“Ooh-rah, sir, I’ll shoot him in the stones.”
“Oh, so now everyone’s a comedian?” Cabrera grumbled and then glanced at my chest. “I told her to show a little cleavage, but she didn’t listen to me.”
“Can I shoot him now, sir?” Man, this ought to be good.
Wallace shook his head. “I checked in with the hostess. The place is a zoo, but Stone knows the owner. They’re holding a table for us downstairs.”
I turned just in time to see the garrison of Stormtroopers marching down the block. I was feeling happy. A smile sprouted on my face, and then my cell phone rang. Fate can sometimes have a nasty way of telling you when your time is up. We were in New York and, as the expression goes, in a New York minute … I recognized the name on the caller ID. It was someone I had not heard from in many years and was not sure I wanted to hear from again. Had we shared a normal, loving relationship, the caller ID would have read Dad, but mine read Albert Mather. My head began to spin.
Wallace turned his head and grinned when he saw Stone walking toward us. I’d met Stone before but never in such an intimate setting. He was thirty feet away and marching toward us like a soldier.
My phone continued to announce the incoming call. Jesus. What bad timing. I felt my shoulders drop and the blood drain from my face. In that sad and hopeless moment I saw something clear as a bell. The Stormtroppers’ blasters had magazines, and Star Wars blasters, replicas though they might be, don’t fire bullets. They abruptly stopped marching, turned, and aimed their weapons at us.
Stone was less than a pace away, his hand extended and reaching for mine.
“Hit the deck!” I screamed and pushed him to the ground. I reached for my carry, but before I could turn, I heard the blast of a discharging weapon and felt fiery-hot metal tearing into my shoulder. Coming towards us, a Stormtrooper yanked off his helmet. The face I saw jarred me, and I knew in that instant what the DNA reports would ultimately reveal. Behind him the other Stormtroopers took a knee and aimed their blasters at us. The air filled with the sound of gunfire. Stone and Cabrera had taken cover behind parked cars and were returning fire. I turned and saw that Wallace had been hit and was writhing on the ground. We were out in the open as the unmasked assailant stepped forward with his weapon drawn. I rolled on the sidewalk and fired at Sand.
~~END~~
Chloe Mather in Legends of the Kill is next.
I hope that you enjoyed Rules of the Kill. Now is the best time for you to give me feedback on Mather #2. Please click on [email protected]., write to me, and sign up for my forthcoming newsletter.
For more information on Stephanie Chalice, Chloe Mather, and my other books please visit my website at: lawrencekelter.com.
A call from a dying man reignites a fuse that has been smoldering for decades, and secrets long buried are about to be unearthed in this tale of fraud, conspiracy, and deception.
Recovering from the firefight of her life, a wounded Chloe Mather is dragged into an investigation she wants no part of by an outsider with a hold on her no one can quite understand.
The stakes are raised even higher when Mather uncovers a startling link, a puzzle with life and death consequences that pushes her beyond the point of no return. At the heart of the riddle lies the key to evidence she needs in order to solve a mortal crime and topple an empire built on deceit. In a frantic race that spans Long Island from shore to shore she finds herself matching wits with a faceless influence peddler, who appears to anticipate her every move. In the balance hangs a life that Mather had long ago given up for lost, and the moral code she has lived by every day of her life.
Legends Of The Kill
A Chloe Mather Thriller
#3
By
Lawrence Kelter
Legends of the Kill Copyright © 2015 by Lawrence Kelter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Editing by
Pauline Nolet
Interior book design by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
For
Everyone who makes me smile
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.
As always, for my wife, Isabella for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love and support.
Legends Of The Kill
A Chloe Mather Thriller
#3
Lawrence Kelter
Legend: a story from the past that is believed by many people but cannot be proved to be true.
Book I:
Chapter 1
“Christ. She’s out again,” the EMT hollered.
“Bag her!” Kei Asada, the second EMT yelled as he reached into his EMS kit to grab the resuscitator.
No! What are you talking about? I’m here. Damn it, I’m here! I knew where I was and had a sense of what was happening around me. I’m in here. Why don’t they hear me? I could feel the plastic bag valve mask being pressed against my mouth, hear the hiss of air as it was sucked into the balloon, and feel air being forced into my lungs.
“Come on, lady,” Asada urged. He jostled my arm. “Stay with us.”
Taylor Gerow had been ready to lift the stretcher when he heard his partner’s warning. He quickly timed her pulse. “Fifty BPM,” he reported. “I have to recheck the wound. Help me get her upright.”
I could feel their hands behind my shoulder blades as they leaned me forward. Somewhere in the distance I heard Agent Dominic Cabrera’s voice rise above the din of frantic voices and commotion taking place in the background. It sounded as if he was praying. “Come on, Mather. Open your eyes. You can do it. Open your eyes.”
“I’ve got to redress the wound,” Gerow reported unhappily. “There’s too much bleeding.”
I felt tape being peeled off my back and then the hard press of a palm against the wound. All the while air from the resuscitator was being fed into my lungs.
Aside from the wail of sirens off in the distance, the street became momentarily quiet. The shouting of police personnel and emergency medical technicians dimmed. I felt peaceful and quiet, as if I were fading away and losing contact with my surroundings. I felt dreamy, almost euphoric, somehow slipping away as if I were being lowered into a warm bath. Onlookers spoke in hushed tones of concern, but that too seemed to fade and disappear as I lapsed into a trance.
Imperial Stormtroopers seemed to appear out of nowhere. Billowy clouds surrounded us while the white armor-clad soldiers rushed forward with their blasters in hand. Cabrera was by my side as well as my CO Wallace and Deputy Director Stone. The muzzles on their blasters flashed as they attacked. My colleagues and I dropped into combat stances and returned fire. One by one I saw red blood gush through holes in their white armor as they fell and died. We were still firing when one of them raced toward us ready to go out in a blaze of glory. Lights flashed like strobes around me and I heard a deep guttural moan.
“I’m done,” Gerow said. “Let’s load her onto the bus.”
“Not yet,” Asada said. “I want to see her wake up before we move her.” He pressed his knuckles against my sternum, grinding and twisting back and forth.
The last Stormtrooper fired a blast that hit me dead center in the chest. I could feel waves of pain radiate through me as he rushed forward to finish the job. He ripped off his helmet. I screamed. When I opened my eyes, I was face to face with an EMS worker. He recoiled in response to the scream and then turned to his partner.
“She’s back,” Asada shouted triumphantly. “Let’s get her mobile.”
They raised the stretcher. It jolted as it locked into extended position, and then they rolled me away. I saw Cabrera. He rushed over to me just as I was about to be put into an ambulance. “Did we get him?” I asked anxiously. “Did we get Sand?”
He shook his head woefully, looking more distraught than upset, and then they slid me into the ambulance.
“But everyone’s all right, aren’t they?”
A solitary tear ran down his cheek as the ambulance doors were slammed shut. I turned to my left and saw Bill Wallace on the stretcher next to me. His eyes were fixed, his skin pale and lifeless.
“No,” I howled. “Dear God …” A ghastly revelation hit me as dread boiled in my gut. Completing my appeal to the Almighty was pointless. Bill Wallace was dead.
Chapter 2
Monte Rossetti rushed out of the kitchen with a salami and provolone sandwich in his hand when he heard fans cheering on TV. He was a diehard Mets fan with high hopes and low expectations. Noise is good, he assumed. Like all Mets fans, he had received more than his share of tough love over the past decade. The Amazins hadn’t played five-hundred ball since 2008, but he had grown up in the shadow of Shea Stadium and had always remained intensely loyal to his hometown club. “Oh shit!” The cleanup batter had just hit into a double play and the Mets had once again gone down scoreless. In his hurry to get in front of the TV he had forgotten that the Mets were playing an away game. The cheering had come from Dodger fans applauding their victorious ball club. He took a bite of his sandwich, got a mouthful of mustard, and grimaced.
The phone rang. Rossetti looked at the end table and saw that the phone wasn’t on its stand. He listened carefully for the source of the sound, then reached under a pillow to retrieve it. “Hello.”
“Yo, Rossetti, you still a Met’s bitch?”
He knew the voice instantly but was completely taken by surprise. “Nunzio?”
“Yeah, Nunzio. Who else? What’s a matter, old age make you hard of hearing?”
Rossetti smiled. He knew Nunzio from the old neighborhood but hadn’t heard from him in years. “Nunzio, I can’t believe it—how long has it been?” He quickly thought back to when they had last worked together. “Could it be five years?”
“Something like that. I hear noise—you got the TV on?”
“Yeah. I was just watching … ah,” he said with disappointment. “You know.”
“They dropped three straight to LA, didn’t they?”
Rossetti shrugged even though his friend couldn’t see him. “Whatever. They are who they are. Maybe one day Wilpon will sell the club to someone who actually gives a shit. Anyway, it’s so good to hear from you. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh, you know, Rossetti, this and that.”
“Nunzio ‘Motor Mouth’ Faciamano, talk to me, you old son of a gun. Where the hell have you been all these years?”
“Around.”
“A-round? Around what? The cat got your tongue or something? I don’t remember you being bashful. Oh. You mean …”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know … How long?”
“Three years.”
“Where?”
“Marion, Illinois.”
“Marion, huh? Like Gotti.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just like John fucking Gotti. They marched us by his cell on the way to chow every day. He was the Teflon Don, and I was the Sticky WOP.”
“What does that mean?”
“Everything slid off Gotti, but me … trouble came to me like flies to shit.”
“What did they get you for?”
“That’s a long story, Rossetti, and I’m a little short on time.”
“Short on time? So why’d you call me now? What’s a matter with you, you got to catch a plane or something?”
“Yeah. I got a one-way ticket to Pinelawn.”
Pinelawn? Rossetti thought the comment strange. The name drew an immediate reference for anyone living on Long island. “The cemetery? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Bad joke, Rossetti. Sorry.”
“You working for Benzino now that you’re out?”
“Cradle to grave, my friend—you know how it is. You’re not out until you’re in a box. And you?”
“I’m retired.” He sighed. “Angie died two years ago.” He’d never been able to mention her name without remorse surfacing in his voice. “I’ve been warming the couch ever since, eating cold cuts, drinking cheap beer, and praying for my ball club ever since.”
“Aw. I’m sorry to hear that, Rossetti. Angie was a real doll, a sweetheart. I liked her a lot.”
Rossetti frowned as his wife’s face materialized before him. “It was for the best, Nunzio. She was really very sick. It’s terrible what God will do to a good person before he takes them. He took everything from her, her health, her vitality, and her self-respect. She suffered terribly.”
“Ah, that sucks.” Cough. “She was still so young.”
“Hey, you all right, Nunzio? Sounds like you’ve got a nasty cold.”
“It came on all of a sudden.” He coughed again. “Must be an allergy or something. I’ll be okay.”
“You know what’s good for a cough? Honey and lemon. It’s better than all that crap they sell in the pharmacy.” He heard him as he continued to hack. “Go take a drink of water or something—I’ll hold on. For the love of Pete, you sound like you’ve got the grip.”
“Eat shit and die.”
“What? You delusional or something?”
“Not you, Monte, I wasn’t talking to you.” He cleared his throat. “That’s better. Listen, Rossetti, before we keep talking—” Cough. “Why don’t you turn on the local news.”
“The local news? Why?”
“Just humor me, okay?”
“Ah, I hate that station. All they do is play the same tired old crap over and over again.”
“Exactly. Aw, fuck,” he grumbled.
“You crazy bastard, what the hell is going on over there? You sound like someone just punched you in the lungs.”
“I still hear play-by-play in the background,” he said, ignoring his friend’s question. “Now pick up the goddamn remote and go to channel twelve.”
“Nunzio—”
He moaned and then cleared his throat. “Just do it.”
“Yeah, all right—just a minute.” He placed his sandwich on the couch and picked up the remote. He punched in News 12, a station that played local Long Island news twenty-four hours a day. “Okay, so now what?”
Cough. “Just watch.”
“Bah fanabla,” he grumbled. “What’s the big mystery? What am I looking for?”
“Hey, Rossetti.” Cough. “Remember the time we drove those two forklifts into the back of a semi and took off with them?”
“Sure I remember. We cleared ten grand a piece.”
“Good times, weren’t they?”
“Yeah, the good old days,” he said impatiently. He picked up his sandwich and took another bite. “So far all they’ve talked about is the Long Island Petting Zoo and some eighteen-year-old dickhead kid who hit a tree driving his father’s Maserati ninety-five miles per hour with a nose full of cocaine. Could you at least give me a clue about what I’m looking for here?”
“Remember what we did with that money?”
“Nunzio, why are you changing the subject again? Can’t you just answer my damn question?”
“I asked if you remembered what we did with the money?”
Guilt reared its ugly head as he visualized their suite at the El San Juan Resort and two Puerto Rican girls built like Salma Hayek. He’d told Angie they were going to Miami for a weekend of golf. “Yeah,” he said contritely. “I remember.” God rest her soul, I hope Angie didn’t know what I did.
“We were like a couple of young bucks—two hot Latinas, a pocket full of cash, and a bottle filled with b
lue pills. That was right before …”
“Benzino fucked you over, didn’t he? That’s why you did the time.”
Silence.
Rossetti brushed away the crumbs his sandwich had deposited on the taupe leather sofa. “So am I ever gonna see you again, you old shit?”
“Hard to say.”
“Jesus, you’re morose.” A station break ended and the newscaster reappeared on the screen. A picture of a familiar face appeared on the screen alongside him. Oh shit! “Hey, he’s on the news … Benzino—this is what you wanted me to see, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he replied weakly.
“Shhh. I’ve got to hear this.” He picked up the remote and increased the volume.
“Welcome back. I’m Sam Quarry and this is our top story. According to Suffolk County District Attorney Tim Spanner a Long Island park has been closed after two thousand tractor-trailer truckloads of contaminated debris were dumped there. Spanner called the scene at Francisco Desicero Park in Brentwood ‘an environmental disaster.’ We’re told that the debris contained asbestos and likely other contaminants. The DA said that he is investigating a Ronkonkoma company and its owner Enio Benzino. We go now to Francisco Desicero Park and News 12 Correspondent Christina Young.”
Rossetti covered his mouth. “Jesus. Hey, are you watching this, Nunzio?”
Silence.
Rossetti listened intently as the news correspondent interviewed a bystander at the park. “I come here once a week for a softball game,” the bystander said. “Beacon Hill trucks were here all the time—I kept wondering what they were doing. I left messages with the Town of Islip, but I never got an answer.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 48