In a firefight there’s a difference – a world of difference – between a man who knows how to kill versus someone scared shitless and shooting at anything that moves. The four gunmen behind him were the fools. Bullets and shotgun blasts ripped open the back of the van. Shredded the cab in a hail of hot lead. And missed. Missed their target by wide margins.
None of the remaining gunmen, after seeing their comrades dropped so effortlessly by the dark-eyed man, had any inclination to step up and circle the back of the van. Assuming that massed firepower had to kill anyone standing back there they unloaded their weapons into the steaming, bullet riddled hulk of what once had been a van.
Eventually the guns stopped firing.
Their ammo spent, the cement street around them a brass littered carpet of spent cartridges.
Too bad.
Smitty stepped out from behind the van, Kalishnikov in hand, and squeezed the trigger. Just a one second burst. The Russian-designed weapon liked to dance upward when on full automatic. Most people missed by shooting over the target’s head. But the dark-eyed man was familiar with the Kalishnikov. Knew its tendencies. Compensated for the gun’s personality.
He shredded the four gunmen in front of him like over ripe tomatoes. Blood, pieces of flesh, flecks of bone and brain matter splattered the black car they had leapt out of moments before. The car suddenly lurched forward. Apparently the driver had not been part of the shooting team. With tires squealing the car whipped around and shot away. It disappeared with screaming tires in a tight right-hand turn at the far end of the street.
Smitty tossed the Kalishnikov to one side and reached for his .45 semi-automatic. Lying in pools of blood, six bodies littered the streets. Blood, bodies, guns and hundreds of empty shells. Taking a few steps forward he checked the bodies and made sure they were dead just as, not too far away, the wail of sirens began to lift into the air. The dark-eyed man disregarded the approaching sirens for a moment or two. Kneeling by one of the men he had drilled in the head with the .45 he hurriedly searched the man’s pockets. Finding a wallet he stood up and started walking. Walking swiftly toward the mouth of the alley from which the car had appeared.
Amateurs.
Entering a firefight with a wallet containing credit cards, a driver’s license, other pieces of identification still in your pocket. Stupid. Amateurish. A block away he threw the wallet into a trash can in a different alley and kept walking. It wouldn’t take much to find out who had sent them.
The war was on. He felt vibrant and at ease with the thought that more action was just around the corner.
#4
When he entered the Menten home through the back door she was standing in the kitchen waiting for him. She and the oversized giant, Otto. Both of them stared at him in silent amazement. Openly shocked that he had returned.
“We heard... we heard that some men were going to find you tonight. And kill you. A number of men.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Stu Sheppard came by,” the woman said, her startling green eyes boring into Smitty’s dark orbs. “Said he heard some boys had been hired by Bosley to take you out. Stu said he was dropping by to warn you. Said he didn’t want you to get any false assumptions. He said he, Mick, and Wil were no threat to you or to anyone, that you had an agreement with Mick and Wil. He said he’d be willing to go along with that deal if it came through. Smitty, what was Stu talking about?”
“Your husband left you two computer discs. One has the account numbers from several off-shore banks. The other is filled with names. Names of powerful people. Do you have them?”
Green eyes beautiful and compelling widened as she barely nodded for an answer. The dark-eyed man looked into the face of the beautiful woman for a second or two before glancing over at the impassive mug of Otto. The giant stood just behind the woman. As large as a mountain. As silent as an Egyptian tomb. But with eyes that watched. Watched everything.
The black eyes of a killer moved back to the woman. As beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. So beautiful it actually hurt... physically hurt... taking in her beauty. A woman with that kind of beauty, and with brains matching the beauty’s brilliance, was a rare woman indeed. She could have anything she wanted. Anyone she wanted. Beauty and brains.
Dangerous.
“The baby’s crying,” he said.
Charlene blinked a couple of times in surprise. She had just checked the baby. The baby was sleeping. The baby was... crying. Over a set of small portable speakers sitting on the kitchen cabinet behind Otto the soft squeak of a tiny baby rustling in its blankets became audible. The baby had been sound asleep just a minute earlier. Just before she walked into the kitchen. But this dark-eyed, brooding denizen of the night was first to know that the baby was awake. Heard the baby fussing before anyone else did. How? How?
She stared at Smitty for a couple of seconds with a mixture of amazement, fear, worry, before pushing those emotions aside and rushing past the dark-eyed man to hurry to the baby’s bedroom. Smitty caught the aroma of the woman brushing past him. When she disappeared out of the kitchen he walked past Otto and opened the refrigerator door. Pulling out the makings of a ham sandwich he said nothing as he worked in silence building the delicatessen delight. But he was aware of the massive presence of Otto behind him. Aware of the silent eyes watching his every move. Aware of the herculean strength the man possessed. Aware of the orderly mind that kept account of everything that went on in this house. Everything.
When he sat the sandwich and its dish onto the small kitchen table he wasn’t surprised to find Otto absent. For a man that big the giant moved lightly on his feet. Coming and going almost as quietly as the dark-eyed man. Twisting the cap off a bottle of beer, Smitty stood beside the table, sipped his beer and quietly ate his sandwich. On the kitchen counter to his right the noises coming out of the small speakers were the sounds of a gentle mother holding her baby as she sat and rocked the child back to sleep.
A mother’s love.
A wife carrying secrets.
A husband’s unexpected demise.
A street empty and desolate suddenly filled with gunmen throwing lead around like it was celebratory confetti. A trap well planned and almost successful. But... how did they know about him so quickly? Know where he would be at that time of night? Know soon enough to have time to gather gunmen, gather vehicles, set the trap? Secrets. Dark secrets that did not want to be revealed. Had to be revealed. Had to be revealed if only to protect the innocent from being killed.
By him. Or by those wishing to kill... him.
#
In a corner booth of The Irish Lad he felt his cell phone vibrating angrily in his shirt pocket. Grinning, setting down his bottle of beer, he reached inside his sport coat and took the phone out and absently checked the tiny screen to see who was calling. The smile on his face remained. But now not so natural. Not so spontaneous. It had the look of being painted on. Kept there by a conscious commitment to look cool and natural. At that moment, he felt just the opposite.
Flipping the phone open he lifted it to his ears and grunted. “Yes?”
“He’s still alive,” the soft voice said over the other end. Soft... yet convincing. “He killed everyone. Came to the house looking like he’d just had a nice stroll through a park. Unruffled. Normal looking. Well...normal, for him.”
“Oh really? That’s just swell!” he answered jovially, laughing, and shaking his head. “Well, I guess we’ll have to think of something else!”
“I think he knows. Knows something’s not right. If he starts sniffing around he’s bound to find the truth. What do you want to do about it?”
“We’ll just have to throw another surprise party, I guess. Need to make it a bigger celebration. Bring in the clowns, singing telegrams, the works. Got that?”
“Understood,” the soft, almost gentle voice said over the phone before ending the conversation.
Across the table from him Mick O’Toole was telling Wil Marconi one o
f his more filthy jokes about a rabbi stumbling into a whorehouse. Grinning, he tried to look like he was still in the mood. Still here drinking with friends and sharing some good times. He was here. He was drinking some beer. But he wasn’t with friends. Far from it. He was here secretly celebrating their imminent demise. Celebrating in a wake. An Irishman’s wake. Something a soon to be dead Mick O’Toole would know and cherish.
And maybe would still.
On the other side of the grave.
#
In the stillness of the early morning hours she heard the baby crying. Not so much crying as squeaking. Sounding irritable. Maybe a little hungry but more just... irritated. Semi-asleep she threw the sheet off and tried to roll out of bed. But so much had happened recently. So much pain. So much tragedy. So much fear. Just so much... her first night of real sleep was heavenly. Groggily she came out of the wide, empty bed and stumbled across the giant, empty bedroom to find a robe to throw on before going to the baby. Using a hand to throw back her long hair she turned and moved across to the baby’s room.
“Coming, Dear. Mommy’s coming,” she half whispered more asleep than awake as she stepped into the door leading to the baby’s room.
And stopped in her tracks, eyes filling with surprise and fear, and stared at the dark form sitting in the rocking chair beside the crib. Involuntarily she yelped in fright and threw a hand up to her lips. In the chair, rocking gently, the grim man with the dark eyes... those incredibly dark eyes... held the baby in the crook of one arm while his free hand held a bottle of milk to the child’s lips. In the dimly lit baby’s room the man’s facial expression was almost – but not quite – gentle. Yet he held the baby like a father; like a man who knew such emotions, and patiently fed the baby his morning meal.
Lying on the floor was a discarded diaper. In the baby’s crib a bottle of baby lotion. The baby, now with a clean, dry diaper and food in his stomach, slept in contentment. As she watched, the killer came to his feet with the ease of an athlete, stepped up to the crib, and gently laid the child down and covered it with a blanket.
“I heard him crying. Knew you were sleeping. Thought I would come in and save you from getting out of bed.”
His voice was a notch or two above a whisper. An odd sounding voice. Gentle but... suggesting something else. Something so opposite. Yet her eyes had not deceived her. The man had the gentlest of touches as he rocked her baby. How he held the baby in the bend of his arm. How he fed him. It was as if, as if... as if this killer knew. Knew what it was like to be a father. Knew how precious the child was to her.
And it made her feel both relieved and terrified at the same time. Opposite, conflicting emotions raced through her like a jungle fever. But she said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. All she could do was stand in the doorway of the baby’s room and watch. Watched as the man glanced down at the baby and smiled. Watched with a growing sense of panic as the dangerous man gently laid her child back into his crib with a gentleness rivaling that of an angel. Watched as he looked up at her and nodded.
“Good night,” he said, moving toward her.
He walked past her, his arms brushing across the nipples of her breasts lightly as he moved past her in the doorway. An electrical charge ran through her with that light touch. A sudden, alarming, arousing surge of heat as she turned and watched him move across her bedroom toward the bedroom door.
“Smitty, Smitty... thank you. Thank you for your kindness,” she said, her husky voice filled with emotion.
The dark-eyed, dark form of the man stopped beside the bedroom door, a hand on the knob. Turning, she felt his dark eyes play across her barely concealed body. And that appraising glance sent a second electrical thrill arcing across her nerves.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Menten.”
The door opened and he was gone. Gone without making the slightest of sounds. For several moments she stared at the door. Stared and felt the rage of emotions tearing through her soul. Fear. Apprehension. Confusion. Lust. It was the last emotion – lust – that confused and terrified her most. Wanton, unrestrained, demanding... lust.
Mary, Mother of Jesus. Forgive me. Please, please. Forgive me.
#5
Harry Bosley ran a hand down his face and turned to stare at the phone sitting beside the bedroom lamp. Jesus Christ! Why weren’t the boys calling him about now? Eight fucking shooters and a wheel man, a damn good wheel man, had been sent out to take that sonofabitch down. Eight of the best shooters he could scrape up on such short notice. Eight to fucking one odds seemed foolproof. Seemed like a no-brainer! So why the fuck weren’t the boys calling him by now?
He turned, ran a hand across his dried, cracked lips and nervously looked around the living room of his apartment. He was a short man. Short and stocky. And bald. With a big hook nose and hands the size of footballs. He had been Jacob Menten’s first choice when it came to enforcing the boss’s rules. When it came to just plain old, honest pain – he was the man. It didn’t bother him at all. Inflicting pain on others. Men. Women. Children. To Harry Bosley it didn’t matter. It was just a job, bub. Just a job. Somebody had to do it.
A drink. That’s what he needed. A drink. Something strong. Something with a kick. Dropping the hand from his face he walked across the carpet of the living room and headed for the kitchen. Opening a cabinet above the sink he pulled out a fresh glass and turned. From the refrigerator he popped three ice cubes into the glass then took a step over to another overhead cabinet. Inside was a half-consumed bottle of Johnny Walker. Unscrewing the cap he started to pour himself a large drink. The phone on the kitchen wall rang. Rang with such a loud intensity it made Harry jump. Jump almost out of his shoes. Startled him so much the glass of ice in his hand slipped out and shattered into a thousand pieces on the kitchen’s tiled floor.
“What, for chrissakes!” he shouted into the phone. “You’d better fucking tell me some good news, Donny!”
“This isn’t Donny,” the calm voice said over the other end of the line. Calm and irritated at the same time. “Your boys screwed the pooch, Harry. They’re all dead. Including your cousin. Donny got away since he was driving the car. But not far. Apparently he’d been hit in the firefight. A bullet punched through the car door and caught him in the ribs. He died about three blocks away.”
“Donny? Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!”
“You screwed with the hit on Greg Tarkanian. Now you screwed up taking Smitty out. Mistakes like this are going to get all of us killed. Do you hear me, Harry? Is this coming through to you?”
“I hear you, boss. I hear you.”
“Good. Get some better men, Harry. And this time you be there to tell ’em what to do. No slip ups this time. We gotta get rid of this guy before he figures it out. If you need help, take either Mick or Wil with you. Just get the job done. Get rid of Smitty before the mind of that cold bastard realizes what’s going on. Now, Harry. Now!”
The line went dead. Harry lowered the receiver in his hands and stared at it. Stared at in disbelief. Donny? Donny was dead? His cousin? That sonofabitch killed Donny. Nine good men. Gone. Gone in the blinking of an eye. This guy was a fucking monster. A fucking Houdini! Eight fucking shooters should have waxed this guy’s eyes faster than snapping your fingers. But eight shooters plus Donny were dead. Dead! And this fucking Smitty was still alive.
Using a thumb he quickly dialed a number, put the receiver back to his ear and waited.
“Dutch? Harry. We got a job to do. Pick up Sam and Jim. What? Fuck that, Dutch. This job will pay three times that. Plus a bonus if we get it done by tonight. Hear me? So go find ’em. Tell ’em this ain’t gonna be easy. Bring lots of toys. We’re going hunting and this guy isn’t going to go down easy. Okay....okay. I’m driving over now. Make sure the boys are waiting for me by the time I get there.”
He hung the phone back up on the wall and walked out of the kitchen. Striding through the small living room he entered the bedroom and walked to the closet. Opening the closet door he reached
behind the rack of clothing and pulled out the webbing of a shoulder holster. In the holster was a 9mm Beretta. A well-worn, much used Beretta. Throwing the webbing on and strapping it down he reached for a light cotton sport coat and slipped into it. Closing the closet door he walked around the bed and stopped in front of the small lamp table beside the bed. Pulling open the top drawer of the table he reached in and pulled out a snub nosed .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. That he stuck into a smaller holster strapped around his right calf muscle before sliding his slacks down to conceal it.
Again he reached inside the drawer. And pulled out a knife. A marine-issue standard K-Bar blade. Just the knife. Lifting his left foot up he sat it down on the bed and slipped the knife into a leather sheath strapped around his left calf. Standing up he turned. Turned and felt the weight of his weapons tugging on him. It felt good. Feeling much better he stepped out of the bedroom, walked across the living room to the apartment door, reaching for a brown-colored Fedora in the process.
Somebody was going to die tonight, by god! He was going to make sure about that. Somebody was going to die tonight. Reaching for the door he twisted it open, pulled the door back and stepped out into the hallway, all in one natural motion.
“Evening, Harry. Glad I found you here.”
The voice. Quiet. Almost a whisper. Horrible to hear. And dark eyes. Coal black eyes staring straight into his soul. There was a flash of movement – searing pain – and something hot and wet suddenly flowing down the front of his shirt and sport coat. He blinked once, twice. Looked down at his chest and saw the brilliant red hues of fresh blood seeping into his shirt and coat. Flooding the floor and covering his shoes.
A Killing Kiss Page 3