It turned out he specialized in kiddie porn and child prostitution. Judging from the house, he made a decent living at it. But then, slavery had always been very profitable.
A commando raid was out of the question. Police protection in that area was too good. The house was too big to get in, find him and make a quick strike. It didn’t look good for even getting close without raising suspicions. Everything Slash had said was true. There was no getting at the man. At least, not through normal gang war methods.
If he could get what he needed, Morgan could take Minelli out of the picture with a surgical strike, relying on Minelli’s experience. Gangland executions had always come in two flavors. Sometimes someone planted a bomb where the target would surely find it, like under his car’s hood. Other times it was up close and personal, with a gun or knife or occasionally a garrote for variety. Minelli was too well prepared to avoid this kind of attack. So Morgan planned to bring him into the kill zone using the man’s own instincts against him.
The next day was a long one, filled with preparation. First he had to find the right rifle, and that caused a frustrating conversation with Slash, who escorted Morgan to an unoccupied apartment under his own. The entire place had been converted into an armory complete with rifle racks and pegboards covered with handguns.
“You need something specific, Slick? Take your pick.”
Morgan scanned the collection with a mixture of admiration and sympathy. He saw at least a dozen different handguns, both auto and revolver, from .22 caliber to the Desert Eagle .50 Caliber. Every permutation of AR-15 and AK-47 was represented, and Morgan had to wonder why Slick thought assault rifles were of use for his purposes. Submachine guns were plentiful too, from the obsolete Tech-9 to Uzis and MAC-10s. Clearly, Slick thought he was ready for anything.
“Look,” Morgan said. “What I need is a little more special purpose than these guns. I don’t think you understand the amount of…”
“Power?” Slick asked. “You need power to go the distance, right? We got .44 Mags here. It don’t hit much harder than that.”
“Not exactly a sniper round.” Morgan said. “For distance a round has to have a flat trajectory and…”
“A long barrel, right?” Slash said, snatching a heavy barreled M-16 off the rack. “This baby’s pretty long. You know, I can take every one of these bitches apart and put it back together. I know what they can do, nigger.”
Finally, Morgan realized he couldn’t keep being nice. He locked eyes with Slick and kept his tone stiff. “Listen. This is my area of expertise. Nothing here is accurate enough…”
“It ain’t the gun that hits the target, Slick. It’s the man behind it.”
“You’re only half right. The shooter has to have a weapon that’s as accurate over distance as he is.”
There was an uneasy silence for five long seconds. Then Slash said, “No bullshit now. Did you really cap a guy at five hundred yards?”
“No bullshit,” Morgan said. “At that distance the shooter has to know he has a round that will fly true. He’s got to figure wind drift, bullet drop, the effects of temperature, the curvature of the earth…”
“Hold up,” Slash said, grinning. “Now I know you shitting me.”
“Or you can find somebody else who can make the shot.” Morgan shrugged but maintained eye contact. Slash smirked, nodded slowly as if considering, and finally grinned.
“Alright, Slick, you got the balls and I’m going to give you enough rope. I know a guy can give you any kind of gun you can imagine. I’m gonna send your ass over there with Ghost and then we’ll see if you hang yourself.”
With Morgan at the wheel, Ghost had led him to a boarding house on the edge of Chinatown. There, a small Asian man with a scar where his left eyebrow should be greeted them in the dimly lit hallway.
“We know Ghost.” the small man said in a strong accent Morgan recognized. “What you need?”
“Reach. Accuracy. Power. Lots of power. It’s a sniper touch, but against a hardened target.”
“Ahh,” the yellow man said, then turned and led them to the cellar steps. Morgan walked at the rear of the trio, through a series of underground concrete chambers. Their footsteps echoed behind them. A bare bulb of low wattage hung from the ceiling of each new room, casting random shadows. The walls were damp, the air musty. It reminded him of his days as a teenage tunnel rat in Vietnam.
“This guy ain’t Chinese, you know,” he whispered to Ghost after a time.
“A Vietnamese gang,” Ghost replied. “Gunrunners.”
“And they support Slash?”
Ghost smiled. “They are equal opportunity vendors. They take no side. They supply everybody.”
“Why fight when you can profit from everybody else fighting.” Morgan thought again of Slash’s theories on the workings of capitalism. He hated the fact that he was coming to respect the little gangster more than he wanted to.
Finally, the small man came to a bolted door. He knocked four times slowly, waited two seconds, then entered. Ghost followed, relaxed and confident, but the hair on Morgan’s scalp tried to rise. He sensed danger ahead, but he couldn’t abandon Ghost. He forced his body to relax even as his senses went on alert. He walked in last, pulling the door not quite closed behind him.
The small yellow man stood in front of Ghost. Four other Vietnamese waited, spaced evenly around the room. All wore leather jackets, unzipped either to display the guns in their waistbands or to guarantee easy access to them. The one on the far left wore a pirate style patch over his left eye. He had the air of a leader.
Only after sizing up the opposition did Morgan notice the rest of the room. It was fifteen feet square with a ten foot ceiling. Even with only a single bulb hanging on a swinging fixture, it was much brighter than the previous rooms. And this particular cellar room was equipped with gun racks from floor to ceiling on all walls except the one behind them.
The man with the eye patch stepped forward, making sure to capture Morgan’s attention.
“Nguyen Anh.”
“Johnson,” Morgan said. He gave a slight bow without losing eye contact.
Here is the room of rifles,” Nguyen said, waving an arm around in a slow circle. “See what you like.”
Morgan nodded, feeling his danger warning intensify. Showing none of this, he reached for Ghost’s arm, gently easing him to a position right under the light. Then he stepped forward, examining the racks. The selection was amazing. Pistols, machine guns and assault weapons must have been stored elsewhere. This room was just what Anh called it. Morgan saw several rifles with the reach, accuracy and power to do a sniper’s job. It didn’t take him long to make a selection.
“Six thousand dollars,” Nguyen said as soon as Morgan had the rifle in his hand.
“Twice what it’s worth.”
“You can order one at the sporting goods store,” Nguyen said.
“No time. Pay the man, Ghost.”
Ghost pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, counted out ten of Ben Franklin’s portraits and handed them to Nguyen. Then he repeated that process five more times. Nguyen recounted the money before stashing it in his jacket pocket. Now, Morgan figured, it would come.
“One other thing,” Nguyen said, sliding his pistol out of his belt. “I believe you know a former client of mine, a Mister Pena. Mister Pena’s friends are unhappy with Mister Slick’s friends. There is a price. Twenty thousand dollars for the head of one of the shooters. You, Mister Johnson, were seen at Pena’s place. Ghost, we have known you for some time. You may go. Mister Johnson, your gun please.”
Did they think it would be so simple, Morgan wondered. He turned to Ghost, and saw uncertainty on his face. He had not expected this and had no idea what to do next. Morgan did.
As calmly as if he were surrounded by friends, Morgan said “Get the light, will you Ghost? And stay there.”
Morgan turned his best smile on Nguyen. Hoping his new partner was as intelligent as he seemed, Morgan slowly reached
toward his left shoulder holster. If Ghost missed his cue, Morgan would have to play it out alone, shooting Nguyen and whoever else he could, but that was an extremely risky option. Adrenaline gushed through his veins as his fingers touched the custom wood handle of his Browning Hi-power.
Ghost figured it out before any of the Vietnamese hoods did. With an explosive leap into the air, he executed a front snap kick that shattered the light bulb. In the instant darkness, Morgan crouched, drew, and blasted two holes in Nguyen’s chest.
Morgan was prone before the echoes of his gunshot died away. Four other pistols roared in unison, and bullets zinged about above him until someone cried out. Of course they had managed to hit one of their own.
The shooting stopped. Morgan surged forward, swinging the five foot long rifle’s butt like a club. He hit something. From the hollow sound and resulting moan he thought it was a head. Then he jumped, hit the rifle rack ahead of him, and climbed as quickly as he could. He didn’t stop until his hand hit the ceiling.
Right behind him, a voice called “where are they” in Vietnamese. Morgan snapped his head and shoulders back and, as expected, the rack rocked away from the wall. The falling sensation was dizzying in the darkness, but Morgan managed to push away from the rifle rack just before it hit the floor. A man screamed as rifles and racks crushed him to the floor.
“Out now!” Morgan shouted, rolling toward the door. “This way!” He heard Ghost’s cat like landing. He had understood Morgan’s directions and held onto the light cord, staying above the field of fire for the necessary moment. In seconds the two were running away from the rifle room. Morgan’s unerring sense of direction guided them back along their path.
When they reached the street, two more Vietnamese in leather waited at their car. Without a word, Ghost lunged forward, doubling one of them over with a punch to his solar plexus. The other he dropped with a side stamp kick.
“Got to admire your style,” Morgan said as they drove away.
Morgan drove out on Long Island, looking for a hunting goods store. Knowing his time limitations, he stopped at the first shop they came to. Ghost handed over cash, and Morgan ran inside. He returned with an armload of high caliber ammunition, double hearing protection, a good sight, a cleaning kit, a small tool set, and directions to a nice desolate place for sighting in.
Half an hour later, Morgan was sitting cross-legged under a big maple tree, screwdriver in hand, mounting the scope onto the top of the long black rifle. Ghost, standing above him, spoke to him, unsolicited. A rare occurrence.
“What is it?”
Morgan looked up, startled. “So you do have a voice, eh? Well, since you asked, this is a Nikon three to nine power variable scope.”
“No, I mean the gun,” Ghost said, squatting down. “It cost six thousand dollars. I’d like to know what it is.”
“The rifle is a Barrett M-82A Light Fifty,” Morgan replied with a smile. “A little more oomph than what your friends all carry. Chambered for the .50 caliber Browning machine gun round. With these seven hundred fifty grain bullets, you could take down light vehicles or even aircraft with this thing. Not to mention what it would do to even the toughest of big game.”
“You hunt?”
“Sure,” Morgan said. “And not just people. Surprised? Man, there’s a whole world out there in between the big cities. Quiet. Peaceful, like here.”
“I never met anyone who hunted,” Ghost said, watching Morgan’s hands closely. “Didn’t know black people did. I mean, that store had many rifles that looked like the ones the Vietnamese had. People just walk in and buy a rifle like this?”
“It’s not exactly an AK-47,” Morgan said. He had forgotten how limited the view can be from the projects. Now he remembered his childhood in The Bronx, thinking of all the things called general knowledge in the USA that were beyond his sight back then. “Look, some people in America are paranoid about what you might do with a pistol, but hunters and target shooters are still pretty much left alone. All you need to get long guns in this country is money. This thing’s a little different, but most of those quote unquote sniper weapons you saw in that room are hunting rifles, not originally designed for human targets. The only reason we went to your Oriental friends is because there isn’t much call for a rifle this powerful, and I’d have had to order one in the store and filled out some forms. Might have taken weeks.”
“And now you will practice?”
“Now I’ll sight this sucker in. The manual pegs this thing’s maximum effective range at eighteen hundred meters. I plan to be about half that distance from my target tomorrow morning. I need to see where my bullet’s going to hit. First I zero the sight, then check bullet drop. Lots of days I’ve sat and done this just for fun. Guns are fun, you know,” he turned to look into Ghost’s face, “even if you’re not shooting at somebody.”
After a pause, Ghost said “Yes. Like kata, or hitting a heavy bag.”
“Yeah,” Morgan smiled. He’d found common ground. “You can refine your technique, and improve your performance. Satisfying in its own way.”
Morgan stood and walked into the woods. Maples, oaks and pines shared the sunlight, dappling the ground with soft shadows. He could just detect the sweet scent of wildflowers as he moved across the soft earth that may never have felt a boot imprint before. Warm temperatures, the nearly cloudless sky and the absence of wind made it a perfect day for shooting. The peaceful setting also lent itself to conversation.
“What got you into karate, anyway?”
“My father’s idea,” Ghost said, following Morgan. “Guess he was into these Bruce Lee type movies. Took me to this Korean guy for lessons when I was six. I wanted to learn to fight, and I was good at it. I think he wanted me to learn other things, too.”
Yes, Morgan thought, like honor, pride and self-discipline. All those things the martial arts were supposed to teach you. He wondered if Ghost’s original sensei had any idea what his teachings were being used for.
“What’s here?” Ghost asked when Morgan stopped.
“This big tree is exactly six hundred yards from where we left the rifle,” Morgan answered, pulling a small dagger from his left boot. He held up a paper target and pinned it to the tree with his knife.
“How exact is it?” Ghost asked.
“Son, I’m the best judge of distance you’ll ever meet,” Morgan replied, heading back toward his rifle. “It’s a gift, I guess. I’ll zero that rifle for this distance, because this is how far I’ll be when I nail Minelli tomorrow.”
Ten minutes before he expected to fire at his real target, Morgan considered how cocky that must have sounded. But Ghost accepted it. He wanted to be a warrior, as Morgan considered himself, but his image came strictly from television and movies. Well, he would soon get his first look at a sniper at work.
Morgan pulled himself back to the present when a tinny voice from his cheap walkie-talkie said “Moving.” That meant Minelli was in his car.
The municipal repair van stood with its driver-side tires up on the sidewalk in that residential area New York City residents called “upstate” although it was within seven miles of The Bronx. Morgan and Ghost, its only occupants, wore shorts and tee shirts soaked with sweat. Morgan lay prone and well braced, with a thick pad at his shoulder. His rifle projected ahead of him, propped up on its integral bipod. Morgan looked through his telescopic sight out a small hole cut in the back door. He was facing New York City, five blocks from where Minelli would die.
The one word signal out of the walkie-talkie had come from one of Morgan’s observers. It meant Minelli was in his car. Morgan pushed ear plugs in, and then covered his ears with a pair of what looked like stereo headphones. In fact, it was electronic reactive hearing protection. The report from his bolt action hunting arm would be incredible locked inside the steel van. He tossed Ghost a set as well, then settled behind his rifle, snugged it into his shoulder, and started deep breathing.
In a tailored cream colored suit and tie, Vi
cenzo Minelli looked like a business man about to make sales calls in The Bahamas. His thick brown hair was slicked back from his broad forehead, and he slouched in his limo’s back seat reading The Wall Street Journal. His driver was merely big. The man on his left looked like Hulk Hogan’s Sicilian cousin. Minelli seldom paid any attention out the window on his way to The City, but today they slowed down at an unexpected time.
It looked like construction in the next block. Something pinged quietly in the back of his head, a feeling of uneasiness, perhaps. His driver turned left, proceeding on an alternate route toward Manhattan.
Three blocks later, they drove past a delivery van. Three blocks after that, the car slowed again. A garbage truck was backing down a driveway, almost blocking off the street. The huge truck moved slowly. They could go around if they squeezed, but if the truck driver was careless, or malicious, he could crush the car. Minelli sat up straight now, the newspaper forgotten.
“Hey guys, this ain’t right.” Papa didn’t raise him up that stupid.
“Turn around,” Minelli said, tapping the driver’s shoulder. “Go back the other way. Now, do it now.”
The driver, showing no worry about the circumstances, shifted into reverse and pulled back until the trunk was lined up with a driveway. He turned the wheel, and power steering made backing into that driveway a snap.
Three blocks away, Morgan remembered all of Ghost’s questions that morning. It annoyed him to pull the van forward, then back, until Morgan declared it to be exactly six hundred yards from that driveway. At that distance, very nearly three quarters of a mile, bullet drop had been a consistent three inches. The long rifle was semiautomatic. Its box magazine held eleven rounds, but Morgan intended to use only the one in the chamber. He put his finger on the trigger and focused on a point just over the car’s roof.
Lost Art Assignment Page 13