll take care of him right now.”

  “No one told me anything. It wasn’t hard to find you. And if I found you, you can be sure others will as well.”

  Climbing the stairs as noiselessly as they could, Christopher, Nancy, and Trent found themselves in a large lobby.

  To the left was a long front desk. The place had never been a hotel. The front desk would have been used as a coat room or a place where customers would check in to affirm their desires for the evening

  Tonight it was manned by a guard carrying a large assault rifle. Bulky and heavy. Trent thought it didn’t look especially effective. It still could be a nasty weapon.

  “Hey…what the …?” the guard said, rising from the chair, coming around the end of the front desk as he attempted to bring his rifle into play.

  “Freeze,” Christopher ordered.

  The guard ignored him. Nancy wasn’t waiting. Her weapon fired once. The bullet slammed into his left knee, crushing the patella. With his kneecap gone, his tibia and femur were left connected only by shreds of tendon. He fell to the ground, out of action. Trent grabbed his rifle, tossing it down the stairs.

  Behind them were stairs going to the upper floors. To their right, a double set of swinging doors led into another room. Judging by the size of the doors, Trent guessed it was a large room. Most likely where the casino was once located.

  The sound of a shot coming from the lobby froze all activity in the main room.

  “Guglielo, Barnaba, Martino. Go see what that’s all about,” Guy ordered.

  With the surprise element gone, Christopher and Trent focused on the double swinging doors. Nancy kept an eye on the stairs.

  Suddenly three men charged through the swinging doors. Two carried assault rifles. The third man carried a the same futuristic appearing personal defense weapon that Guy had flaunted to Scott.

  Two of the men came out firing their weapons. Christopher, Nancy, and Trent hit the floor simultaneously.

  Trent’s Desert Eagle roared, a .50 caliber slug ripping into the first man’s upper right arm, wrecking the humerus bone. He dropped his rifle as he stumbled toward the front desk, seeking a place to escape the fight.

  The next round from the Desert Eagle missed the second man, striking the wall no more than an inch from his head. Close enough to cost the would-be gunman what little nerve he had. He dropped his weapon, his hands clawing for the ceiling.

  “On the floor, face down, spread eagle,” Trent ordered. The unnerved gunman hastened to do as he was told.

  “Barnaba, you coward,” the one called Martino shouted as he watched his companion surrender.

  The man with the small, personal defense weapon, was distracted as he unwisely berated his companion. Christopher took the opportunity to fire his Smith & Wesson, striking the gunman squarely in the crotch.

  The weapon dropped from his hand as the injured man fell to the floor, screaming in agony, hands between his legs. His face reflected the horror of his recent transition from healthy manhood to no manhood at all. His screams rose and fell in multiple levels, ranging from agonized wailing to pathetic whimpering.

  “First time I ever heard multi-syllabic whining,” Nancy said as she cuffed Barnaba’s hands behind his back. Trent picked up the two assault rifles and the personal defense weapon. He tossed them downstairs to join the rifle already there.

  “You ruined me!” Martino whined.

  “Uh oh,” Christopher replied, unsympathetically.

  The five people in the main room listened to the rattle of gunfire. Then the silence. Each of them wondered what was going on. Guy heard a man crying out in pain. Cursing in Italian. One of his men was down.

  “Guglielo! Barnaba! Martino!” Guy called out. “What’s going on out there?”

  There was no reply. Just the wailing of a badly wounded man.

  Guy clutched his weapon. One of his men remained in the room with him. Guy liked Brock best. He had an American name. Like Guy. Not the old world names of the rest of his crew.

  “That’s it,” he said to Brock. “Shoot the wifey.”

  Brock didn’t question the order. That was another reason Guy was partial to him. The man turned his own personal defense weapon toward Miles.

  “NO!” Scott shouted, hurling himself in front of Miles just as Brock pulled th
e trigger. A three round burst traced a path from Scott’s shoulder diagonally across his chest. His clavicle was broken. There was no way to know the extent of internal damage.

  Seeing the man he loved viciously shot down roused Miles from the lethargy of the arduous experience of the past few days.

  “Oh no. Scott! Scott!” Miles threw his own battered body over his husband’s in an attempt to protect him from any continued assault. Darcey quickly jumped behind the sofa.

  Miles and Scott were ignored for the moment as Brock turned to the double swinging doors to see Trent flinging himself into the room. Don Rossi’s man fired another three round burst that went high as Trent dropped to the floor.

  He had unzipped the gym bag before entering the room, extracting the M16. He slid it across the floor to Darcey before firing two wild shots in the general direction of the two remaining kidnappers.

  “Shoot them! Kill them all!” Guy shouted as he shoved Brock forward.

  Brock lowered the barrel of his weapon to where Trent lay on the floor. Before he could pull the trigger again, Darcey put the M16 into action. It was hard to reach her target from where she had taken cover. She hit her target just above his foot. The powerful M16 rounds turned the talus of Brock’s left ankle into shards of bone. He would likely lose his foot.

  Guy found himself alone. He felt the tingle of fear travel through his body. He fired a burst over his shoulder as he ran for a door at the far corner of the room.

  Trent and Darcey both fired their weapons in his direction. But he got through the door unscathed.

  “Where does that door go?” Trent shouted.

  “I’m not sure. I think it might be a back way down to the water.” Darcey said. “I heard them mention something about that.”

  “Do what you can for Scott and Miles,” he shouted as he ran back through the swinging doors.

  “There’s another one down in there,” he said as he ran past Christopher. “The leader is headed to the water.” He heard the big cop behind him as he ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  They heard the roar of a boat motor as they ran down the lower hallway. By the time they reached the door leading to the loading dock, they saw the runabout making the turn of the L-shaped inlet, heading for open water. Trent fired the last two rounds from the Desert Eagle. To no effect.

  Returning to the hallway, they released the feet of the first guard they had taken out. He preceded them, with the occasional encouragement from Christopher’s Smith & Wesson prodding his back.

  Two more Mafioso were upstairs. They called down to say they were surrendering. Nancy had them toss down their weapons. Another assault rifle and a lightweight Glock .40 caliber handgun clattered down the stairs.

  Christopher and Trent returned to the main room where Darcey was attempting to console Miles and do what she could to help his wounded husband. Scott was barely breathing.

  “Oh, Scott, Scott, don’t leave me,” Miles cried.

  Scott raised his hand, trying to touch Miles’ tear-stained face. He didn’t have the strength. His hand fell away. He closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow, red-tinged bubbles floated on his lips each time he exhaled. Not a good sign.

  Christopher dragged Brock, who was unable to walk, to the lobby to join his comrades.

  Trent knelt by Darcey, putting his arms around her. She let him hold her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked

  She nodded. He kissed her.

  “What took you so long?” she said.

  He smiled. Darcey would be fine.

  He wasn’t sure about Scott and Miles.

  Within half an hour the packed sand leading to the old building was jammed with ambulances and police vehicles. The first ambulance took Scott, who was clinging to life. Miles rode with him, refusing to leave his husband’s side.

  Armed police officers accompanied the wounded kidnappers as they were loaded into ambulances. The officers would accompany their prisoners, each of whom was handcuffed to the gurney he was on, to the hospital. They would remain on guard as the men were treated.

  Chief Marvin himself was on the scene. Darcey told him how she and Miles were kidnapped. She described their treatment as hostages.

  “It was awful, Chief Marvin,” Darcey said. “But they treated Miles far worse than they did me. They ripped his shirt off when we first got here, taunting him. The one who was in charge, Guy he called himself, enjoyed beating poor Miles. He hit me only once,” she added, touching the red spot on her cheek, “when I tried to intervene.”

  “Can you definitely say Jonathan Rossi was behind this?” the chief asked.

  “Only to the extent that I heard them mention ‘Don Rossi’ a few times,” she replied. “Guy got a phone call this morning that displeased him. He was ordered to lay off any mistreatment and to feed us well. He didn’t like that at all. Guy is a sadist, Chief. He told Miles he had planned to drain all the blood from his body. He was disappointed that Rossi, or whoever called, ordered him to make sure we were well treated.”

  “So, Sergeant Booth,” Marvin said, turning to Christopher, “you and Sergeant Patrick, assisted by our consultant, Mr. Marshall, created quite a bit of carnage. Don’t you think bringing in the rest of our department would have been appropriate?”

  “Uh…Yes, Sir,” Christopher stammered. “But we didn’t have a lot of time.”

  “You say Mr. Douglas called to tell you where he was going and what he planned to do. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Christopher answered. “Nancy…Uh…Sergeant Patrick, Mr. Marshall, and I decided we could best help him by getting into the building undetected as quickly as possible. Frankly, sir, it’s likely that a fleet of black and whites with lights flashing and sirens blaring would probably have resulted in the three innocent civilians being killed.”

  “And you always carry combat face paint with you?” the chief questioned.

  “Never leave home without it, sir,” Christopher answered, keeping a straight face.

  “I see,” the chief replied. “How did you get here? I see only Mr. Douglas’ car.”

  “We parked in a pullout about a mile north of here. We came down through the rocks and found the ramp leading down to the water underneath the building. We were able to get in there and take them by surprise.”

  “And one, this Guy fellow who was in charge, escaped. Right?”

  “Yes, there might have been others that got away,” Christopher said, “but he did for sure. There was a door leading down to the water that we didn’t know about. He managed to get to the boat that was moored down there and out to open water.”

  “I see,” the chief said before turning to Trent. “And now, Mr. Marshall, what do I do about you? I’m starting to wonder if bringing you on board as a consultant to the department was a good idea.”

  “Trent’s participation has been invaluable in the operation we put into action,” Christopher said. “Operation Den of Snakes was his concept. He was intimately involved in developing the strategy and planning its execution. It has worked without a hitch so far, Chief. It has the potential to cripple four of the city’s major crime organizations for a generation or more.”

  Nancy chimed in to support Christopher. “I agree with Sergeant Booth completely, Chief. Mr. Marshall is playing a critical role. And, if I might point out, at considerable personal risk. One of the kidnap victims is his wife, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” the chief said, glancing at Darcey who had returned after helping Miles into the ambulance with Scott. “And I agree that Operation Den of Snakes is a brilliant plan, which I endorse without reservation.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Christopher said.

  “Now if we’re done with our encomia,” Chief Marvin said, looking at the Desert Eagle holstered on Trent’s hip, “I will assume that weapon is a legal .44 caliber. And that,” pointing to the M16 Darcey had retrieved, “is an AR-15.”

  His sarcasm did not go unnoticed.

 
Christopher spoke up. “You approved the permits and waivers for Trent and Darcey yourself, Sir.”

  “So I did,” Marvin agreed, with a hint of a smile. “So I did.”

  There was silence.

  “Well, it’s all a bit irregular,” Marvin said, “and the media will be all over us when they get wind of it, but good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Christopher said.

  The ache in Rossi’s head was approaching unbearable. He feared his head might explode. Or he might have a stroke. How many disasters could he endure?

  Guy had called to report to him on the attack that had cost him eight more soldiers and his hostages. He would have felt better had his soldiers been killed. None were. One wasn’t even injured. He surrendered when the first shot was fired. And how was it, Rossi asked Guy, that he was the only one to escape? He got no satisfactory reply.

  Rossi was glad his father and grandfather weren’t around to see how poorly Rossi Family solders were performing. He would be ashamed to face them.

  He blamed Trent Marshall for his mounting problems. The man seemed invincible. Rossi was sure Marshall was the one who invaded his home and took out his entire security team. The eight men he had guarding Douglas’ boyfriend and Marshall’s wife couldn’t stop him.

  Now without the hostages, he had no hold over Douglas and Marshall. None at all.

  To add to the paranoia Rossi was beginning to feel, Jimmy Shadow hadn’t responded to his last message requesting assistance. Rossi was starting to consider taking Marshall out himself. He stroked the rifle lying on his desk.

  The slim, bald man wearing horn-rimmed glasses turned his van into the parking lot of the warehouse on the Oakland waterfront. His cousin walked swiftly from the warehouse to climb into the passenger seat.

  “What has happened this time, Gaetano?” the driver asked. Even though they were cousins, he was several years older than Guy. He had been called many times on nights like this when the younger man was in trouble.

  “It’s nothing, Filippo,” Guy said. “Don’t worry about it. I just need to get out of town and lay low for a while.”

 

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