by Mel Odom
The elevator stopped at the third floor and a handful of people tried to get on. Ebersol flashed his badge and ordered them back, and they went grudgingly. The bank security chief’s walkie-talkie crackled for attention on his hip as they continued uninterrupted to the lobby.
‘“About this deal,” Hobart said nervously, “what will the prosecuting attorney want?”
“Records,” Mac said, “that link DiVarco to the false companies handling the jackal network profits.”
“What else?”
“You’ll have to testify.”
“I can’t.”
Ebersol slipped an earjack from his pocket and shoved it into his ear. Scuderi tried to overhear but couldn’t.
“Your testimony would be one of the foundation blocks in the DA’s case,” Mac said.
“DiVarco will have me killed,” Hobart said with real feeling. “You don’t know how powerful the people are that he’s connected with. They can-”
Ebersol reached under his jacket and pulled his gun as he looked at Mac and Scuderi. “A group of armed men just invaded the lobby. They killed all three of the perimeter guards.”
Drawing her 10mm, Scuderi punched the elevator’s emergency-stop button. Before she could hit it, she heard the soft ring of the arrival bell. As the doors opened, she flung herself to one side and reached for Hobart. Her fingers closed in the material of his jacket.
Then a withering blast of autofire jerked him from her grasp and drove him up against the back wall of the elevator. A bloody line of bullet holes showed across the immaculate white of Hobart’s shirt.
“Jeez o’cripes,” Ebersol said, hunkering in one corner of the cage.
Bullets sprayed into the cage and ripped holes in the back wall. One of them caught the bank security chief in the thigh and toppled him to the ground.
Mac punched the button for the second floor as an Asian man attempted to push his way into the elevator.
Without hesitation, Scuderi dropped the Delta Elite beside the man’s temple and pulled the trigger as the guy raised his Uzi. The pistol recoiled in her fist and she saw the pattern of burnt flesh stark on the man’s face as his head snapped backward. His blood was warm against her cheek.
Mac knelt beside Hobart’s fallen body, placed two fingers against the man’s neck, and glanced up at Scuderi. “He’s dead.”
Scuderi cursed.
Ebersol groaned in the corner as the elevator bumped to a stop on the second floor.
“They have two options,” Scuderi said. “Either they’ll pursue to make sure the hit on Hobart went down right, or they’ll pull out.”
Mac nodded.
Scuderi pulled her T-jack out of her pocket and adhered it to her face, then reached behind her jaw and triggered the SeekNFire function. ”You stay here. I’ll cover the retreat.”
“Keep in touch,” Mac said. He flipped off the power to the elevator.
Scuderi ran from the elevator, mentally accessing the compass in her mind and finding the front of the building. For the team to invade the main lobby of the bank, they’d have had to come in through the front. Keeping the assault simple, they’d have parked out front too so the retreat could move quickly.
Halfway down the hall, she selected the office door she wanted. Stepping back, she fired two rounds into the locking mechanism, then slammed her foot into the door. It gave with a wrenching screech. She followed it inside, dodging quickly around the sparse furniture of the outer office, then into the rear room.
She shoved the venetian blinds to one side and saw five Asian men trotting down the steps toward a waiting green-and-white Chevy Suburban. Wheeling, she laid her pistol on the desk, grabbed the swivel chair behind it in both hands and threw it over her hip toward the big window with a yell to focus her strength.
The chair smashed through the glass, catching in the venetian blinds and tearing them away with it as it fell.
Instantly, Scuderi fisted her 10mm, felt the SeekNFire circuitry reconfirm the weapon as one designated in its memory, and ran for the window. She arrived in time to see the whirling mass of chair and blinds strike the steps only a few feet from the armed men.
Before they could react, she knelt on the ledge with one hand wrapped around the window frame. She fell forward, letting her weight depend from her supporting arm. The rough brick exterior of the building abraded her cheek as she slammed full-length against the wall.
A line of bullets chipped stone splinters to her left.
Grimly, she released her hold on the window and dropped.
She heard the gunfire pick up in intensity as she fell, and saw puffs of brick smoke stirred up from the impacts. She landed in a flower bed, her boots digging into the soft loam as she went into an automatic roll to lessen the sudden stop.
The street scene blurred as she rolled over onto her back. Her gun arm tracked the targets the circuitry picked out. She fired three times in quick succession, continuing her roll till she was able to get her feet under her. She tasted dirt from the flower bed when she opened her mouth to breathe.
Two of the Korean hit men were down and wouldn’t be getting back up. A third was limping toward the waiting escape vehicle.
A burst of gunfire cut branches from the hedge next to Scuderi. She shrank away from it, but locked onto her next target. Even with the SeekNFire circuitry, when a target was in motion it was hard to hit. Her bullet took the man she was aiming at in the shoulder but didn’t stop him from scrambling into the Suburban. She put the final two rounds through the side glass of the big truck in an effort to rattle the driver.
“Maggie,” Mac called over the T-jack.
“Go.”
The Suburban roared away from the curb. Sprinting, changing magazines on the run, Scuderi made it to their van parked illegally in front of the bank. A parking ticket fluttered under the wiper.
“The bank security people have got everything under control in here,” Mac said. “I’m on my way out.”
“I don’t have time to wait.” Scuderi keyed the ignition and yanked the column shift into first gear. The van responded with plenty of power from the V-8 short block. The rear wheels dug into the pavement with a growl of tortured rubber.
The fleeing Suburban was almost at the end of the block.
Scuderi accelerated and shifted, then shifted again, running the tach up into the red each time. Despite the rack-and-pinion steering, she thought the van handled sluggishly. She wished she had a pursuit car worthy of the name, but grimly handled the rolling stock she had to work with.
By the time she started to enter the intersection the Suburban had raced through without slowing down, she thought she was beginning to catch up. A half-dozen bullets ricocheted from the bulletproof windshield, leaving spiderwebbings of cracks but not penetrating.
She heard the keening shrill of police sirens just before she saw the patrol cars come roaring from each direction of the cross street and brake to stop, cutting her off. She braked to a halt and stuck her head out the window with her badge case. “FBI! Get those vehicles out of the way!”
Instead, the drivers of the prowlcar got out with shotguns and crouched behind their open doors. “Out of the van!” one of the men ordered.
“You’re letting them get away!”
“Get out of the vehicle,” the cop commanded.
For a moment Scuderi thought about ramming her way through the V-shaped barrier of the patrol cars, then discarded the impulse. Provided she didn’t disable her own vehicle, the action would further strain the already tense relationship between Omega Blue and the local PD. She switched off the engine and emergency brake as she watched the Suburban take a right turn and disappear. She cursed in disgust and opened the door.
“Put down the gun,” the police officer ordered.
Placing the 10mm to one side, Scuderi moved away.
“Face down on the street, your hand behind your head.”
“I’m an FBI agent.”
“Do it!”
Scud
eri complied. Her bruised cheek stung as she lay on the street and smelled the salt-air scent trapped in the dust. “I’ve got a badge.”
Both men moved on her with their shotguns at the ready. One of them scooped up her badge case where she’d thrown it. The guy was young and cocky. “A real badge. What do you think about that, Minske?”
“Could be fake,” the other cop said. He was older, with worn crow’s-feet surrounding his eyes. “We need to frisk her to make sure she’s not carrying anything besides that gun.”
“The assassination team that just hit Avery Hobart at the Westphal Bank is getting away while you two idiots are amusing yourselves.”
“Wow,” the young cop said. “She sounds a little hot under the collar to me.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I finish this frisk if the collar’s all she’s hot under,” Minske said.
When the older cop’s hands kneaded her buttocks in a degrading fashion, Scuderi figured, screw the PR. With him standing straddle-legged above her, she lifted one leg and kicked him hard in the crotch.
The cop grabbed himself and choked out a cry of pain that sounded like a hissing tea kettle.
Still in motion, Scuderi reached up and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun in one hand, yanked it forward, then slammed it back into the young cop’s face as he tried to pull it back. It discharged, blowing out a tire on one of the police cruisers. Hanging onto the shotgun, Scuderi got to her feet, slid a hand down the barrel, and flipped the safety on, then gave the young cop a forward snap-kick that caught him in the face and knocked him backward.
As Minske came for her, she swung the shotgun like a baseball bat, coming off her shoulder in good form, and caught the cop solidly behind the ear as he turned to avoid the blow. He grunted with the impact, then sagged into the street, unconscious.
After picking up her badge and gun, Scuderi took time to cuff the unconscious cops with their own cuffs, then climbed back into the van and drove to the bank to sort through the mess that had been left there.
14
“Hands flat against the wall as you lean into it, gentlemen. You know the routine.”
Slade Wilson leaned against the wall, conscious of the .45 only inches from the back of his head. He kept his face impassive and stared at the two-tone white paint covering the concrete-block wall in front of him.
“Where’re you carrying?” another man with garlic breath asked as he put his hands on Wilson’s upper arms.
“Shoulder rig,” Wilson replied. “Paddle holster at my back. Boot gun in my left boot. Combat knife along my forearm rigged for a quick release.”
In quick succession, the weapons were removed and Wilson was allowed to turn around. He stood against the wall as the men continued working on Lee Rawley. By his count the Mafia security men took nine weapons off of Rawley, but Wilson knew they at least missed the little dagger concealed in Rawley’s belt buckle and the concussion grenades built into his boot heels. How many others there might be, Wilson had no way of knowing. They’d missed the weighted cord around his own throat that resembled a necklace but had pulled double duty as a garrote on occasion.
“Anything else?” the head security man asked as a short-handled throwing dagger from Rawley’s arsenal was dropped into the cotton bag containing their weapons.
Rawley grinned. “I swallowed an Airweight Bodyguard . 38 on the way in. Figured I could puke it out later, show it to Mr. Triumbari, and really screw up the cushy job you guys have got here.”
“Wiseacre,” Larry Gambini said. He was a hulking monster of a man, built along the lines of a professional wrestler, with a child’s face and eyes the color of granite and twice as hard. He turned to one of the four men standing behind him. “Joey, if this guy even looks like he’s going to take a hit at Mr. Triumbari’s table, blow his head off.”
Joey nodded.
“Happy now, wiseacre?” Gambini asked. “Hope you don’t get indigestion.”
“If Mr. Triumbari’s holding up lunch on us,” Rawley said calmly, “he’s going to be pissed at how long you’re taking.”
“Let’s go.” Gambini took the lead and Rawley fell in behind him.
Wilson went next, memorizing the back rooms of the restaurant as they passed through and where they’d been admitted at the rear of the building had held racks of paper goods and condiments. Next came the kitchen proper, where the smells of Italian spices and herbs made his stomach growl. The main dining room was furnished in rich dark woods, and a string section played opera music.
Armando Triumbari was seated outside in the open cafe under a dark blue awning that blocked the sunlight that had finally burned away the last of the morning fog only minutes ago. The Mafia don was old and frail looking. Viciousness and hardness clung to him in spite of his thinning gray hair and his palsied hands, which rested comfortably over the wooden cane in front of him. His gray eyes were as emotionless as gun sights.
The outer dining area had over a dozen tables covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. It was separated from the street by a low wall topped by strands of shiny chains that looked decorative but served as a protective barrier as well. The other tables were empty. Ristorante Costansia was in the heart of the North End on Richmond Street. A small private parking lot was southeast of the restaurant, and they’d been allowed to park the van there.
The man sitting beside Triumbari was younger and athletic, built like a good shortstop. His hands were carefully manicured, but they were working hands, too. He wore a dark, double-breasted suit that was cut open so he could reach inside the jacket easily.
“Sit,” Triumbari said, motioning to the round backed, wooden patio chairs on the other side of the table.
Wilson kept his ground and noted that Rawley did the same.
“Is something wrong?” Triumbari asked.
“I came to this meeting in good faith,” Wilson replied. “I was told I could meet with you concerning affairs of ours that have overlapped. I believed that. Instead, I find myself held at gunpoint and stripped of my weapons. Somehow, I don’t think that’s the way you treat your guests.”
“I’m looking out for my own interests. ‘
“So am I.”
“And if I refuse your terms?”
“Then the meeting’s off.” Wilson returned the hard glare full measure.
“May I interject something here?” the young man said. “While you’re with Mr. Triumbari, I assure you, you couldn’t be better protected.”
“Who are you?” Wilson asked.
The man stood, smiled, and offered his hand. “Craig Ericson. I’m Mr. Triumbari’s lawyer.”
“Sit down and shut up, Counselor,” Wilson said. “Nobody pulled your chain.”
With an uncertain look, Ericson sat.
Triumbari sipped from the glass of red wine before him. “I was warned that you were impudent.”
“If I’m wasting my time here, let me know now.”
“Ah, the fires of youth. No, Agent Wilson, you’re not wasting your time.” Triumbari looked over Wilson’s shoulder. “Larry, bring their equipment.”
Minutes later, with his gear stowed back in place, Wilson sat across from the Mafia don as a waiter poured wine in fresh glasses.
“A toast,” Triumbari said, raising his glass. “To the destruction of our common enemy.”
Wilson sipped in response.
“Who contacted Jo-Jo Manetti?” Triumbari asked.
“I did,” Rawley said.
“Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met.”
“Have I ever seen you?”
“You wouldn’t remember.”
Triumbari squinted as he studied Rawley’s face.
“You’ve had plastic surgery.”
Rawley nodded. ”Yes.”
“So perhaps even if we’d met, I wouldn’t know you.”
“Perhaps.”
Wilson watched the exchange carefully. Rawley’s scars from the plastic surgery were there to see for anyone wh
o knew where to look. Wilson did, and had. But Rawley had also offered to set up the meet, without saying how he was going to manage it. Wilson wanted to see how Rawley was going to be treated by the Boston Mafia lord.
“Manetti is a very old and dear friend of mine,” Triumbari said.
“I know,” Rawley said.
“He vouched for you, but he could not tell me who you were, except that the name you now wear is not your own.”
“I asked someone who is a friend of Mr. Manetti’s to intercede on my behalf.”
“That’s what he said. He also told me this person is his friend, but couldn’t answer any questions about you.”
“I like my privacy.”
Triumbari smiled. “As do we all. Yet I find it fascinating that you can see your way to my table during these times of trouble without anyone knowing more about you.”
“I’m a man of my word.”
“Of that, I was assured.”
“And it could be that these troubles we’re experiencing are the only things that could have ever brought us together.”
“You speak so smoothly.”
Rawley grinned and lifted his wineglass. “It’s the atmosphere, Don Triumbari, and the interest of a good host that brings out the skill of conversation.”
Triumbari laughed lightly and shifted his gaze to Wilson. “And you. What do you know about this man?”
“That he keeps his word once it’s given,” Wilson replied. “That’s enough for me.”
“You,” the Mafia don said, “I know much more about. You’re also a man of your word. And can be very hard and demanding of yourself and others . Very desirable qualities for a leader to have.”
“This isn’t a mutual-admiration society,” Wilson said bluntly. “I came here to discuss Sebastian DiVarco with you. If you don’t have time for it, let me know so I can move on to more productive events.”
Gambini started forward from behind Wilson. The FBI man shifted in his chair, readying himself for whatever might come.
A scowl darkened Triumbari’s lined face as he waved Gambini back. “Besides impudence, you’re also ill-mannered.”