Vaughn gripped the steering wheel and his knuckles turned white. He punched the accelerator and weaved in and out of cars on the bridge. Alex slid past the pack of cars and found some room.
“You gotta ask yourself, what are you after?”
The question rattled through Alex’s brain. Over and over again it tap-danced across his consciousness. Jack bleeding out on a city street.
“What are you after?”
Explosions, gunshots, hidden money.
“What are you after?”
Power struggles, favors, almost resigning from the force.
“What are you after?” “WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?”
Alex let out a yell. It came from the floor boards and rumbled along his spine until it escaped from his cracked lips. It lasted a moment but it stopped the incessant question from ricocheting across his temple for just a moment.
Alex sighed as he slowed down. Up in front of him was the border and cars were lining up to provide passports for the custom agents allowing access into Canada.
As he brought the car to a full stop, he couldn’t help his lips from whispering, “What are you after?”
*
The two mobsters exited the car. They pulled the cowl of their trench coats close around their necks and obscured the bottom half of their faces from view. The larger of them took the lead and strode up to the door of the foreclosed home.
In better times, this place might have been considered a decent place to hang one’s hat, but now, parts of the front stoop were in various degrees of disrepair. Several loose bricks were scattered beneath the white powder that covered the walkway. An old mailbox bolted to the masonry near the front door rusted loose and hung at an angle. There was a faded black square where a sticker labeled the previous owner of the home, but had long since disappeared due to the elements.
The two walked under the entryway. The snow started to descend and grabbed at them in spiraling claws of frozen moisture. The slight triangular overhang offered little protection from the snow that reached for them from multiple angles. The lone window stuck above the red door was covered in a grey layer of film that did not allow for a view to the interior of the house.
The mobsters looked at each other. A knowing look was on both of their faces. They knew that beyond the door was the endgame. This was another in a series of moments that would make or break them. The smaller one pulled aside the flap of his trench coat where one hand rested beneath the fold. It was gripping a small snub nosed revolver and its silver glint reflected in the gloom. The larger mobster patted his own trench coat and nodded his head. They paused. Their breath came out in a slow vapor.
The smaller mobster opened the door.
Chapter 34
Vaughn pulled up to the border agent allowing access to Canada. He pushed a button on the door and lowered the window. A woman strolled up to his window decked out in a set of navy blues. She looked innocent with large wide set eyes that matched her brown hair, but the gun hanging at her hip told the truth. Another agent hung back inside of a small booth alongside his lane. He was looking at a monitor and Vaughn could guess what sort of capabilities existed in the art of detection. Mission by mission, he had seen a lot of cool shit the techies put together. The Patriot Act after September 11th opened up a whole new world as far as security was concerned. Alex knew, they could be x-raying his balls at this very moment.
With that on his mind, the border patrol agent came alongside him and requested his passport. “Where you heading, sir?”
Vaughn pulled out his badge instead and was satisfied when he noticed her demeanor shift from one of control to one of curiosity. “I’m meeting a United States Marshal here. We’re supposed to be linking up with some local Mounties?”
“Your name, sir?”
Alex liked that she called him sir. He let himself smile as he stole a second peek at the beautiful browns on either side of her nose. “Vaughn. Detective Vaughn.”
“Oh yes,” she said as she skimmed his badge and identification. “Agent Johnson’s been expecting you. He’s inside the office. When you get past the gates, just pull over to the side.” She waved over at a low rectangular structure about fifty feet off of the highway.
Alex nodded his thanks and rolled the window up. As he pulled over to the structure, he saw several cop cars in the parking lot but they were emblazoned with a red and blue swoosh along the side; the crowned seal of Canada imprinted just back from the front fenders.
A black SUV with tinted windows pulled alongside the curb and a large vehicle that looked like it might be armored rested nearby. The wheels were huge and looked like they could drive over the squad cars like matchbox toys. The box on wheels had a rectangular shape intermittently broken up with holes that looked perfect for the muzzle of a gun. Although unmarked, there was little doubt that that piece of machinery was used for transporting a group of people more deadly than your casual cop.
Vaughn stepped out of the car and stretched his legs. They felt stiff from the cold and the exertion he put them through over the last few days. The lights from the border crossing assaulted his eyes in the dusk as the lighting played off of the dancing snowflakes that threatened to turn the entire world white. Alex squint his eyes to shield them from the light and the motion pulled at his healing skin. He felt the scab under his eye crack with a lack of pliability. He pulled his hand to his face to make sure that there was no blood escaping from the wound. Glancing at his fingers, Alex was happy to note that he hadn’t reopened the gash.
A single doorway stood sentry to the rectangular structure and Vaughn figured that was where he was supposed to go to meet the Marshal. His feet left imprints on the fresh snowfall behind him as he made for the warmth of the building. Just as he grabbed for the door-handle, it swung inward and two men came out.
The larger one wore a black outfit with various straps and containers hanging off of his hips and chest Kevlar. He wore a black military style cap with the letters ETF emblazoned on the front and based on the armored vehicle behind him, Alex figured he must be the Canadian version of SWAT.
The gentleman next to him wore suit pants and wore a suit jacket slung over his shoulder in one hand. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up even in this brutal weather and he seemed to disregard the elements. A badge rested on his hip that read U.S. Deputy Marshal along a gold star. Both men sported pistols strapped to their hips.
While Vaughn regarded the men, the brown haired Marshal with youthful features and a slight build studied Alex’s face for a moment, making the detective uncomfortable with the battle scars that stood out.
After a moment he stuck out his hand and announced, “Deputy Marshal Johnson. You must be Alex Vaughn.”
Alex cleared his throat and his eyes flicked back and forth between the large Canadian and the Marshal.
“Good memory for faces Marshal?” He clasped the Deputy’s hand and noticed it was firm but not obnoxiously so.
“Not so much that, but with a mug like that your either a criminal or a cop. Looks like you’ve been doing a little brawling lately.”
Alex brought his hand up to his face and brushed the cut with the tip of his fingers, feeling the rough texture.
The Canadian next to Deputy Marshal Johnson gave a little cough, drawing the attention of both men in his direction. The deputy blushed as he regarded his own impropriety and planting a foot in the ground introduced the man next to him.
“This is Corporal Renaud. He is in charge of the Emergency Task Force group assigned to conduct the takedown of the target.”
Alex extended a hand and caught the grasp of a crushing hand that seemed ready to break stone into dust.
“Detective.”
Renaud had a French hint to his voice that caused him to hit his consonants hard and prompted Alex to take note.
“From Quebec Corporal?”
“Oui.” The Corporal smiled and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “But based out of Toronto now. Don Mills to be exact.”
>
Alex nodded his head. He heard of the training facility in that area of Toronto. It was quite a complex complete with its own barracks, rifle ranges, rappelling towers and a garage that housed a fleet of vehicles designed to handle a variety of possible engagement scenarios.
The Marshal interjected, “So, your superior filled you in on your role here?”
Alex nodded his head again.
“Good. You will be presenting a positive identification on the suspect. Once he is affirmed, Corporal Renaud and his boys will be initiating the takedown. The reason for the arrest will be that the target is an unwelcome visitor in Canada. At that point, they will turn over custody to me as the liaison for the United States. Once we cross the border, I will hand custody to you as the arresting officer. You can hold him for up to forty eight hours while you wait for the judge to get an arrest warrant into your hands. At that point, gentleman, it’s all paperwork.”
Corporal Renaud gave a curt nod and stepped away from the group. He mumbled something into a radio mounted on his shoulder. Whatever it was Alex couldn’t hear but it appeared to be an order of some sort.
Almost immediately, the door to the building opened up and half a dozen men in similar black outfits and carrying varying types of weaponry ran towards the black armored vehicle. The first two pulled a set of double doors on the back apart while the other four jumped in. Corporal Renaud walked over to the passenger door and stepped inside. One of the two men that held the doors open for the rest of the crew jumped inside and pulled the doors shut behind him. The other ran alone to the driver’s side door and jumped in.
“I know they’re Canadian, but these guys carry a serious whoop-ass stick.” The Marshal’s eyes were alight at the activity and he nudged Alex towards a car that waited for them.
A police cruiser, considerably less dramatic than the armored van, waited on them. A constable exited and opened the doors for the two Americans as they approached.
As they took their seats, Alex thanked the Marshal for setting up the arrest. International arrests had to be at least incrementally more difficult than domestic ones.
“Eh, don’t worry about it. To be honest with you, it’s always a lot of coffee and computer screens at my office. This is worth staying on the clock for.” The Marshal flashed a grin as the cruiser peeled out and followed the armored ETF van in front of them. The lights flashed on the two vehicles and sirens blared out pounding Alex’s head just behind his eyes. Catching Alex’s wince, the Marshal leaned over and yelled above the screeching, “Don’t worry, once we get close they’ll turn the sirens off and we will approach the target on silence, lights out!”
Alex Vaughn pinched his nose and closed his eyes, trying to turn the sound off and focus. He thought he would be more excited at the prospect of bringing down Jack’s killer, but instead he was just tired. He would give anything to just crawl next to Charlotte and hold Ella in his arms and sleep for eternity.
The caravan sped along the highway at over one hundred and forty kilometers per hour and the lights flicked between blue and red. Alex’s vision scattered for a moment with the strobe lights and Marshal Johnson’s face alternated between red and blue as his skin reflected the piercing light. The sirens wailed in unison with Alex’s heart, a discordant lonesome wail.
The detective cracked his neck and reset his eyes. “One more step.” He said it aloud.
“What’s that detective?” Johnson hollered.
“One more step!” Alex struggled to raise his voice above the din.
“Fuck yeah baby, that’s the spirit! Rock and roll, boys!” The Marshal leaned back into Vaughn. “This here is what we call the rebel yell, detective!”
He rolled down the window and screamed into the wind, a horrible howling of a scream that seemed to harmonize with the mournful siren. A scream that brought back visions of Sal Pieri burning with his sins. A scream that echoed in Alex’s soul.
*
The mobsters eased in through the open doorway and could hear a couple of voices talking in hushed tones at the back end of the home. One voice was withered with a cracked whistle to it that they both recognized to be Aldo Marano. His cadence was broken up by the inhalation of smoke and was studded with moments of breathing the toxins out.
“They’ll be here. These younger guys, they don’t have the balls to do what they should do. If they did, we wouldn’t even be here right now.”
The next voice was crisper. There was a bit of worry along the edges and his breathing accentuated the end of his sentences. A slight tremble irritated his inflection.
“It should never have gotten to this point. I’ve known Leonard since he was a boy.” It was Falzone.
The mobsters stopped their stealthy walk and paused and glanced at one another. They gave each other a silent and affirming nod.
Aldo’s voice wheezed in between exhalations, “This thing, it’s all business Joe. Just business.”
There was a wheeze that seemed like it must have come from Joe Falzone himself. “I hope you’re right, old friend.”
At that moment, the two mobsters flung open the door to the kitchen and stepped in. They paused. There was a moment where Aldo and Falzone had surprise etched on their faces. Then it became one of recognition.
Falzone spoke first, “What are you two doing here?”
Falzone was dressed in his Sunday best, suited up in a dark Armani. His grey hair was slicked back just above his bulbous nose. He sat behind a brown wooden kitchen table next to Aldo who held a lit cigarette that rested between his fingers. Behind them were old yellowing cabinets that might have once been white.
Aldo eyes looked at the two men. No emotion flashed there, just a knowing twinkle. “Angelo Della Morte.” He grinned.
Then the two mobsters pulled out their pistols. The smaller one had his snub nose out in an instant, gripping it in his left hand. The larger one pulled out a black .22 caliber pistol and carried it aloft in his right hand. Side by side, they squeezed the trigger and the muzzles flashed.
It seemed as if there was an eternity of no sound. Just the repeating flashes of the gunpowder explosions. Aldo’s body twitched left and then right as metal pounded into his flesh from multiple angles. He fell backward over his chair and lay on the ground. At the same time, Falzone took two bullets in his chest and tried to stand, kicking his chair backward. Another bullet burrowed into his belly and he hunched over the table. Blood flowed onto the wooden structure and the old man tried to catch it in his fingers as he stumbled forward onto the table. Then, he fell to his knees. He tried to grab the table to hold him upright but there was no strength left and he slipped on his own blood and fell to the floor.
One of the mobsters walked over Falzone who lay on his back next to Aldo’s still lit cigarette, smoke drifting upward from the floor. He spit on the man where he lay.
“You traitor fuck.”
He pulled out a long curved knife and knelt next to Falzone. He lifted the blade and slid it into Joey Falzone’s chest, sending a spray of blood across his knuckles. A dozen times he sent the thirsty blade forth and plunged it into the thousand dollar suit. A dozen times he cursed Falzone as a traitor. When Falzone’s feet stopped their twitching, the mobster stood up.
“Come on Jimmy; let’s get the fuck out of here.” Coughlin spit again on the broken body.
“Sure thing, Tom. Sure thing.”
Chapter 35
The Pope watched as several pops sounded in the vacant home a little more than a hundred feet away. They were muffled and Nuncio rolled the ignition on the car several times causing it to screech in protest. They waited in silence, as time seemed to stand still and drag on indefinite.
After a few heartbeats Don Ciancetta, who was still rubbing his hands together, asked, “You think we should jet?”
“In a minute. We gotta make sure of who leaves that building. You ready just in case, Nuncio?”
Nuncio flashed his black steel revolver with a wooden handle in reply.
“Good.”
A few moments later, and two silhouettes eased the door open and shuffled their way towards the empty car waiting outside the foreclosed lot. As they made their way along the frozen path and back to the vehicle, Nuncio inched the sedan forward, one hand on the wheel, the other pointing his revolver at the door facing the silhouettes. They closed the gap in a hurry and as they approached the two mobsters, The Pope rolled down his window and looked at the men to discern their identities. A smile crept across his face as the car drifted by Tommy Coughlin and Jimmy Jacks.
“Alright, let’s go.” He rolled up the window and looked over at Don Ciancetta. “War’s over.”
The Don let out a relieved laugh that seemed to drop a dozen years off of his frame. He leaned over and put a hand on his consigliore’s face and pulled him in for a hug.
“I can’t thank you enough.” He pulled his face back and looked at his friend eye to eye. “What you do for me, every day, I can’t thank you enough.”
The Pope smiled back. “What are friends for?”
Don Ciancetta flashed another smile. Then his eyebrows crinkled up as a thought struck him.
“What about the guns, the car, the evidence?”
“In thirty minutes all of that will be compacted down at the yard. Jimmy and Tommy are pros, don’t worry about it. All that the cops will have are the bodies of a few gangsters, and no one to point the finger at.” The Pope held his hands apart, making himself look clueless.
“Something tells me they’ll still point the finger.”
“Welcome to America. God bless the judicial system that requires a little thing called evidence, my friend.”
The Don leaned back in the leather seat and pulled out a cigar, slicing off the tip. He crunched the tobacco leaves between his teeth. The consigliore pulled out a Zippo and lit it for the Don as he pulled the smoke through the packed tobacco and puffed it out in a perfect circle. “Welcome to America.”
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