“Okay, then.”
Franks left Mahan with something new to think about, and the beginnings of a sour feeling in his gut. O’Malley had been tight with Strauss and Kelly. Nothing odd about that, in the closed society of Buffalo PD, but there’d been times when Mahan thought that he was closer to the pair than to his partner. Nothing to support it, really. Just a feeling, but he’d learned to trust that kind of hunch, dealing with skells.
And Greg O’Malley had turned out to be a skell, himself.
A dead skell, now. But what about his buddy boys?
Something to ponder, when he had a minute. When the city wasn’t burning down.
North Forest Acres, Buffalo
“WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA was it to snatch this broad?” Gallo inquired. His scowl seemed set in stone.
“The dicks did that,” Joe Borgio answered. “Strauss and Kelly.”
“I didn’t ask who did it, Joe. I asked you whose idea it was.”
“Theirs, Vin. She walked into the cop shop, asking them about her brother, and I guess they thought...why not? A way to shut her up,”
“That’s one thing, if they’d iced her,” Gallo said. “But, no. They call one of the guys who’s running all around, kicking our ass on both sides of the border, and they tease him with it. Have I got that right?”
“The thinking was, he might come in to save her. Make some kind of deal.”
“And how’s that working?”
“Not so good, Vin.”
“Not so freaking good at all. We’re still getting our asses kicked by...what? Two guys? Cops can’t find them. My soldiers sure as hell can’t find them. What am I supposed to do now, Joe? You got another bright idea, or what?”
Borgio was about to answer when the phone on Gallo’s desk rang. Line two blinking red at him. The number he shared only with Borgio, his consiglieri and the capos of the other Families. Calling to gloat, he thought, and picked it up.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Vinnie,” said a male voice that he didn’t recognize. “You happy with the way your life’s been going lately?”
“Who’s this?” Gallo, being cautious, swallowed his anger.
“A friend of Zoe Dirks,” the caller said. “Taking her brother out was bad enough, but now you’ve stuck your dick right in the ringer, Vin.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You betcha.” In the background, Gallo thought he heard a second voice say something about range and elevation. That made no sense.
“I tell you what,” Gallo said. “If you wanna meet me like a man and do this thing, just pick a time and place. We’ll see how it shakes out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the stranger said. “But I’m not finished playing with you yet.”
“What the hell is that supposed to—”
When the window in the east wall blew, it sprayed Gallo’s study with bright, razor-edged shards of glass. He heard the slug punch through the west wall of the room as he was pitching headlong to the floor, dropping the phone, hoping the desk would cover him enough to save his life.
Meanwhile, the shots kept coming, ripping photographs and paintings off the walls, pounding his desk with sledgehammer strokes, and he could hear the echo of the gunfire rolling in behind the bullets, playing catch-up. It sounded as if someone was firing a .44 Magnum pistol inside an oil drum, louder than any shots Gallo had heard since he’d watched Saving Private Ryan in his basement theater and turned the volume up to critical, loving the carnage on the screen.
It wasn’t quite so entertaining, now.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped. Fearing a trick, Gallo remained huddled beneath his desk and called out to his underboss. “Hey, Joe! You dead?”
“Guess not,” Borgio replied, after a long five seconds. “You?”
“I’m talking, aren’t I?”
Gallo’s housemen were arriving now, weapons in hand, too late. They clamored for a target.
“Well, he isn’t in here!” Gallo snapped. “Check the grounds, for Christ’s sake, will ya? If he slipped by one of you, I’m gonna have somebody’s balls.”
“Dumb idiot missed us both,” Borgio said, as he lumbered to his feet.
“You think so?” Gallo asked him.
“Hey, we’re standing here.”
“That’s the way he planned it. Bastard said he wasn’t finished playing with me yet,” Gallo explained. “I think it’s time we taught his ass a whole new game.”
Chapter 8
Buffalo Niagara International Airport
The last thing Borgio wanted, at the moment, was to be a moving target on the streets of Buffalo. Given a choice, he would have found a panic room or bomb shelter somewhere and locked himself inside until the whole damned storm blew over.
But the trouble was, he didn’t have a choice.
The meeting with a top lieutenant from the powerful Juárez Cartel had been arranged before this Dirks shit hit the fan, and neither Borgio nor his boss had thought to call it off when bodies started dropping around Buffalo. One thing: it flat-out slipped his mind. Another thing: who knew that it could get this bad in just a day and change.
Now, one Jesús Fernández was a quarter hour out from landing, and he’d be expecting the red carpet treatment from his hosts. That meant a hasty cleanup at the boss’s house, so nobody could tell it had been shot to hell, and plenty of security around the visitors to make damn sure they didn’t get a hangnail, much less have their brains blown out.
Juárez could sell them coke, meth, heroin, whatever, but they took their insults very personally. Fifty thousand dead and counting down below the border, in their never-ending drug wars, and the toll included judges, prosecutors, cops, archbishops, presidential candidate—you name it. Heads cut off and left on doorsteps, mass graves in the desert, families gunned down at funerals.
So, everything about the visit had to run like clockwork, even if the clock seemed to be busted at the moment. Any slipups could make matters so much worse that Borgio didn’t even want to think about it.
Not that he could help but think, regardless.
He had brought eight soldiers with him to the airport, hoping it would be enough, guessing Fernández would have brought his own security along, as well. The private jet was an Embraer Legacy 600, retailing around $28 million, which Borgio guessed the cartel earned on any given day between their lunch break and siesta time. It needed a three-man crew and seated thirteen passengers. Joe Borgio stood beside his limo, two more waiting in the lineup, watching as the Mexicans deplaned. He counted ten and recognized Fernández in the middle of the pack, from photographs he’d seen.
The rest was basic protocol, Borgio approaching, offering his hand, while soldiers on both sides faced off and did the mandatory glaring thing. Machismo meant the same thing in Italian as it did in Spanish, weighed as heavily on any mafioso as it did on warlords from Juárez.
“Good flight?” Borgio inquired.
“Long flight,” Fernández said. “I also had to make sure that our papers were in order.”
Meaning bogus, since Fernández was a fugitive under indictment in the States, thumbing his nose at Uncle Sam by dropping in to deal with Vinnie Gallo personally. You could call that courtesy or showing off. Right now, it meant they shouldn’t stand around the tarmac making chitchat, when they could be on the road.
“You wanna ride with me, or...?” Borgio asked, giving him the choice. He didn’t care one way or another, since the limousines were bugged to pick up every word Fernández spoke between the airport and delivery to Gallo’s doorstep.
“Why not?” the Mexican replied. “Enrique and José, with me. The rest of you, ride with these other caballeros, eh?”
They piled into the cars, and in another minute they were rolling. Borgio felt be
tter, then, the simple act of movement soothing him. They cleared the airport, rolling north along Cayuga Road with three limos in line. They’d gone a mile or so when Borgio’s driver said, “Hey, Boss, I think we got a tail.”
Staying calm, he said, “So, shake it. And get on the horn, there. Have the fellas in the other cars ready to take them out.”
* * *
“THEY’VE SPOTTED US,” Johnny announced. “I’m making my move.”
Bolan was ready in the backseat, where he had more combat stretch than riding shotgun, as the Mercury surged forward, its six-speed automatic transmission shifting smoothly under urging from its 3.0-liter Duratec 30 V6. The limousines would have more power underneath their hoods, but they were also vastly larger, heavier and loaded down with men.
Armed men.
Bolan was ready on his left as they began to pass the last limo in line, its blacked-out windows gliding down to grant a view of swarthy, snarling faces. Someone raised a pistol, but never got the chance to aim, as Bolan squeezed off two rounds from his Milkor MGL. His weapon might resemble an old-fashioned tommy gun on steroids, but it operated like a double-action revolver, its smooth action nearly impossible to jam—and there was no jam this time, as he blazed away.
Round one was buckshot, twenty-seven metal pellets weighing just under one ounce apiece, ripping through faces, skulls, torsos—whatever might be in their way. Round two was thermobaric, containing duel explosive charges. The first charge burst the grenade’s casing and sprayed a cloud of inflammable fuel that mixed with atmospheric oxygen. The second charge then created a massive blast wave significantly longer in duration than any produced by condensed explosives.
Result, in this case: a mini-firestorm on wheels, explosions and the roar of flames consuming flesh and screams.
“One down,” Bolan said, but his brother didn’t need to hear it. Johnny was already powering the vehicle toward target number two.
No problem killing these guys, either, since they knew the man they wanted was a passenger inside the lead car. Taking out as many of his soldiers as they could was mandatory, as a setup for the final act.
The soldiers riding within the second limo had observed the fiery end of their associates and obviously didn’t want to share it. Bolan couldn’t blame them, but he felt no trace of sympathy for anyone who served the Gallo Family or the Juárez Cartel. He owed Brognola big-time for the tip that Jesús Fernández would be flying into Buffalo today, the more so since, by rights, the big Fed should have given that information to the DEA. The end result might satisfy headquarters, but if they had known about Brognola’s lapse, the brass would still be pissed.
Too bad.
The second limo had begun evasive action, swerving back and forth across two lanes, with shooters peering out the windows, aching for a chance to take their shot. Johnny slid over to the right and cleared the field for Bolan to deliver an HE round, punching through the limo’s trunk lid, detonating there and taking out the rear axle assembly, just before the fuel tank blew.
Two down.
There might have been survivors in the wreckage, but they weren’t his problem any longer. It had turned into a race now, and the Executioner couldn’t simply blow the last limo apart or toast its occupants with thermobaric rounds. He needed one of them alive.
But only one.
Gaining on their quarry, Johnny veered off to the left, giving Bolan access to the fleeing limo’s left rear tire. His buckshot round reduced the steel-belt radial to so much flapping tissue paper, and the driver started losing it. His tank was all over the road as Johnny pulled alongside, putting Bolan’s open window level with the driver’s door.
Another buckshot round took out the driver’s window and the man behind it, killing him and anyone who might have occupied the shotgun seat. That was the end of any steering for the limo, as it slewed away from Bolan’s ride and tried to climb a guardrail on the east side of the northbound highway.
Johnny hit the brakes, and both of them were EVA in seconds flat, circling the limousine and pulling open doors. A few short bursts from Bolan’s Spectre and his brother’s Steyr AUG eliminated any vestige of resistance, and they dragged the sole survivor out into the light, hauling him swiftly toward the waiting Mercury Milan.
North Forest Acres, Buffalo
VINNIE GALLO WASN’T normally the nervous type, but since he’d been taking hits from Buffalo to Niagara Falls and back again, he felt an edginess that couldn’t be denied. It was bad luck, the Mexicans arriving in the midst of all his other trouble—bad luck and bad planning, if he told the absolute unvarnished truth—but there was nothing he could do about it.
Now, on top of all the rest, their inconvenient guests were late.
Not late arriving at the airport, mind you. He’d received Joe Borgio’s call announcing their arrival, right on time. In fact, the limos had been rolling when he spoke to Joe, an easy run from the airport in Cheektowaga, Buffalo’s second-largest suburb, to Borgio’s doorstep, if they didn’t dick around.
So where in hell were they?
He looked around his office, scowling. The windows were boarded over, waiting for the glazier to arrive with special armored glass, but at the moment Gallo liked the plywood better. No one could see through it, putting crosshairs on his forehead. When he met the Mexicans, they wouldn’t be in here, would never guess some prick had come along and shot the hell out of his private office, in his own damned house.
The phone rang, nearly making him jump and spill his sixteen-year-old Bushmills single malt. He covered that by firing off a string of curses, finishing before he answered, midway through the second ring.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Vinnie. How’s it hanging?”
And he would have known that damned voice anywhere. “Listen, you piece of—”
“No, you listen, Vinnie.”
Then the voice was gone, another coming on the line. “Hey, Vin? I’m sorry, man.”
Joe Borgio.
“Joe? What the hell is this? Where are you? What happened to the—”
“Visitors from Juárez?” Now the first guy was back, taunting him. “They won’t be coming, Vinnie.”
“What the hell do you mean, they won’t be coming?” But he knew already, guessed that he would hear about it on his TV in a little while, maybe a special bulletin to interrupt whatever crappy show was rotting brains today.
But just in case he didn’t get it, Mr. Smartass spelled it out. “They’re dead, Vin. Gone to cartel purgatory.”
“What’s the deal with Joe?” Gallo asked, feeling just a little dead himself, inside.
“Depends. You want him back?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Hell, yes. I want him back, goddamn it!”
“Then,” the caller said, “I guess it’s time we made a deal.”
East Side, Buffalo, New York
KELLY WAS READY when his cell phone rang again, thinking the jerk-off who’d hung up on him had tried to run some kind of game, see if he’d sweat a little. The bastard didn’t know who he was dealing with, but he was going to find out.
“Hallo.” Keeping it neutral for the moment, just in case it was someone from headquarters.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Vinnie Gallo demanded.
“Hey, Mr. G.” He saw his partner’s ears perk up at that, the corners of his mouth turn down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit! You pissed somebody off big-time, Detective. He’s been calling me. He paid a freaking visit to my house! The place is shot to hell! You gonna make believe you don’t know what that’s all about?”
“Hold on. We thought—”
“Right there’s your first mistake,” Gallo said, interrupting him. “A button man doesn’t think
. He just does what he’s told.”
“We had to grab—”
“Shut up! You’re gonna give confession on a goddamn cell phone, now? What are you, high or stupid? Did they teach you anything at the academy besides ten ways to rub your nightstick?”
Kelly’s cheeks were flaming. He felt dizzy from the clashing anger and humiliation, grateful that he had been seated when he took the call.
“I’m trying to explain why—”
“Don’t explain it. Fix it!”
“Okay, sure. Just tell me what you want.”
“You’re gonna hand the package off to some of my boys. Meet them at Riccardo’s, around the back door. Half an hour.”
“But Riccardo’s is way over—”
“So, use your freaking siren! If you’re late, don’t bother coming. Just start looking for a place to hide.”
“Okay. We’ll be there.”
“And the package better not be damaged, understand me?”
“Well, we had to use a Tase—”
“Aside from normal wear and tear. None of your shadow’s kinky stuff.”
“Mick never—“
“Safe and sound. I’ve got to trade it off for something I’ve lost, now. If the swap falls through, you might consider moving to a desert island. Buy yourself a little time.”
“Again, I wanna say—”
“Blah-blah, same bull, yada-yada. Make the drop, then light a candle for yourself. If something goes wrong, you’re Sunday’s turkey dinner.”
“Right. Mr. G—”
And the line went dead.
“The guy sounds pissed,” Strauss said, not half as worried-looking as he should have been.
“Ya think?”
“What’s going on?”
“He needs to swap the girl for something, someone, I don’t know. We drop her at Riccardo’s. Half an hour.”
“Half an hour? Christ, it’s all the way—”
“Don’t tell me where it is! Just get her out here!”
“Easy, partner.”
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