She stared at me blankly as if trying to place me. Her cell phone laid open a few feet away. Whoever called her hadn’t had good news. Coldness pooled in my chest.
“What happened?” I wiped her face with my hand.
“Mickey called….He’s dead….”
“Who’s dead?” When she didn’t answer I shook her until her eyes focused on me. My heart beat wildly in my chest. “Who died?”
“Neil…Oh, God…Neil’s dead.” She pushed away from me and threw up again.
It couldn’t be. The doctor’s gave him six more months. We had time left, time to say goodbye. “When?” I asked, my voice raw with disbelief.
“They found him…this morning…” She gave a choked cry. “Someone shot him…” Her words, delivered quickly, like a blow from a sledgehammer sent me staggering. “Why, Ian? Why would someone shoot Neil?” She seemed to fold into herself, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.
I didn’t have an answer. A mistake. It had to be a mistake. I stumbled against the cement wall, sliding down until my ass hit concrete. I pressed my hands to my eyes to block out the sight of Frankie’s grief. No, this wasn’t right. Neil wasn’t dead.
I’m not sure how much time passed. But eventually Frankie’s cries subsided into hiccups and the numbness inside me shifted to raw, unfiltered rage. Frankie crawled to me, her off-white dress stained with dirt, tar, and tears. I pulled her into my arms and willed the pain away. We sat like that for what seemed like hours, drawing strength from each other until her cell phone rang.
“I can’t answer it.” She pressed it into my palm.
I checked the caller ID. Mickey. “Please tell me there’s been a mistake, Mickey.”
“I wish I could.” The sob in his voice brought tears to my own eyes. I battled them back. Tough guys don’t cry, Billy’s voice echoed in my head.
“What happened? Who killed...” My voice broke.
“We don’t know. It was a hit. Two shots to the back of the head…like Nick.” Fucking Sal had taken his revenge. I’d kill him now, no doubt about that. Make him suffer. Make him beg. Frankie glanced at my enraged expression and lowered her eyes. I felt a shiver pass through her. But I had no comfort to offer, only hard, cold violence and rage.
“Where the fuck was Mark?” I asked, the full weight of Neil’s death washed over me, making speech nearly impossible.
Mickey sighed. “Mark went to buy a pack of smokes. Was gone maybe five minutes…”
In those five minutes everything had changed. “Where are you?”
“I’m here, at Neil’s.”
“Are the cops there?”
“Yeah. Burgess and about ten other uniforms.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” I paused, telling him what he already knew. “Stay out of sight.” My fear for the crew grew. Sal had killed Neil, and had attempted to kill Mickey and Beth. Now it was only a matter of time before he got the rest of them. Before hanging up with Mickey, I said, “Call Drew and Andy. Make sure they’ve gone to ground.”
After I hung up, Frankie touched my arm. “It’s not a mistake.”
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t a mistake. Neil was dead.
Because of me.
Chapter 53
“I want to see him,” I said, stabbing my finger into Detective Burgess’ chest. He stood in the doorway of Neil’s loft, blocking me from entering. Police tape circled the door and random cops filled the room, smoking cigarettes and sipping lattes.
“No. You’ll compromise the crime scene.” He pushed me away, eyes sparkling with power. Cops got off on authority, on the power they held. Burgess was no different.
I blew out a harsh breath, swallowing my pride. “Please. Let me see him.”
The plea registered somewhere in his reptilian brain. He nodded once and led me inside. “Don’t touch a damn thing.”
The place reeked of the sickly sweet stench of blood and death, mixing with the spiced cologne Neil favored. In the center of the room lay a body draped in a thin white sheet. Had the cops brought the sheet with them or was it one of Neil’s?
Blood pooled around the body. No sign of a struggle. Nothing overturned or broken. Like Neil had let the shooter in, and laid down to die. Somehow that made the whole scene much worse. Violent death wasn’t peaceful or clean.
Burgess stood over the body, gesturing to the sheet. “Are you sure you wanna see this?”
I nodded, kneeling next to the body. I peeled the sheet from his face. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, he looked almost happy, or at least at peace. I touched his cheek. “I’m so sorry, my friend.”
Burgess cleared his throat. “Looks like Sal isn’t fucking around. What are the odds you’ll survive the weekend?”
My smile was filled with bitterness and hate as I pushed myself from the floor to face the detective. “Fifty-fifty. Better odds than I’d give Sal.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better I’d think that was a threat.”
“So arrest me.” I stared at him, my eyes as cold as Neil’s corpse. “Warn Sal I’m coming. It doesn’t matter. He’s not getting away with this.” Burgess blinked and I knew Sal owned him. One more cop in Sal’s corrupt pocket.
“I’ll reserve you a spot at the morgue,” he said.
I laughed. “You’d better make it a table for two.”
******
“Report?” I motioned to Mickey. We stood outside Neil’s building, watching with vacant eyes as they wheeled his body into a waiting ambulance. No sirens or flashing lights. Nothing but silence and the drone of morning street traffic.
“Drew’s in Virginia. No problems to report.”
“And Andy?”
Mickey shook his head. “He’s safe, but there was an attempt. Blew the shit out of his apartment—fire bomb—all his electronics are destroyed. He was at Roxanne’s at the time. Billy took them to a safe house.”
I nodded, my eyes drifting up the street. Children played kickball on the corner. Life went on. “I want you, Frankie, and Beth to leave town. Today. Now.”
“Come with us.”
“No.”
Mickey grabbed my arm. “It doesn’t have to end like this. We can regroup. Make Sal pay another day.”
I pushed him away. “No, Sal pays today.” I turned from Mickey, my eyes searching for Frankie. She stood a few feet away, numbed by shock and sorrow. My voice lowered to a whisper, “Sal won’t quit until I’m dead. So it’s him or me. I won’t put the rest of you at risk again.”
“I know you’re hurting. We all are. But I can’t let you go on a suicide mission.” He paused, eyes filling with unshed tears. “I can’t bury you too.”
I said nothing.
“Don’t do this, Ian.”
I nodded toward Frankie. “Tell her…I…Tell her I said goodbye.”
“Ian, no, wait,” Mickey yelled after me, but I ignored him and continued walking.
Chapter 54
Sal lived in a converted warehouse on 10th Street. Not a bad neighborhood if you overlooked the trendy shops and tourists. In the last few years Hell’s Kitchen had become a sort of Mecca for thrill seekers looking to take a bite out of the big, bad apple. Sal’s warehouse wouldn’t be hard to enter. His lax security and arrogance would prove to be his downfall. My problem was getting out alive.
I waited until dark to make my move. The sun set, and I gathered my weapons, readying myself for battle. I wasn’t afraid. Hatred numbed the fear, turning me into a machine with one goal. Kill Sal DeMarco. Nothing else mattered.
A dive knife slid into the sheath on my calf. My M1911 slipped into a holster on my hip, and the .38 in another holster strapped to my ankle. I pocketed two extra clips—nine rounds apiece—if I needed more than twenty-seven bullets I was fucked anyway.
Night fell across the city as I contemplated death. Mine not Sal’s. Was tonight the night a bullet found the mark? Did it make a difference? No. Neil deserved vengeance, and the crew deserved peace. No one else would die a
t Sal’s hands. I’d see to it. With my very last breath.
Two buildings from Sal’s I took to the rooftops. I’m not Superman, so it required a fair amount of dangling from rickety fire escapes and swearing. My arms strained as I dragged my body over the brick ledge and onto the flat rooftop. A rooftop covered in pigeon shit and melted roofing tar.
I took a moment to catch my breath, sucking in clouds of polluted city air. The city lights burned brightly like a spotlight for my nefarious deeds. While good citizens slept I peered through the night sky, murder the only thing on my mind.
I pulled a slim set of binoculars from my bag of tricks. Sal must’ve expected trouble. His building blazed with light. Every room shined like a beacon, giving me an excellent view of the layout. Warning Burgess had been stupid, but it made no difference. A couple of light bulbs wouldn’t stop me.
I hunkered down, observing the comings and goings of Sal’s security team. Typical organized crime protection. Big guys with guns. Not too bright, but brutal. You go with what worked and mean men with guns worked for Sal.
For two hours I watched, waiting. The air grew cold, hovering around forty degrees. I rubbed my hands together to keep them from going numb. The sign I waited for came at 1:15 in the morning. The lights on the third story window winked out. Sal had bedded down for the night.
I jogged in place, warming up for what was probably the dumbest thing I would ever do. The muscles of my legs uncurled, growing loose and limber. I took one hundred steps backward, counting off each one. I took a deep breath, sent a small prayer to the heavens, and ran full tilt toward the edge of the building. My foot touched the ledge, and I jumped, flying through the air like a confused penguin.
New York City housed eight million people. That was the bad news. For me, though eight million people meant buildings that stood less than seven feet apart. How did I know that? Well, in high school, I held the record for the high jump. Seven point two feet. When my feet touched the rooftop of the next building with six inches to spare I quickly did the math. Yep, seven feet.
My heart beat so fast in my chest I thought it might explode. Adrenaline rushed through me, giving me a feeling of invincibility. A feeling that would get me killed unless I took it down a notch. I did some deep breathing, waiting for the rush to subside.
Ten minutes later I picked the cheap lock on the rooftop entryway. Hell, most roofs didn’t even have locks. I silently made my way to the third floor, stopping every few steps to listen. A dim light in the hallway gave me pause. Sal had posted guards outside his room. Smart, but it wouldn’t save him. I unstrapped the dive knife and crept toward the door. A gun made more sense, but it also made more noise. I refused to tip my hand until I had no other choice.
Gap-tooth sat on a chair in front of Sal’s inner domain, flipping through a Hustler, his big, dumb features intent on the magazine. I crouched in the dark, waiting with a grim smile. Two minutes later, he stood, stretched, and ambled down the corridor. Bathroom break.
Showtime. I jumped from the shadowed stairwell, grabbing him around the neck and applied a blood choke. My forearm wrapped around his carotid artery, stopping blood flow to his pea-sized brain. Who said I didn’t learn anything in the Navy?
But before he blacked out Gap-tooth slammed me against the wall. The force of the impact left a me-sized hole in the plaster. My spine took most of the impact, sending stabbing pain along my nerve ends. I held tight, counting the seconds, hoping like hell he’d pass out before breaking my back. Again, he rammed me into the wall. Stars flickered through my vision. I pulled tighter.
Where was Gap-tooth’s backup? Our fight was anything but quiet. Ten tough guys with guns should have swarmed the corridor by now. Had I walked into a setup? Were they hiding somewhere, waiting? Finally, Gap-tooth dropped to his knees, but I still didn’t loosen my grip. I pictured Mickey’s burning building, and Neil’s face, pale in death. I pressed harder, grinning when he fell face first onto the carpet.
Time for Sal.
I listened at Sal’s bedroom door, not hearing a thing. Bad sign. I twisted the door handle, keeping my body to the side to avoid any nasty gunshot blasts. Nothing happened. Too fucking easy. My palms began to sweat.
Darkness filled the bedroom. I slipped through the door, zigzagging to the bed, knife at ready. My hand touched the sheet as the echo of a round entering the chamber of a nine-millimeter thundered in the otherwise silent room. This was it. Life or death in the twitch of an index finger. I threw myself toward the sound before the gun fired.
My shoulder hit the gunman’s stomach. He tried to get another shot off but I was too close. The impact threw him against the wall, and the two of us crashed to the floor. I outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, but he had the gun, so the odds evened up.
I palmed my knife and sliced the tendon in his right hand. “Ow,” he screamed, dropping the gun. It fell soundlessly onto the carpet.
My rage intensified at hearing his voice. “Bastard,” I yelled, punching Sal in the jaw, his head snapped back like a puppet on a string. I wrapped my hands around his throat. “Why, you fuck? Neil didn’t have anything to do with this.” I squeezed, and his eyes began bulge.
His good hand groped at my arm. “Wasn’t…me…”
“Liar.” I eased the pressure from his neck. A quick death was too good for him. He’d suffer before he died, I’d make sure of it.
He took advantage of the reprieve and sucked in gulps of air. “I swear. I almost wish I had. It’s a fitting revenge for Chris and Nick.”
I smacked him, feeling his cheekbone snap. “Before you die I want you to know the truth. I didn’t kill Nick. All this was for nothing. How’s that for vengeance?”
“I should ask you the same. You kill me and your revenge is meaningless. I didn’t hit your friends. You wanna know who did? Look closer to home.”
“What are you saying?” I pressed the knife against his throat. “Tell me or I’ll make you bleed.”
He laughed. “Go ahead.” He grabbed my hand and pressed the cold steel farther into his neck, a thin trail of blood welled from the wound. “Do it. What do I have left? My sons are dead…” A single tear dripped from his eye.
I pulled the knife away. The blinding rage inside my head receded. Sal hadn’t killed Neil. The phantom Morrissey or someone else had. Gangland style, like the drive-by at the bar, seemed more Sal’s style. Something to show the world he was top dog. To men like him and Billy cruelty equaled power. I stood over Sal, sickened by the pathetic, dried up old man crying in front of me.
I had nothing to fear from him. In fact I almost felt sorry for him. That was until he reached for a gun and fired a round directly into my heart.
Chapter 55
The bullet struck my body, knocking me back against the wall with the force of a wrecking ball. I dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. My ribs felt splintered into a million tiny, jagged pieces. I concentrated on breathing, sucking in stale air. Sal rose to his feet slowly, wrapping a handkerchief around his bloody hand. He kept the gun trained on me. Chambering another round for the kill shot, his hand steady on the gun, Sal smiled. Evilness seeped from him, like a malignant disease.
His finger twitched on the trigger.
I looked into his cold eyes and threw my dive knife at his heart. It stuck, six inches deep into his chest. Sal dropped the gun, his hands jerking to the hilt of the knife. Blood spilled from his mouth and he dropped to the floor, dead.
I sat up, tugging at my t-shirt that covered a bulletproof vest. My plan might have been stupid, but I wasn’t crazy. I’d taken a bullet to the chest once this year, an experience I didn’t plan to repeat. I worked Sal’s bullet from the Titanium vest, wincing at the welt growing over my heart. That would leave a mark. I’d survived with only one or two busted ribs. Glancing at Sal, I grinned. It was more than I could say for him.
Sal’s bodyguards ran up the stairs sounding much like a herd of overweight mobsters. Shit. Time for escape plan B. Fucking plan A never
worked. Pulling my M1911, I shot the widow in front of me. Glass shattered, falling like icicles in after a heavy snow. The rope I’d tied to the roof earlier, just in case, swayed in the late night breeze. But there was a problem, the rope stopped twenty feet short of the concrete ground. Fuck it. I glanced over the ledge, slipped the rope through my fingers, and jumped.
The nylon rope burned through my black leather gloves and bit into the flesh beneath, but I held fast, spiraling down at close to twenty miles per hour. At the end of my rope—pun intended—I let go, free falling to the concrete below. I hit the ground. My legs sent shock waves of pain into my brain. My feet still worked so I used them to get the hell out of there.
I stayed in the shadows, keeping to the alleys. My escape route led me to the bar in ten minutes at a sprint. My sprint turned into a limp since my legs felt like Jell-O, and my fractured ribs made it impossible to gather a deep breath.
I made it to the bar in fifteen minutes tops, out of breath and regretting each step as the pain in my chest intensified. Taking a bullet really fucking hurt, vest or not. I unlocked my door and flipped on the lights. The place looked sad as if it mourned Neil’s death too. I couldn’t believe Neil was gone. I’d known we’d lose him sometime, but not today.
I staggered to the bar and grabbed a semi-cold beer from the cooler. I popped the top and poured a shot of Jameson into one of the few clean shot glasses. “To Neil.” I raised my glass in salute and repeated an Irish toast to the dead. “May the Lord welcome you in Heaven before the Devil knows you're dead.”
“Hear, hear.” Frankie stood in the shadowy stairwell.
Shit, not tonight. I couldn’t handle being close to her. Not when my heart felt so raw, like every nerve ending was hers for the taking. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice hoarse from whiskey, busted ribs, and a fair amount of lust.
SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series) Page 19