Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  “Why? Who would I be calling?”

  O’Brien motioned up ahead. “That’s Joe’s truck. He’s probably figured a way to get into the building from the rear delivery area. I’m going to send him a text. The person I want you to call is Detective Ron Hamilton. He’s my former partner at Miami-Dade PD. Ron knows we’re here. I don’t think he believed we’d find anything. As a police officer, it’ll be more legit for you to request interagency backup.”

  * * *

  Joe Billie could hear at least two deadbolts unlocking. The gruff voice on the other side of the door said, “You forget a delivery or something?”

  When the door opened, Billie pointed the .357 at the man’s face. “Where’s Kimi?”

  He held up his hands. “Who the fuck’s Kimi?”

  “The girl! Where is she?”

  “She’s locked in the warehouse. Dude, you’ll never make it out of here alive with her.”

  “Then you’ll be the first to die.” Billie stepped up, slamming the barrel into the side of the man’s lower jaw. Then he used his right fist to deliver a powerful blow. The man’s eyes rolled, and he fell back against a wall, sliding down and slumping over.

  Billie read an incoming text from O’Brien: Joe – Wynona and I are here. Saw your truck. Don’t go in alone.

  Billie quickly typed: Already in - back door’s red – Kimi’s inside

  He heard someone talking loud in an office down the hall to his right. He knew the warehouse was in the opposite direction, to his left. He couldn’t wait for Sean. Maybe he wouldn’t need him. Just maybe he could find the place in the warehouse where Kimi was being held. He would scoop her up and exit out a back door.

  ONE HUNDRED NINE

  O’Brien drove quickly around the block as Wynona called 9-1-1. “I need to report a fire. It’s at United Recycling … 1192 Commerce. Looks like the building is on fire.” She disconnected and glanced over at O’Brien. “Let’s hope it works.”

  “It’ll give me time to create the smoke screen we’ll need.” He drove from the road onto the empty lot of the tire recycling company, removed a three-gallon can of gas from the back of his Jeep, and sprinted to a pile of tires near the rear of the building. O’Brien poured gas on the tires, lighting a fire. Within seconds, black smoke billowed toward the blue sky.

  He ran back to the Jeep, got in and said, “When the fire trucks arrive, let’s hope the smoke and action will be enough of a diversion to keep Scarpa’s men toward the front of his building, looking out the window, and not in the back warehouse. Maybe it’ll give Joe a chance to find Kimi.” O’Brien sped out of the lot, around the block, and doubled back, going past Billie’s parked truck. He handed a business card to Wynona. “Here‘s Detective Ron Hamilton’s number. Tell him we need backup now!”

  She nodded, making the call as they ran down an alley toward the building with the red door.

  * * *

  Joe Billie walked quietly through a dimly lit hallway toward the warehouse. In the distance, he could hear emergency sirens growing closer, the escalation of heated conversations coming from somewhere toward the front of the building. He slowly unlocked a cream-colored back door with black scuffmarks near the bottom. It opened into a grimy warehouse. Used restaurant equipment, gas stoves, dusty stainless steel sinks and countertops were strewn across the concrete floor. Light came from a half dozen ceiling skylights, the Plexiglas clouded the color of butter from age and the harsh Florida sun.

  Kimi … are you in here?

  * * *

  Dino Scarpa walked from his office to a front office window. Eight of his men were sitting or standing in the adjacent rooms, most drinking coffee, playing cards, and smoking cigars. Scarpa used one finger to lift a slat in the blinds, staring across the street at the arriving fire engines. “Looks like the fuckin’ world’s on fire.” Most of his men cautiously peered out windows for a view of the fire.

  Scarpa turned to three associates playing cards at a former reception desk. “Lenny, go outside. Take a look. Somethin’ seems weird. That old building’s been abandoned for two years. How the hell could it catch fire? Nobody’s fuckin’ there. The power has long since been shut off.”

  A powerfully built man, Lenny, black T-Shirt stretched over his thick chest, said, “Sure, boss. Probably some damn kids playin’ with matches.” He stood from the table, folded his hand of cards face down, looking at two other men, both armed. “Better not look at my cards.” He walked down an alcove, heading to a side door and into the parking lot, his hard soles loud across the tile floor.

  Scarpa turned to the other men. “Where’s Slim Jim? I haven’t seen him in a while?”

  The men shrugged. “Probably takin’ a crap,” said a moon-faced man. “He ate at taco hell.” Scarpa motioned to a tall, bony man wearing a dark sports coat, black jeans and a white polo T-shirt. “Go find Slim. And check on the girl while you’re at it.”

  He nodded. “Back in a second.”

  * * *

  Billie spotted an office to the far right, near the front of the warehouse. He looked for the closest exit. It was a bay door, back of the warehouse. He ran to the office, stopping at the closed door, listening. He heard weeping—a girl softly crying. Kimi. Billie’s heart pounded. He opened the door, .357 in one hand.

  “No, please … no more.” Kimi tried to cower to one side of a small bed, her red and exhausted eyes squinting in the subdued light. Then she recognized the man standing in the doorway. “Uncle Joe!” tears streaming down her face.

  Billie stepped to the side of the bed, used a knife to cut the ropes. She reached up and hugged him as if she’d never let him go. “You’re safe, Kimi. No one is going to hurt you. We have to go. Can you walk?”

  “Yes,” her voice cracking.

  He took her hand, carrying the gun in the other. They ran across the grease-stained cement floor and up to the closed bay door. Billie punched a green button and the electronic garage opener engaged, a rusted chain pulled by straining gears. The noise sounded like a spoon stuck in a garbage disposal, the door slowly rising.

  * * *

  Angelo could see the man’s shoes first. He ran down a hall. Near the back door was one of Scarpa’s men, knocked out cold, sprawled on the floor, his pistol missing. “Shit!” Angelo mumbled, standing. Listening. Checking the door. He hit a number on his cell. “Mr. Scarpa, Jimmy’s down!”

  “Dead?”

  “He’s still breathing. Back door’s unlocked.”

  “Fuckin’ O’Brien!”

  “I’ll check on the girl.”

  “Wait! I’m sendin’ men back there. If it’s O’Brien, you’ll never take him by yourself.” Scarpa disconnected and reached into a desk drawer, lifting out a magnum Desert Eagle, semi-automatic with nine rounds. “O’Brien, it’s your last day on earth.”

  * * *

  Kimi watched the bay door shake, slowly opening. She whispered. “Please! Hurry!” She glanced over her shoulder, recognizing one of the two men. “Oh God! Uncle Joe! They’re coming!”

  A man in dark clothes aimed a pistol.

  The shot tore through Joe Billie’s back, below his left shoulder blade, exiting out his chest. He turned, firing once. The round hit the man in his knee. He went down. Billie grabbed Kimi. “Jump!” They jumped a short distance from the warehouse to an inclined loading dock, running across the parking lot, blood pouring from Billie’s chest.

  O’Brien and Wynona stopped at the edge of an adjacent building. She looked up at the open bay door, recognizing one of the men aiming his pistol at Joe and Kimi. “It’s Detective Henry James! Cover me, Sean.” She bolted across the lot, firing once, stopping behind the partial concealment of a large green trash dumpster.

  Henry James and the second man shot at the dumpster, the rounds causing loud thumps, ripping through bags of garbage, slamming into the steel.

  O’Brien used hand signals to communicate with Wynona, crouching behind the dumpster. She nodded, shooting once at the men. O’Brien stepped from th
e side of a warehouse, firing three fast rounds. The first bullet hit Henry James in the chest, the second one striking the other man in the neck and arm. O’Brien, pushed his Glock under his belt, gripped the shotgun, and ran hard toward the building.

  Wynona turned and sprinted to where Joe had fallen to one knee, Kimi terrified, looking back at the warehouse. She saw Wynona coming toward her. “Wynona! Uncle Joe’s hurt bad! Call 9-1-1!”

  ONE HUNDRED TEN

  O’Brien ran up the loading dock, jumped over the body of Detective Henry James. The dead man’s flat eyes open, fixed at a slow turning exhaust fan in the ceiling, sunlight flickering through the fan blades across his lifeless face. The fan made a thumping, swoosh—swoosh sound. O’Brien looked over his shoulder at Wynona and Kimi huddled next to Joe Billie in the parking lot. Wynona held her cell phone in one hand using her other hand to press against Joe’s chest.

  Was Joe alive? Could paramedics get there fast enough to save him? O’Brien’s heart raced. He knew in seconds the rest of Scarpa’s men would be appearing. All armed. All cold-blooded killers. They wanted him first. Wanted him dead. Wanted him made into an example. But they’d finish off Joe … if he were still breathing. And they’d kill Wynona and Kimi.

  O’Brien hoped his friend, Detective Ron Hamilton, was en route with a team. But there was no time to wait. Scarpa could run from the front of the building, get into one of his cars and drive to another of the family’s rat holes where he’d hide out long enough to be transferred back to New Jersey.

  O’Brien had to find him. And he had to do it now. He ran along one wall of the warehouse, moving through the grime and shadows. Stopping to listen for footsteps. Listening for the heavy breathing from men whose fear was fueled by anger and adrenaline. Their lungs sucking in air. Men trying to control breathing through their nostrils. Few could be in fast pursuit and remain silent. They usually telegraphed their own approach. The rustle of clothes. Leather belts swishing as they approached. Hard soles on hard floors. Faces filled with shiny perspiration.

  * * *

  Wynona held her hands to Joe Billie’s wound, blood oozing between her fingers. His breathing slowing, pulse failing. She looked up at Kimi, tears flowing down the girl’s cheeks. “Kimi, listen to me. Go over to Sean’s Jeep in the alley. There’s a canning jar with dark liquid in the glove box. Bring it to me! Run! Hurry!”

  Kimi nodded and ran like a deer toward the Jeep, the wail of sirens in the distance.

  * * *

  O’Brien heard movement. It was the sound of a round chambered. He hid, stepping inside a large commercial refrigerator, leaving the door cracked open. Two men entered the warehouse from a door near the single, stand-alone office. They moved stealth-like. One carried an AR-15 assault rifle. The other held a nine-mil pistol.

  O’Brien slowly opened the refrigerator door. A rusty hinge squeaked. The men turned, aiming. O’Brien held the 12-gauge from the hip, firing the buckshot into the chest of man with the assault rifle. He was blown over a stainless steel sink. A half second later, O’Brien fired another load into the second man’s lower gut and groin. He collapsed on the spot. Smoke from the shotgun swirled around the warehouse, slowly drifting up in the direction of the exhaust fan.

  O’Brien ran from the refrigerator to a beige-colored door that was at least fifty feet to the right of the door the men had used to enter the warehouse. He listened for sounds on the other side. Nothing except the final moan of a dying man. O’Brien entered the office complex. He peered down a long hall.

  A shadow moved in one corner of the hallway.

  A man in a black T-shirt stepped out, firing two rounds at O’Brien. The bullets hit the doorframe over O’Brien’s head. He returned fire. His round striking the man in his forehead, blood and brain matter blown against the wall.

  There were sounds of men running. Coming closer from multiple directions. O’Brien spotted a CO2 fire extinguisher on a wall next to a janitor’s closet. He lifted the extinguisher, pulled the pin and filled the hallways with a thick white mist. He waited a few seconds. Listening. The sounds of doors opening. Men trying to walk quietly. He used his Glock to fire quickly in opposite areas through the smoke, ducking inside the janitor’s closet.

  Instantly, there was the subdued flash of gunfire coming from multiple directions. The guttural moans of at least one man falling to the floor.

  “Leo! Is that you? Leo!” came a voice at one end of the hall.

  O’Brien waited. Quietly slipping the Glock under his belt, holding the shotgun. Waited for the remaining mafia soldiers to assess their losses. One voice through the vapor said, “He got Vince. Leo’s gone, too. When we find this fucker, I’m gutting him.” O’Brien held the shotgun, stepping into the hallway and firing one round through the haze down the hall, dropping to the floor and doing the same in the other direction. There were two screams, gunfire ripping through walls and the ceiling tiles.

  O’Brien stayed flat to the floor for another few seconds, the mist rapidly dissipating. He stood, shotgun ready. When the curtain of vapor rose, the hallway was littered with four bodies. One man crouched in a corner, blood squirting from his leg. The buckshot had blown away his femoral artery.

  O’Brien walked fast toward the man, recognizing him. He was Tony Rizzo. The man who was with Carlos Bertoni at Charlie Tiger’s house. He looked up and moaned, voice raspy. “I need an ambulance.”

  “How many men did you have here total?”

  “Eight. Now call a fuckin’ ambulance.”

  “Where’s Scarpa?”

  “I don’t know. I need help.”

  O’Brien pressed the barrel of the shotgun into Rizzo’s forehead. “Last time … where’s Scarpa?”

  “He was in the front office. May have run the fuck away when the lead started flyin’ around.”

  “Give me your belt.”

  “What?”

  “Your belt! If I don’t kill Scarpa, you will testify against him. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll be a dead man.”

  “You’ll be a dead man in three minutes anyway if the blood loss isn’t stopped. Will you testify against him?”

  “Yeah, sure. Then you’d better hide my ass forever.” Rizzo unbuckled his belt, handing it to O’Brien. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket, folded it, placed it on the wound, and made a tourniquet with the belt, tightening it.

  “One last question. What’d you or Bertoni do with Frank Sparrow?”

  “I didn’t do shit. It was Carlos, and two soldiers outta Jersey—Johnny Capello, and Mike Mondo—we call him Mojo. After they whacked Frank Sparrow, Dino wanted him put in the trunk of that white Land Rover, the one the guy, Barton, drove. The Rover was driven into a canal south of Lake Okeechobee, across from a memorial park. I’m gettin’ dizzy.” He leaned over and vomited on the floor.

  O’Brien left him it the corner of the hall and started for the front of the building. He did the math. If Rizzo wasn’t lying about the number, everyone was either dead or severely wounded. Everyone except Dino Scarpa.

  There was the crack of a single gunshot. Outside. It was followed by the horrific screaming of a girl. Kimi … Wynona. O’Brien exited back the way he came, down the hallway into the warehouse. In the parking lot, through the bay door, he could see Dino Scarpa grabbing Kimi, trying to drag her away, his car parked less than thirty feet from Joe and Wynona.

  Wynona was lying on her stomach, next to Billie.

  O’Brien’s heart raced. He chambered a round in the shotgun and ran through the gloom in the dimly lit warehouse into the bright sunlight, anticipating the darkest hour.

  ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  Dino Scarpa was reaching his car, a pistol pointed at Kimi when O’Brien jumped from the loading dock to the parking lot. He pointed his shotgun to the sky and fired. Scarpa whirled around, his face twisted in a sneer.

  O’Brien kept coming.

  Scarpa placed the barrel of his gun against Kimi’s head, tears trailing down her face. “Back
off! You take another step, and I’ll blow her fuckin’ brains all over this lot. Her father knew the deal! It’s business.”

  “Let her go, Dino. It’ll be just you and me. That’s what you want … right? A chance to kill me. All your problems might just go away.” He chambered a round in the shotgun.

  “You fire that shotgun at me, and she dies too. So go bury your fuckin’ friends and stay outta the family’s business. We’ll call it even. Last chance.”

  O’Brien aimed the shotgun.

  Scarpa grinned, held Kimi tighter and fired at O’Brien. The bullet whirred by his left ear.

  O’Brien shot out a streetlight directly above Scarpa, shards of glass raining down. O’Brien drew his Glock and fired before Scarpa could squeeze the trigger again. The round hit Scarpa above his left eye, exploding the back of his skull. He fell backwards.

  Kimi ran into O’Brien’s arms, sobbing. He held her, walking over to Joe and Wynona. Most of Joe’s shirt was soaked in blood. But there was a dark liquid near the entrance wound. O’Brien spotted the open jar the medicine man, Sam Otter, had given him.

  Wynona was still breathing. Shallow, quick breaths—a bullet hole in her right side. O’Brien fell to his knees, lifted up the jar, his hands shaking as he poured the liquid into Wynona’s wound. He held his hand to stop the bleeding. Kimi knelt beside Wynona. “Please … God … Wynona …”

  Wynona’s eyes fluttered. Face pale. Breathing slow and steady. In the distance, O’Brien heard the sounds of sirens, the ambulances and police coming closer. He sat between Wynona and Joe, slipping his hands into theirs. He leaned toward Joe, “Help is almost here. Hang on brother. I’m not going to let you die on my watch. You hear me? You aren’t going anywhere.” O’Brien’s eyes watered.

  O’Brien felt Joe squeeze his hand.

  He leaned closer to Wynona, brushing the hair from her face, eyes closed “You told me, as a little girl, how much you liked Alice in Wonderland. You loved the way characters like the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter spoke. When Alice asked the cat which way she should go? He said ‘that depends on where you’re going.’ I know where you’re going, Wynona. You do too. You’re going to rise up out of this dark rabbit hole and live, you hear me? You’ll live the rest of your life, because it’s not your time to let death conquer you. You come from the genes of a great warrior. He wasn’t defeated. You won’t be either.”