Bad Behavior [Confuct Series #2]

by Jennifer Lane

  When Grant was standing and could open his eyes without pain, he looked down and was relieved to see that the wetness on his hands was only blood from his wrists. This would not be the time for another kind of wetness.

  “Let’s go. We’re on a schedule,” Tank ordered, shoving Grant forward.

  As the bodyguards led him through a maze of hallways, Grant noticed that the house had been redecorated since his last real visit—over twenty years ago—yet it still managed to convey an aging, unkempt milieu. Tank shoved him into a murky bedroom, the only source of illumination a copper bedside lamp that cast an eerie glow over his uncle’s pallid complexion. Angelo’s head lolled back on the pillows. A stale, fetid odor pervaded the room.

  He appeared to have shrunk since Grant last saw him on the docks of the Chicago River. The oxygen tubing ascending into each nostril didn’t seem to assist his labored wheezing, and his intense black eyes were dulled and desperate. Grant looked slightly aghast at what his powerful uncle had become.

  Tank dragged a chair over to the bed and roughly forced Grant onto the pale-yellow cushion. He nodded respectfully at Angelo and backed away, promising, “We’ll be right outside.”

  “Free…his wrists,” Angelo demanded weakly.

  Tank paused before approaching Grant. “Of course, Godfather.” The knife came out once again, and once again the plastic tie snapped off, providing a glorious range of movement for the captive.

  Grant sat quietly once Tank and Mario had departed, entranced by his uncle’s arduous respiratory rhythm. He had a fleeting thought of grabbing a pillow and attempting to end the Barberi family regime. But his father would still be alive, and he was the one Grant really wanted to end. Realizing he was contemplating murder, Grant felt flooded by remorse.

  Finally Angelo spoke. “Your father loves you, Grant.”

  He couldn’t have said anything more surprising, and Grant recoiled.

  “He does,” Angelo insisted. “He trusted…you…with this important…errand. That shows his love.”

  Grant had no idea how to respond to the preposterous statement.

  “I’m dying.” Angelo stated the obvious. “And when I’m…gone…your father will need you more than ever.”

  Grant couldn’t stop the expression of disgust creeping onto his face.

  “Why do you reject our family?” Angelo asked bluntly.

  Grant hesitated before answering. “Because you hurt innocent people.”

  A gleam of light shone in Angelo’s black eyes. “Like Sophie Taylor, hmm?”

  Grant clenched his fists and averted his gaze, feeling murderous urges return. You’ll get your chance to take them down, he assured himself.

  “So you admit to abducting Sophie?” he asked.

  Angelo smiled. “She’ll be fine, as long as you—” he tried to cough and sounded like he was strangling for several seconds, eventually getting out “—continue cooperating.”

  Grant was alarmed when Angelo slumped back against the pillows. But after closing his eyes for a few moments, appearing to marshal his energy, he instructed, “Reach under my bed.”

  Grant got down on his knees and fumbled under the dust ruffle until his hands bumped into something solid. Carefully he extracted a heavy, locked briefcase and returned to his seat, setting it next to his chair.

  “Take that to the car with Mario… Don’t let go of it… Tell Tank to come back…in here.”

  When Grant rose, Angelo wheezed, “Wait. Give me…one dying wish, nephew.”

  He looked down on the decrepit man with pity. “What’s that, uncle?”

  “Make peace with your father.”

  Grant attempted a poker face. Feeling the cool leather handle of the briefcase and the warm anticipation of destroying his father, he simply replied, “Yes, Uncle Angelo.”

  He confidently exited the room and succumbed to Mario marching him back to the car, not even complaining when he was forced back into the trunk, clutching the briefcase.

  Back in Angelo’s room, Tank listened to his boss. “He’s not ready to join…the family just yet,” Angelo said. His nephew was a horrible liar. “He needs more motivation.”

  Tank nodded.

  “After the drop,” Angelo wheezed, “secure him in the crypt.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Put her in long-term storage.”

  Tank grinned. “She’s the motivation, huh?”

  “Grant’s ours as long as…she is too.”

  “And when we let him out, he ain’t going to the cops because he’s on parole?”

  Angelo feebly nodded. “Go…they’re waiting for you.”

  “At the honeycomb, right? Apartment 1510?”

  Angelo erupted in a coughing fit, his black eyes glazing over and his ashen complexion turning ruddy from the effort. All he could manage was a slight nod.

  Tank was already at the door. “Take care, Ange.”

  He bowed his head respectfully, but as he turned to leave, his fake sympathy morphed to a delighted grin. Maybe you’ll die while I’m gone, he thought as he headed toward the garage. And whoops—maybe Madsen will die too before he makes it to the crypt. That’d be such a pity.

  ***

  “Shit,” Jerry muttered, closing his phone with one hand while the other tightened its grip on the steering wheel.

  “What is it?” Joe asked from the passenger seat.

  “What happened?” Ben’s younger voice piped up from the back.

  Jerry eased the car to a stop at the red light and sighed. “They lost them.”

  “The FBI? They lost Grant?” Joe’s normally calm voice rose to a panic.

  “Yeah, they lost the tail about five minutes after leaving the compound. Marilyn sounded devastated.”

  Ben slumped back in his seat.

  Joe was incensed. “How did that happen, damn it?”

  Jerry glanced at Joe, and then proceeded through the green light. “They’re not sure—they were by the river, and suddenly the trail went cold. The car vanished.”

  “Does Grant know we lost him?”

  “Yeah. He could hear the whoops and hollers of the bodyguards.”

  Ben leaned forward as Jerry parked the car on a tree-lined side street near the Barberi compound. “That means we gotta get Sophie out of there now!”

  Turning to look at his great nephew, Joe warned, “No! It’s too dangerous.”

  “C’mon, Gruncle! We gotta save her. I know the code!”

  “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you in there with those killers.”

  Joe turned back to Jerry, who’d been noticeably quiet during the argument. “We wait for them to get a new warrant, right?”

  Jerry cleared his throat. “Marilyn doesn’t think they’ll get it, since they found no trace of Sophie the first time. And the team’s all spread out now, looking for Grant. There’s no manpower left to go in again.”

  “Sophie could be dying!” Ben wailed. “We gotta get her.”

  Joe ran one hand through his graying cropped hair, rubbing his head furiously. After a long sigh, he conceded, “Okay. We go in.”

  “All right!” Ben scooted toward the car door.

  “Hold it!” Joe commanded. “I’m going in. You’re staying in the car.”

  “What?” Ben shrieked.

  “Hang on,” Jerry held up his hand. “If you’re going in, I’m going in. Ben will stay in the car by himself.”

  Joe shook his head. “Officer Stone, you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your battle.”

  “The hell it’s not. If one of my parolees is in there, I’m not sitting out here twiddling my thumbs.”

  “I’m not either!” Ben hollered. “I’m the one who knows how to get to the crypt!”

  “Then you’re going to tell us everything,” Joe countered. “There’s no way you’re going in there.”

  “This is bullshit!”

  Joe looked nonplussed. “This isn’t some cops-and-robbers TV show, Ben. The bodyguards have guns.
And if they catch us in there, they’re going to know right away this isn’t a friendly family visit.”

  “But I can convince them I’m just jackin’ my style, you know, all epic chill.”

  Jerry and Joe exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “Jerry, don’t let him do this to me,” Ben pleaded.

  “That’s Officer Stone to you, punk. Shut your trap and listen to the commander or I’ll slap the cuffs back on you.”

  Jerry’s threat didn’t seem to have much of an effect on Ben. Defiantly lacing his arms in front of him, Ben challenged, “You’re never going to find the crypt without me.”

  “You’re right. We won’t as long as you keep stalling. Now start talking.”

  When Ben hesitated, the commander exploded. “Start talking now, mister, or you’ll be doing push-ups all night long!”

  Jerry found himself sitting up straighter at the booming, authoritative voice, and the whites of Ben’s widened eyes became visible. Nervously he began spilling information.

  After listening to a few minutes of detailed instructions from the rebuked sixteen-year-old, Joe reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thanks, Ben. I know you want to get in there and save Sophie, but Grant specifically asked me to keep you safe. It’d destroy your uncle if anything happened to you.”

  Ben looked down, quiet.

  “Stay here in the car, okay?”

  He reluctantly nodded.

  Jerry and Joe slunk out of the vehicle and stealthily made their way to the Barberi compound. Both wore faces of stone, belying their pounding hearts.

  “I don’t suppose parole officers carry guns?” Joe whispered as they neared the gate.

  “Some do—not me, though. I don’t suppose Naval officers do either?”

  “No, sir. It’s a good thing we’re equally qualified then.”

  Jerry gave a smirk as he reached up to punch in the security code Ben provided. “Yeah…equally qualified to get shot.”

  As the gate creaked open, he looked at his partner in crime. “I should’ve handcuffed that kid to the car.”

  ***

  The elation he’d previously overheard had faded, and now the passengers in the car grew silent. Grant shifted in the darkness of the trunk and fought the urge to kick out a taillight and signal for help. He didn’t feel so brave now that he knew the good guys were no longer with him.

  Feeling the hard briefcase by his knee, he tried to listen intently to pick up any clues about where they were heading. His entire plan would be shot to hell if the FBI missed out on busting the illegal money exchange. He heard indistinguishable city sounds for several minutes, and then the hum of the road changed pitch, becoming higher, almost like the tires were singing. It sounded like they were crossing over metal grating…possibly a bridge…a drawbridge?

  Grant’s eyes darted around the blackness—were they crossing the Chicago River? The same river he’d traversed all summer long in Roger’s ship?

  C’mon, think! Chicago had the most moving bridges of any city in the world—how many moving bridges were there? He started mentally checking them off from west to east: Franklin, Wells, LaSalle, Clark, Dearborn… He felt the car slow and turn left, and a hush descended around them as honks and road noises were no longer detectable. Were they in a parking garage? His mind frantically searched for buildings near the river, trying to recall each architectural wonder he’d described to ship passengers.

  Remembering he was still wired, Grant urgently whispered, “We just crossed a bridge, uh, and now w-we’re in a parking garage, I think. It could be…Trump Tower, maybe?”

  His weight shifted round and round before he realized the car must be ascending some sort of spiral parking ramp. A round building? What round structures were on the riverbank?

  Grant sucked in a huge breath and excitedly whispered “Marina City!” He hoped he didn’t say it too loudly. “I think we’re in Marina City,” he continued more somberly, visions of the funky, honeycomb towers filling his mind.

  Foreigners loved the towers, a distinctive Chicago landmark. Would Serbian-born gubernatorial candidate Darko Jovanovich happen to have a residence at Marina City?

  The illumination of red lights combined with the jerk of the brake, and Grant heard a male voice with some sort of Latino accent outside the car: “Welcome to the East Tower. We’ll park your car for you.”

  “We’re in the East Tower,” Grant informed whoever was listening.

  “We don’t want valet,” the Mafia driver gruffly replied, and the car inched forward.

  “Sir!” the valet called out. “You must valet here. We don’t want your car falling into the river now, do we?”

  “Fuck you, Diego” came the snarling reply. “Move your asscheek-ohs or they’re gonna have tread marks all over them.”

  Apparently the valet got out of the way because the car resumed its forward motion. Grant figured it might be hard to explain his presence to the valet. After parking, someone quickly popped the trunk to release him.

  As he climbed out, Grant asked, “Are we in Marina City?”

  Tank delivered a swift uppercut to the abdomen, nearly doubling him over, but Grant maintained his hold on the briefcase.

  “No questions,” Tank threatened.

  Grant hid his smile. He had his answer.

  ***

  Joe found it hard to believe they’d not been confronted by bodyguards yet. Maybe Grant was right about the Barberi family faltering. The commander’s throat was dry, and each corner they crept past accelerated his heartbeat, but Jerry detected none of this apprehension. Fake it till you make it, Joe’s superiors had always taught him, and that philosophy had gotten him through more than one treacherous situation during Vietnam. He moved forward confidently yet quietly as he mentally rehearsed the directions Ben had provided.

  He came upon the basement door and winced as it creaked open. Jerry defensively scanned around them, but all was silent.

  “Let’s do this,” Joe whispered, taking the lead down the darkened, carpeted staircase.

  They turned to the right and headed toward the wine cellar, carefully entering the cool, dark stacks. Expensive bottles of Chianti and cabernet stared back at them. They counted ten paces along the left interior wall, which left them standing before two stacked wine casks. The men worked together to slide the top cask to the right, heaving the heavy container, which made a grating noise against the lower cask.

  Standing stock-still, ever-vigilant, both waited several moments before proceeding, feeling for a small keypad on the base of the cask. “You ready?” Joe asked, and Jerry nodded, stepping to the right and assuming a centered fighting stance. Turning back to the keypad, Joe told himself, “Carlo’s birth date,” and punched in 0-5-1-5-7-6.

  There was a slight rumbling as the wall slid open, and brightness poured into the cavernous wine cellar. Jerry rushed forward into the now-accessible room with Joe hot on his tail, and they screeched to a halt upon seeing a large man resting his pock-marked face on blindfolded Sophie’s shoulder as both slumped over in side-by-side chairs.

  Sensing movement, the bodyguard lifted his head and appeared dumbfounded to find two men near the entrance of the soundproofed room. His beady eyes darted to a side table, and Jerry and Joe followed his gaze to a Glock 23 gleaming in the fluorescent lighting.

  With a roar, the bodyguard leaped up and lunged for the gun at the exact moment Jerry careened toward the table. Unfortunately for the larger man, Jerry reached his destination first and snapped up to standing, pointing the weapon at the bodyguard.

  “Stop right there!” Jerry ordered. “Police! Don’t you fucking move.”

  Alarmed that Sophie hadn’t stirred at all, Joe narrowed his blue eyes at the big man. The bodyguard’s attention was so riveted to the muzzle of his own gun that he failed to detect a rush of movement to his left. Joe’s body slammed into his, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

  The attack stole all air from the bodyguard’s lungs
, and he was defenseless as Joe’s steel fist smashed into his nose, immediately creating a bloody mess. He groaned as relentless punches peppered his face and chest.

  Seeing scarlet, Joe felt like he was outside his body, and he observed himself whaling on a man who weakly raised his arms to deflect the repeated blows. Years of repressed rage against the Barberi family flowed from Joe’s fists, and the only thing that stopped him was Jerry hollering “Commander!” while hauling him off of the bodyguard.

  Joe somehow found himself back on his feet, panting from exertion, his hands covered in blood. Jerry had a firm grasp on his arm, and they gazed down at the untidy, unmoving heap lying at their feet.

  “Let’s get Sophie out of here,” Jerry urged, and Joe nodded, coming out of his haze and rushing over to take her pulse.

  “She’s just unconscious.” He breathed out in relief after locating her faint but steady heartbeat.

  “Taylor!” Jerry hissed in her ear while loosening her bindings, receiving only a woozy groan in return.

  Once she was free, Joe bent down and hooked her arm around his neck, while Jerry pocketed the handgun and did the same with her other arm. They quickly carried her out of the room, the tips of her high-heeled boots dragging on the carpeted floor. Stepping into the wine cellar, Jerry held onto Sophie’s slumping body while Joe swiftly entered the code and watched the door slide shut, becoming hidden in the wall once again.

  “Give me the gun,” Joe demanded, and Jerry handed him the weapon.

  The commander crashed the butt of the Glock into the keypad console with a loud crack, which had both men scanning the basement for any movement. Joe’s third try was the charm, leaving the keypad smashed and disabled—he hoped.

  By the time Joe had risen again, Jerry had scooped Sophie into his arms, her head flopping limply.

  “You sure you can carry her?” Joe asked.

  “You take point with the gun, and I’ll be right behind you,” Jerry promised, squeezing her protectively.

  They crept up the stairs, and Joe could hear Jerry grunting softly with exertion behind him. Once they reached the main floor, Joe tightened his hold on the weapon and peered out into the foyer, miraculously failing to detect any bodyguards. They kept moving speedily and soundlessly, and both felt sheer elation when they emerged into the compound courtyard. It had been almost too easy. If Enzo did indeed make it out of prison, he certainly wouldn’t be pleased to learn how weak his empire had become.