Burke's War: Bob Burke Action Thriller 1 (Bob Burke Action Thrillers)

by William F. Brown

  “Hey guys,” Bob said in his friendliest voice as he stepped up behind them. They stood shoulder to shoulder at the side of the car, which worked to his advantage. The one on the left, trying to get in the driver’s door, wore a thick bandage on the side of his head. He was Bozo #2, whom Bob had surprised as he sat in his big Lincoln outside Eleanor Purdue’s house listening to a Cubs game the night before. It was dark and he only saw the gunman from the side, but that was enough. Bob never forgot a face.

  “Well, hot damn! Gino Santucci, is that really you?” The Gumbah’s head suddenly snapped around as he realized someone was behind him, talking to him. “By the way, how’s the lump on the side of your head?” he went on, all the while shifting his weight onto his left leg. “Man, I’ll bet that sucker hurt.”

  Santucci was angry at being interrupted while he tried to get this stupid woman out of her car, and wanted to lash out. Slowly, however, the dim light bulb came on in his pea brain and he recognized the man standing behind him. “You! It’s you, you son-of-a-bitch!” The big Italian roared and continued turning the rest of the way around. He held a SIG Sauer 9-millimeter pistol in his right hand; but before he could get it halfway up, Bob snapped a powerful karate kick into Santucci’s left knee — in and sharply downward. Normally, a kick like that would knock a man down, but delivered by a master black-belt it tore all the cartilage and tendons and caved in his knee like a stick of dry kindling. Santucci dropped the gun, grabbed his leg with both hands, and crumpled to the asphalt screaming and writhing in pain.

  “There! Now you won’t have to worry so much about that headache, Gino,” Burke said. He didn’t recognize the new Gumbah with him, but that didn’t matter. He pivoted and jammed the knuckles of his left hand into the man’s lower back with a short, straight, shot that went in below his ribs, straight into the kidney. It made no difference how big the guy was. A punch like that could paralyze an eight-hundred-pound gorilla, and it drained all the fight out of this one before it even started. Burke then wound up and kicked him hard in the groin. That did it. The gunman grabbed his crotch and toppled over onto the pavement next to Santucci.

  Bob bent down, picked up both of their handguns, and tucked them in his belt. “Gino, I see you bought another SIG. I’ll bet that cost you a few bucks. Me, I’ll shoot about anything, but this SIG will be a nice addition to my growing collection. By the way, what size shoe do you wear?” he asked as he bent over and picked up Santucci’s foot, the one attached to the now ruined knee and took a closer look. “Looks like a size nine, maybe a nine-and-a-half, like mine.”

  “Ah! Ah!” Gino screamed. “Yeah, yeah, a nine-and-a-half. Ah, Christ, you bastard!”

  Bob dropped Gino’s foot and turned toward the other Gumbah. As he did, he saw the top half of Linda’s face, inches away, looking out at him through the Taurus’s side window, wide-eyed and terrified. Good, he thought. That was just how he wanted her. Bob turned back and continued with the other man, kicking him in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “A Glock? You cheap bastard,” he said as he pulled the wallet from the man’s pants. The name on his driver’s license read Peter Fabiano with a Chicago address. He tucked the pistols into the small of his back and looked down at Fabiano’s right foot. “You know, Gino, Peter’s shoe looks like a twelve to me. Does it look like a twelve to you? And look at this deep cut here on the heel," he said, as he picked up Fabiano’s foot with both hands and twisted it sharply a half-turn to the right. "It looks just like the footprint inside, imagine that.”

  Fabiano screamed and almost levitated off the pile, so Burke continue his experiment by immediately twisting his foot sharply back a half-turn to the left until he crashed back down on top of Gino Santucci with most of the tendons in his ankle and knee torn up.

  “Peter, you left a bloody footprints inside my friend’s house. You two tortured him and killed him, and now you won’t be leaving footprints much of anywhere for a while.” Finally, he looked back at their big Lincoln. “Why’s the trunk open, Gino? Was that for me or Linda?”

  “No, man, for nobody, I swear,” Santucci pleaded.

  Burke bent down, grabbed Fabiano by his right foot again and dragged him back to the rear of the Lincoln, ignoring his screaming and moaning. He picked up the much bigger man with a two-handed grip on his belt and tossed him inside. Returning to the Taurus, he picked up Gino Santucci and did the same, dropping him inside the Lincoln’s trunk on top of Fabiano.

  Finally satisfied, he bent down over the two big men and pulled out Fabiano’s Glock. “By the way, are you the two guys who did the flight attendant yesterday?” Both men were moaning and appeared to be in equal pain. They were trying to ignore him, so he pressed down hard on Santucci’s knee and whacked Fabiano on the ankle. “Was there an answer in there?” he demanded to know. “Are you the guys who did the flight attendant, or not?”

  “No, not me, not me, I swear,” Santucci begged. “It was him, him and Rocco.”

  “My old pal Angelo Rocco from Eleanor Purdue’s house?”

  “Yeah, yeah, him, and Fabiano here, too. They’re the ones who did her.”

  “You lying sack ’a shit!” Fabiano roared. “You wuz dere too. You took your turn.”

  “Confession is good for the soul, Peter. You should discuss that with your priest, when he comes to visit you in the hospital,” Bob said as he lined up the 9-millimeter Glock and shot Fabiano in his good knee. “Same for you, Gino,” he said as he turned and shot him in his good knee too. “My Irish forebears in Belfast, who were a lot tougher than you two clowns, call that ‘kneecapping.’ It hurts like hell, doesn’t it, and you’ll never ever walk right again, but you’ll remember. Normally I don’t do things like that, but after what you did to Sabrina and now to my friend Charlie, you’re lucky I don’t pop you both in the head.”

  “That wasn’t us,” Gino moaned. “We wuz dere, but we didn’t kill him. I swear.”

  “No? Then who did? The Easter Bunny?” he glared and pressed the gun barrel against Gino’s other knee. “Who! You want another one? Maybe the knee and then the elbow next”

  “No! It was Tony. The guy wouldn’t talk and he lost his temper.”

  “When they question your sorry asses in the hospital, make sure they know it was me, especially Scalese and DiGrigoria. Make sure they know. Rocco, too. Tell them I’m coming for them, all of them.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell them, you son of a bitch! Don’t worry, I’ll tell them.”

  “Good. And tell Tony he wanted a war, and now he’s got one. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t let them discharge you from the hospital too soon. Enjoy it, the clean bed and the food, because I suspect Mr. D’s already got a spot picked out for you two out in the lake.”

  With that, he slammed the trunk, satisfied they would be out of commission for the duration. He stood and looked around at the nearby houses, not surprised that you could take down two big men at midday in the middle of a suburban street and shoot them twice, without a ripple. Hubby was probably off at work downtown, and the princess was at the club, having lunch or a round of golf, or shopping. He walked back to the Taurus with the two pistols and Charlie’s notebook computer, the one with the bullet hole, and looked in at Linda through the driver’s side window. She still looked terrified as he smiled and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? Am I okay!” she answered. “I know those two, Bob. They work for Tony Scalese and they were after us, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t appear to have learned much from last night’s lesson, so they can spend the next six months on disability. Anyway, that’s two down.”

  “Two down? You’re not planning on…”

  “Yes, I am. I found Charlie’s body inside. He’s dead. They tortured him and Scalese beat him to death. They left those two behind to see if we showed up. They told me they were the ones who raped and murdered Sabrina Fowler last night, and I'm sure they planned to do the same thing to you, so they’re damned lucky that’s all I did to the
m.” Her jaw dropped, so he figured she needed the full shock treatment. “It’s a war now, Linda. The cops can’t stop them, so I will. I’m going to kill them, all of them. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you and your daughter are clear of here before I get started. Are you okay?” he asked again. “Okay enough to drive, anyway?”

  She pushed the button and opened the driver’s side door. “I’d rather you do,” she said. “I don’t think I can.”

  “I really need you to try. I’m driving their car, so follow me.”

  “Their car? What are you…?”

  “Follow me. I have a delivery to make. It won’t take long, I promise. Then we’ll go get Emily.”

  “Those guys scared the hell out of me... and so did you, Bob,” she quickly added.

  “That’s a good place for you to be. It focusses the mind. Sit there for a couple of minutes more and try to relax. I'm running back inside. I need to make a phone call.”

  “Make a… are you crazy? The police are…”

  “They’re busy over on the next street. I’m calling O’Malley.”

  Back inside, he went to the extension phone in Charlie’s living room. He put his handkerchief over the receiver and picked up, so as not to leave any fingerprints. He got a dial tone, surprising given all the other destruction in the house. He pulled a badly wrinkled business card from his pants pocket and used his fingernail on the touch pad to dial the US Attorney’s number.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. O’Malley, please… I’m sure he is, but if you tell him Bob Burke is on the line, I think he’ll find the time… Have you got that, the rest of you listening out there in audio-land?”

  It took O’Malley less than a minute to get on the line. Frankly, Bob was surprised it took the US Attorney that long. “Mr. Burke, I can’t tell you how glad I am you called.”

  “Surprised Sal DiGrigoria’s people haven’t gotten me yet?”

  “Something like that. I suppose I can’t talk you into coming in, before they do?”

  “They won’t, but that’s not what I’m calling you about.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my friend Charlie Newcomb’s house in Wheeling, as your audio guys sitting on the phone tap will tell you; but don’t bother scrambling the cars, I’ll be long gone before they get here. I found two of DiGrigoria’s gunmen waiting for us. I also found my friend and VP of Finance Charlie Newcomb in the basement tied to a kitchen chair, dead. He was tortured and Tony Scalese beat him to death.”

  “And you know this… how?”

  “Confession is good for the soul. They told me.”

  “Confession’s good for…” O’Malley chuckled. “You really are a piece of work, Burke.”

  “In about an hour, if you have your people check the trauma centers around Indian Hills, they’ll find Gino Santucci and Peter Fabiano in admissions.”

  “Santucci and Fabiano? I’m familiar with the names.”

  “I thought you might be. You’ll find Charlie’s blood on the bottom of Fabiano’s shoe and his footprints in Charlie’s office, and I’m sure you’ll find their fingerprints all over the place. They also raped and murdered Sabrina Fowler last night. Angelo Rocco was in on it, too. So, why haven’t you gone after them yet, O’Malley? Greenway, Scalese, DiGrigoria —you should have enough without Eleanor Purdue’s books and reports. Why haven’t you gone after them?”

  “Why?” the US Attorney laughed. “You ever go big game hunting, Major?”

  “Only for the ‘most dangerous game’ as they call it — for men.”

  “Me too. And when I do, I don’t intend to merely ‘hit’ them; I go for the kill. That's what I'm going to do with DiGrigoria and all the rest of them, but I need Eleanor's papers and the CHC books to do that. Your lawyer told me you have them. You do, don’t you? At least tell me that much.”

  “I do. Reports and spreadsheets, and when I pop open her flash drive…”

  “She left a flash drive? Jesus Christ, those things can hold…”

  “Yeah, they do. But when I do get it open, am I going to find your name in there on the ‘pad’ along with Bentley and all the rest of the cops around here?”

  The question caused O’Malley to pause. “Bob, we gotta trust each other. If we don’t, if you don’t get me that stuff, they win. We can crack that flash drive right here in our FBI tech lab, so come on in. Please. You’re no good to me dead.”

  “Don’t worry, when I finish decrypting it, I’ll send you a copy, unless your name really is in there. If it is, then the whole thing goes to The Tribune; and ‘God can sort the pieces out.’ And by the way, I think my lawyer told you to call off the manhunt, didn't he?"

  "Well, yes, he did, but there's..."

  "No 'buts.' If I see another FBI car or a stakeout at one of our houses, you'll never see those books. I'll mail it all to The Trib and you can read about them in the papers. Make up your mind, Pete. Until then, Ciao.”

  On the street again, Bob waved to Linda as he ran past the Taurus. “Follow me,” he said as he headed for the Lincoln Town Car, closed the passenger door, and jumped in the driver’s seat. He drove out of the subdivision, turned on the main road, and headed back toward Indian Hills. The big Lincoln drove like a Greyhound bus, compared to Linda’s Toyota, his own Saturn, or even Ernie Travers’ police cruiser. Too bad it isn’t January, he thought. With all that extra weight riding in the trunk, when it comes to keeping traction on an icy road or plowing through the drifting snow in Chicago, having two fat Gumbahs in your trunk would be much better than a load of sand bags.

  When he reached the Consolidated Health Care building, he drove halfway around the landscaped island turnaround, and stopped in front of the revolving door. Pausing for a quick look at the lobby, he threw the gearshift into park and got out of the car. Except for a new face behind the big reception desk, the lobby and the second-floor walkway were empty. Glancing back into the rearview mirror, he saw that Linda Sylvester had followed him up the main drive in the old Taurus, but she had stopped in the entry road a hundred feet further back. He hadn’t told her where he was going, for good reason. Even from this distance, he saw her eyes go wide as she shook her head and her lips formed a panicky, unspoken, “No!” He ignored her, took the keys from the Lincoln’s ignition, and headed for the building’s front door. As he did, he turned back, smiled, and raised his index finger. “One minute,” he called out as he reached the building’s revolving door. Whether she heard him or not, she understood the message and didn’t like it one bit.

  Bob pushed through the revolving doors and walked confidently across the spotless travertine lobby floor to the raised reception desk, where Linda formerly sat. A young, attractive brunette, perhaps in her early twenties, sat smiling and studying him as he approached.

  “Hi,” he smiled back and dropped the keys for the big Lincoln on the marble counter in front of her. “Is Tony in?”

  “Mr. Scalese?” she asked pleasantly enough. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I don’t really think I need one. Is he in?”

  “I can find out. Who may I say is asking?”

  “Bob Burke. No, on second thought, don’t bother him. Tell him I left his car outside in the turnaround with a package for him in the trunk. He’ll understand. Here are the keys,” he said as he slid them toward her. “And thanks a bunch. Your name is?”

  “Patsy,” she smiled. “Patsy Evans.”

  “Patsy,” he said as he leaned closer to her. “You know who Dr. Greenway is, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she smiled again. “Why?”

  “Why? Because you look like a nice kid. Don’t ever let him get you alone in his office, or anywhere else, because he rapes and murders young women like you,” Burke said as he watched her smile begin to wilt at the corners. “If you don’t believe me, ask some of the older women the next time you’re on break. They know all about him, which is why they were so happy to see you sitting down here. Greenway likes them young, like you; but
he'll settle for one of them in a pinch.”

  Her mouth dropped open. As he turned and began to walk away, he looked up and saw Tony Scalese appear on the second-floor landing. At 6’3” and 240 pounds, dressed in dark gray slacks, a silk sharkskin sports coat, and an open-collared royal blue shirt with gold chains around his neck, the big Italian thug was hard to miss. Apparently, Scalese had just left his office and was walking toward the elevator when he glanced down into the first floor lobby below. Scalese’s eyes narrowed to two cold, angry slits. “Burke, you son of a bitch!” he shouted as he stepped to the railing and pointed down at him. For an instant, the big man looked as if he might jump over it and come after him, until he realized that the twenty-foot drop would probably break his legs, if it didn’t kill him.

  “Hey! Good to see you again, Tony.” He looked up and gave Scalese a big smile and a wave. “As I was telling Patsy here, I left your Lincoln in the turnaround — the one Gino and Pete were driving. She has the keys, but I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. That stuff in the trunk will start smelling real soon.”

  “The stuff in the …? You son of a bitch!”

  “That makes five.”

  “Five? What the hell are you…?”

  “The truth is, I’m not sure how you want to count them, since I nailed Gino twice. And what about Bentley and Bobby Joe? I don’t know how you want to count those two, either.”

  “How I want to…?” Scalese said as his grip tightened on the railing and his knuckles turned white. “You’re a dead man, Burke.”

  “Seriously, Tony. Is that the best you got? With the first three guys you left at Eleanor Purdue’s house, all I did was give them a few dents and try to embarrass them, hoping you might get the message; but you didn’t get it, did you? Instead, you told them to rape and murder Sabrina Fowler,” he said as his eyes narrowed, colder and hungrier than Scalese’s. “And then I found the present you left in the basement of my friend Charlie’s house up in Wheeling, so I left two for you in the Lincoln’s trunk. Charlie was a nice guy — a bean counter and a ‘civilian.’ He didn’t understand evil people like you, but I do. I’ve been fighting men like you my entire career, which makes me your worst nightmare. You’re a dead man walking, Tony — you, DiGrigoria, and all the other street clowns you send after me.”