Cut Out

by Bob Mayer

Guyton stared at Giannini for a long time. She returned the stare. Her mind sorted through the facts, coming again to the pieces that didn’t seem to fit. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “You son of a bitch!” she exclaimed. “Torrentino didn’t try to kill Cobb in Chicago. You set it all up, didn’t you? That’s why the investigation into the attempted hit was so skimpy in the files and there were pages missing! The two supposed hit men, the cop just happening upon them in time to break it up, the whole thing—you planned it, didn’t you?”

  “Not me,” Guyton said. “The feds. O’Fallon and his guys from the task force thought it up. I just gave them a little help. And that’s why your threat of going to the feds doesn’t bother me.”

  “You’re a cop, for God’s sake!”

  “And he was a goddamn criminal!” Guyton returned hotly.

  “You’re supposed to uphold the law—not bend it to fit your needs.” Giannini paused to get herself under control and back in focus. “Cobb never knew he was set up? Not even after the trial?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Giannini muttered. “The poor bastard got it coming and going.”

  “He was a crook, Giannini. He took a slice of that two mill every month. The Torrentinos didn’t make that money selling cookies door to door. Cobb deserved what he got. Hell, he deserved to go to fucking jail. He got off scot-free as far as I’m concerned.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Giannini thought. “Was Fastone cooperating with you and the feds?”

  “No. She was still working for Torrentino.”

  “Then who killed her?”

  Guyton looked troubled. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t working for Torrentino,” Giannini mused. “Maybe she got involved with Cobb at Torrentino’s urging in the beginning, but then she came up with a better idea. Maybe she was on her own at the end.”

  “What are you talking about?” Guyton asked.

  “It looks like a professional hit,” Giannini said, getting back to the known facts.

  “Yeah,” Guyton agreed reluctantly.

  “Was she after Cobb?” Giannini asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Torrentinos had to have a contract out on Philip Cobb after what he did to them. If Cobb didn’t know Fastone had set him up, they still might have used her to get to him, figuring Cobb might try to contact her some way.”

  “Maybe,” Guyton conceded. “But why kill her then?”

  “Because I think they got to Philip Cobb and killed him,” Giannini said, watching the surprise flit across Guyton’s face.

  “Cobb’s dead? How do you know?”

  “I’ve got my own sources,” Giannini said. “Maybe Fastone led them to him; he was killed, then they killed her to tie up loose ends. Or maybe she was on her own and they followed her.”

  “Either way, it’s over,” Guyton said.

  “No, it’s not over,” Giannini replied, standing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How’d you break Cobb? How’d you get him to think the Torrentinos were after him?”

  “He was scared,” Guyton said.

  “Yeah, but he must have had a reason to be scared,” Giannini returned.

  “He was screwing the boss’s girl—that’s a damn good reason.”

  “Maybe,” Giannini said as another piece of the puzzle turned over in her head. “Or maybe Cobb was doing something else that he wasn’t supposed to, and he was afraid the Torrentinos had found out about it.”

  “Do you know something else?” Guyton asked.

  Giannini wasn’t in the mood to answer questions—not when she had so many of her own. “Who’s doing the work for the Torrentinos on the outside? Who’s the acting boss?”

  “Charlie D’Angelo.”

  Giannini turned to the door. Guyton stepped out from behind his desk. “What’s going on, Giannini? What do you know?”

  “I don’t know nothing,” Giannini snapped back over her shoulder. “All I do know is that your little setup has already cost at least one innocent person his life, and the game isn’t over by a long shot.” She slammed the door behind her.

  CAMP MACKALL

  31 OCTOBER, 8:45 a.m.

  Riley parked just inside the gate to the Nicholas M. Rowe compound. Two MH-47 helicopters squatted like large green grasshoppers outside the compound gate on the large helipad, their motionless dual rotors drooping halfway to the ground.

  Riley tried the Selection and Assessment shack first. S & A was the cadre that ran potential Special Forces students into the ground on a daily basis. The few people in the shack didn’t know where the crews were for the helicopters. Walking out the door of S & A, Riley scanned the compound and spotted what he was looking for. Two 292 antennae were jury-rigged on the south side, poking up above the buildings. Riley tracked the wires from the antennae into a building.

  Two NCOs were sitting in front of a bank of radios, monitoring a Q-course Phase 13 exercise. On the far side of the open bay building, several men in flight suits were lounging about on a row of cots. Riley made a beeline for one of the men; there were four dots on the silver bar pinned to his maroon beret, which protruded from a side pocket.

  Riley nodded at the higher-ranking warrant officer. “Hey, Chief, how’s it going?”

  The man’s name tag identified him as Chief Warrant Officer Prowley. “All right.”

  Riley glanced at the map pinned to the corkboard on the wall. “You flying missions for Phase 13?”

  “Yeah, we got six exfiltrations tonight.”

  “Uwharrie National Forest?”

  Prowley nodded. “Four of them. Two in Pisgah.”

  “You out of Fort Campbell?”

  “Yep.” Prowley still hadn’t moved from the cot.

  “When do you head back there?”

  “Tonight, after we bring the last load back here.”

  Riley sat down next to Prowley and pulled out a 1:250,000 scale map of North Carolina and Tennessee. “Listen, I’m with A Company, First Battalion, and we’ve got a last-minute tasking to run an escape and evasion mission for one of our deployed teams. I was wondering if you all could help us out tonight.”

  Prowley looked at Riley, then glanced a few cots over to where an officer lay sleeping, a maroon beret covering his face, the gold leaf of a major’s insignia gleaming on the 160th Task Force’s cloth shield. “I don’t know. The major might not be too keen on it. You know how the army works. Got to plan taskings half a lifetime in advance and all that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Riley said. “But I got this one dumped on me by my major, and he isn’t the sort you want to go back to and say you couldn’t get something done.”

  Prowley nodded in commiseration. “I know how that goes. What’s the mission?”

  “Three pax, myself being one of them. Pickup at the helipad here when you drop off your last load, and drop us off here.” Riley pointed at the map. “It shouldn’t be too much out of your way, and it would really help me out.”

  Prowley looked at the location. “That’s pretty much on our flight path back. I guess we could do it. You have a landing zone there?”

  “No.” Riley smiled at the pilot’s look of concern. “Don’t worry. We’ll get off your bird.”

  CHICAGO

  31 OCTOBER, 9:50 a.m.

  “Jesus, Giannini, I could get in big trouble if someone sees me with you,” the man in the black leather jacket whined, eyes darting about the deli. He was in his mid-twenties, and his dark hair was slicked back, complementing the sunglasses he wore to give him an authentic punk look. Giannini wondered if he’d simply copied the crime shows on TV or if the crime shows copied real life.

  “You’d have been in bigger trouble if you hadn’t seen me, Nickie. You owe me.”

  “But people are talking about you,” he said, taking a nervous drag on his cigarette. “I about shit when you called me—and calling me at the club—Jesus, Giannini, what are you, nuts?”

  “Which p
eople are talking about me?” Giannini asked. She’d selected Nickie because he was the only contact she had who had connections with Charlie D’Angelo. She’d called him at the “club,” one of the local hangouts for mob-affiliated people, and pretended to be a girlfriend. She really didn’t care if the ruse had gone over or not. “What are they saying?”

  “They want to know what you’re poking your nose into.”

  “What happened to Jill Fastone?” she asked bluntly.

  “Ah, geez, Giannini! We don’t even mention her name around Charlie. Mikey’s steamed and he’s letting Charlie know. Charlie is supposed to take care of things and now Mike’s girl ends up dead.” Nickie shook his head solemnly. “Bad fucking news.”

  Giannini frowned. “Any idea who killed her?”

  Nickie leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Listen, I owe you for getting me off that bust, but this is heavy shit. We’re dealing with the boss, and if he finds out I’m talking to you, my ass is history.”

  “I’m not wired, Nickie. This is personal—not business; it won’t ever come up in an official capacity. If you don’t talk to me, I’ve got some people I could talk to about things you’ve told me in the past. And you and I know they won’t like it.”

  “Aw, shit.” Nickie stubbed out his cigarette. “All right. I was at the clubhouse when they found out about Jill’s body being discovered. Charlie about blew a gasket. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. It’s been real strange ever since the trial. Some people are saying that Charlie isn’t seeing eye to eye with Mike about some things.”

  “What things?”

  “Ah, I don’t know, Giannini.”

  “Philip Cobb,” Giannini prompted.

  Nickie blinked. “Yeah—that’s something that’s bugging the crap out of everyone. How’d you know that?”

  “I’m not stupid,” Giannini spat out. “What’s the story on Cobb?”

  “The word’s been out since the trial that whoever found Cobb and did him would be a rich person—at least that’s the word from Charlie. Charlie talks to the Torrentinos every day on the phone from prison, so I guess that’s what they want too.

  “We were all looking for Cobb, but Jill—she apparently got a line on him in Georgia or someplace like that down in cracker land. And she went off to do him but didn’t tell nobody. Then she shows up dead in Chicago.” Nickie shook his head, his limited thinking abilities already strained by what he was relating. “It didn’t make no sense—the feds wouldn’t have done that. Now Mike wants to know who done Jill. And he still wants Cobb. More than ever.”

  “Philip Cobb? Or his wife?”

  Nickie shrugged. “Both. But mainly the guy.” He paused. “But there’s also a rumor that maybe Jill got to Philip Cobb and killed him.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Just heard it,” Nickie said evasively.

  “Fastone went down there to kill the Cobbs?” Giannini asked, trying to figure out all the angles to this maze.

  “Yeah. At least that’s what we all think,” Nickie amended.

  Giannini sat back in her seat. “What about Tom Volpe?”

  A mask slid over Nickie’s face. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  She wanted to know more, but she was too confused by what she already did have. “How much is the contract on Cobb up to?”

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  She whistled lightly. “Shit, they are pissed, aren’t they? That’s a little high, ain’t it?”

  “Cobb put Michael away for a long time.” Nickie looked at her, then leaned forward. “But there’s more than just Mikey being pissed. Word I hear is that Cobb got some money that belongs to the Torrentinos squirreled away somewhere. A lot of money.”

  “What’s a lot of money, Nickie?”

  He licked his lips. “I’m hearing rumors of a couple of mill. That’s what really burned Mikey’s ass—he didn’t know about it until after they went to trial. Not only does Cobb put Mikey away and walk free, but he walks away a rich man with our money. Now you know why Mikey wants Cobb so bad.”

  Giannini frowned. Something wasn’t making sense here. “Any word of a freelance professional trying to horn in on it?”

  “Uh-uh. Charlie’s keeping this in the family.” Nickie looked around. “Listen, I really got to go.”

  “All right.” Giannini didn’t watch him leave. She sat at the small table for almost ten minutes, lost in thought.

  CAMP MACKALL

  31 OCTOBER, 1:12 p.m.

  Lisa watched the vividly painted Camaro bump its way along the east side of the airstrip from the perch Hammer had chosen for them in a tree on the west side. “The lights are on,” she noted.

  “Yeah, but that ain’t his truck,” he muttered in return.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  “Right time. Right place. Right signal,” Hammer recited. “Let’s hope it’s the right person. We let it go by once—see if anyone’s following.”

  The Camaro passed by and then disappeared out of sight at the far end of the airstrip. Five minutes later it reappeared on the same road, heading in the opposite direction.

  “All right,” Hammer said. He pulled out a survival mirror from his pocket and angled it, reflecting sunlight at the car’s windshield. Ten seconds later the car came to a stop, then turned and headed across the dirt strip directly for their position. Hammer tapped Lisa on the shoulder. “You stay here.”

  He slipped down to the ground and took up position behind some deadfall, thirty yards away. He pulled his revolver out of its shoulder holster and cocked it. The car passed between several trees and came to a halt near the tree in which Lisa was hidden. Hammer steadied his aim on the windshield.

  The driver’s door opened and Riley stepped out, MP-5 at the ready, looking about. Hammer put his thumb on the hammer, and slowly let it ride forward before standing. “Yo!”

  Riley turned. “Where’s Lisa?”

  “I’m here,” she called out as she clambered down to the ground. “What do we do now?” she asked as she came over.

  “First, we get this car undercover,” Riley said.

  “My truck’s about forty yards that way,” Hammer said, pointing. “In a depression that you couldn’t find unless you practically walked on top of it. That car should fit. Think you could have picked something a little more conspicuous?”

  “I didn’t have the opportunity to be choosy,” Riley replied, his sense of humor gone.

  Once the vehicles were in place, the three gathered at one end of the pit. It was about forty yards long by twenty wide and could be entered only on one end by car. The dirt walls were about eight feet high and ranged in slope from vertical to sixty degrees. The marks of backhoes and bulldozers were evident throughout the area.

  “Looks like some engineer unit dug this thing for a training exercise a while back,” Riley commented.

  “I found it when I was working for F Company six months ago,” Hammer said. “One of the points for the land nav course is about a quarter mile to the west.”

  Lisa reached out and grabbed Riley’s sleeve. “What happened to my brother?” Riley’s brief pause struck home. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Lisa continued, her heart pounding. “You said he was the link to Giannini, and if they got to Giannini—that means they got to him.”

  “Giannini’s all right,” Riley said. He looked at Lisa, trying to think of a gentle way to say what he knew. Then he simply said it. “Your brother is dead.”

  Lisa leaned back against the hood of the car for support. “How?”

  “Someone got to him—Giannini got there too late. He was dead when she arrived at his house, and whoever killed him knocked her out and got my number off her portable. I think that’s how they tracked us to Fayetteville and the drop.”

  Hammer stepped forward. “What’s the plan now?”

  “We wait,” Riley said, opening his rucksack and pulling out his small stove. “Anyone for some coffee?” He glanced u
p at Lisa and saw the look on her face. He was not used to dealing with civilians, and realized he was being too matter-of-fact. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  She seemed dazed. “It’s all come apart, hasn’t it? From the very beginning my life was doomed to failure. I should have known my place and kept to it.”

  Riley wasn’t sure what she meant. He stood. “Why don’t you lie down in the car and get some rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

  He escorted Lisa to the back of the Camaro, and she numbly climbed into the cramped backseat. Riley put his poncho liner over her, then stood awkwardly, looking down at her for a while before returning to his stove.

  “What are we waiting for?” Hammer asked Riley as he walked up.

  “We wait to talk to Giannini and hopefully find out what’s going on.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Riley replied as he lit the stove. “I got attacked last night at my apartment, so the meeting must have been blown. Like I said, they must have traced me from my phone number off Giannini’s portable phone.”

  “You were attacked?” Hammer repeated. “What happened?”

  Riley related the events of the early morning. When he was done, Hammer was shaking his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. How come there were two sets of people outside your apartment? And why did one group kill the other?”

  “I don’t know,” Riley said. “But whoever the second group was, they’re extremely well organized. They didn’t hesitate to fire at me once they busted through my front door. And a few hours later there was no sign of the cops at my place, and nothing in the paper or on the radio this morning about two bodies being found.”

  “The same as when she was attacked on the freeway,” Hammer noted, nodding toward the car.

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “We need to go deep under until Giannini comes up with something to get us out of this mess.”

  “Any idea where we should go?” Hammer asked. “I’m not too sure hanging around here is the best idea.”

  “I’ve got us a way out of here that can’t be traced, and we’ll be going to a place where someone could hide out for years without getting spotted.”