At virtually the same instant, Alejandro fired a three-burst round into Pizzaro’s chest, killing him instantly.
Two fast kicks delivered by Fiona to Che-Che’s groin doubled him over, and the third toppled him down into the pit. The anaconda struck with lightning speed, slapping its thick coils around the screaming man.
Fiona jabbed her fingers into Juan’s eyes; his shirt was in flames. She made a zigzag run over to the crates stacked in front of the black wall. Tito, who had suffered least from the fireball, fired a burst from his Uzi at her. Alejandro exploded his head with another three-round burst. The surviving dopers fired their guns wildly, spraying the warehouse with bullets, unable to see who was killing them.
Fire raced along the racks; the stuffed animals ignited like flaming dominoes and filled the warehouse with smoke and the noxious stench of burning fur and heroin.
One of Che-Che’s bodyguards began spraying shots at the crates along the western wall. Alejandro took him down with a burst to his stomach.
Jasmine ran over to the pit and tried to draw a bead with her gun on the anaconda’s swaying head. Che-Che was struggling feebly against the overwhelming power of his pet’s coils; the pit echoed with his screams. The awful sounds of his snapping bones replaced his screams as the air was crushed out of his body.
Andy Seaver and the detectives inside Mobile One ran out of the van and over to the warehouse door.
Jasmine fired two rounds into the anaconda’s head, killing it. Its coils unwound slowly from around Che-Che.
Andy Seaver ran inside. Jasmine whirled around in a combat stance and fired three rounds at him. Seaver hit the floor and rolled left, firing two rounds that plowed into Jasmine’s chest, pitching her backward into the pit.
The surviving dopers threw down their weapons and raised their hands over their heads.
The melted racks had collapsed into a pile of twisted, smoldering junk; the flames and heat had turned what remained of the heroin into globs of oozing black mud.
The dead anaconda’s coils lay slack across the body of Che-Che, who was bleeding from his eyes, ears, and mouth. The powerful snake had spiraled his body, crushing his ribs and piercing his lungs with shards of bones. Suddenly his glazed eyes opened and he saw Jasmine’s body. He managed to get one hand free of the snake’s weight and inched it over to touch Jasmine’s shoulder gently. I don’t want to meet the Spirit God alone, he thought as he died.
During the confusion of battle, with smoke filling the inside of the warehouse, Judith had managed to run unnoticed behind a stack of pallets and make her way over to the forklifts parked by the door. Hiding behind them, she waited for her chance to duck outside. Firemen were dragging thick, rigid hoses inside the warehouse and beginning to water down the smoldering mass of junk. Crowds of tourists were congregating in the street. Policemen struggled to establish a “frozen zone” around the warehouse.
Alejandro and Fiona both remained hidden behind the crates.
Burke and Romano arrived together; they were soon in a huddle with Seaver, concocting a poor excuse for a plausible story. Detectives were handcuffing prisoners and reading them their rights.
“I wanna call my lawyer,” one told his arresting officer.
Fiona looked down the aisle between the crates and the fake wall. Alejandro was stuffing his machine gun into the overnight. Looking up at her, he mouthed, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Ambulance attendants rushed inside to treat the wounded and remove the dead.
“What’s happening, Officer?” Judith said to one of the firemen as she walked out from behind the forklift.
“You can’t come in here, lady,” the fireman said angrily, and led her outside.
Alejandro had been peering out from his hiding place, watching the police brass and not really paying much attention to what else was going on inside the warehouse. Suddenly he caught sight of Judith leaving.
“Andy, I’m coming out!” he shouted.
Seaver ran around to the detectives, shouting, “He’s one of us! Don’t shoot! He’s one of us!”
Holding his overnight bag in front of his face to conceal his identity, Alejandro ran for the entrance, aware of the .38 Colt detective special jammed into his waistband in the small of his back. He dashed outside in time to see Che-Che’s limousine, engulfed by the crowd, inching its way through to South Street. He plunged after it, pushing and shoving, shouldering his way.
Judith heaved a big sigh of relief as she drove Che-Che’s limousine through the crowd and turned into South Street.
Alejandro collided with a baby carriage, toppling the baby out. He picked up the baby and handed it back to its screaming mother, then plunged back into the crowd. He reached the street in time to see the limousine driving south.
Looking around, he spotted a man getting out of a taxi in front of the Fulton Fish Market. He raced over to the cab, climbed into the back, and said, “I want you to follow that limo up ahead.”
“Are you kidding?” the driver asked.
Alejandro slid a hundred-dollar bill through the security partition to the driver. “Stay with her and there’s another one at the end for you.”
“Whatever you say, mister.”
Judith looked up into the rearview mirror and did not see any cars that seemed to be pursuing her. She had been lucky to extricate herself from that mess and had no intention of bringing herself to the attention of the police now by driving recklessly. She had more than enough money stashed in her numbered accounts in Luxembourg to allow her to live out her life like a queen.
She continued driving south until she reached Whitehall Street, where she made the U-turn and drove back north on the FDR Drive. She exited the highway at the Midtown Tunnel and drove through to Queens. Slowing to pay her toll, she opened her pocketbook and pushed aside her automatic pistol to take out her wallet. After paying, she drove onto the Long Island Expressway.
Alejandro’s cab stopped while the driver paid the toll. From his seat in the back, he watched the limousine disappear over the rise in the overhead highway.
The nurse was dressed more appropriately today, in a pleated white skirt and black blouse. Judith didn’t particularly care for her sneakers, but this was not the time to bring up that subject. Looking down at her father sitting on his wheelchair, she said to the nurse, “Please leave us alone for a few minutes.”
She draped herself over her father and began sobbing. “I have to go away for a while, Daddy. I’ll come back as soon as I can. My business here is over. How I wish you knew how successful I’ve been. I’m famous.”
She pressed him close, savoring his old man’s smell, the roughness of his skin, dipping into her well of memories, remembering the times they used to play their secret game. “Do you understand anything I’m telling you?” she asked despairingly, then kissed his cheek.
“Judith.”
She froze at the sound of Alejandro’s now familiar voice. Remaining draped over her father, she slowly turned her head toward the sound as she inched her hand down into her pocketbook. “So you were a cop after all. I have to give you credit, you were really good.” Sliding her hand around the pistol’s grip, she added, “Did I ever tell you that your father was just unlucky enough to get in my way?”
She whipped the pistol around from behind her father’s head and fired two rounds. One of them tore into Alejandro’s shoulder, spinning him around and splaying him on his back on the grass. The second one thudded into a maple tree.
Writhing from pain, aware of his bleeding, he tried to turn over to crawl behind the tree, but she was much too quick for him.
She ran over to him and knelt down, placing the barrel of her automatic against his temple. “Too bad it has to end like this. I thought you showed real promise. But you were just another fucking cop.”
Grimacing from his pain, he slowly wormed his good hand under his hip, searching for the revolver tucked into the small of his back. “I don’t believe you
killed my father.”
“You better believe. I killed him, and now it’s your turn.”
Alejandro’s fingers slid around the checkered pistol grip.
She leaned down and kissed his lips. “Your daddy tried to play soldier.”
He grimaced with pain. “My daddy wasn’t a soldier, he was a cop,” he said softly, and fired a round into her stomach. With a shocked expression on her face, she toppled on her side, exposing a gaping hole where her stomach used to be.
Sol Stern’s eyes came to life; he looked with horror and recognition at the woman lying on the bloodstained grass. His gnarled hands groped for the chair’s wheels, and somehow he began to push his way over to the woman. Suddenly he hit a bump and lost control, dumping himself on the ground. Crawling over to his daughter, he said, “My beautiful Cleopatra, what have they done to you?”
Judith felt the cold flowing over her body. Everything was getting dark and fuzzy. Looking at her father through the mist, she cried out, “Daddy!” and closed her eyes forever.
Sol Stern felt himself slipping back into the unforgiving void of his mind. His last thoughts were of their game—he was the Flute Player, and she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was truly and eternally Queen Cleopatra, Queen of Kings and Goddess of Goddesses.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for their help in writing Cleopatra Gold: Paul Evans for teaching me about the music business; Annete Meyers for leading me into the world of finance; Judy Green of Bankers Trust Security for taking the time to teach me about money laundering; Captain Joe Lesi, NYPD, for sharing his expertise on the undercover operations of the Narcotics Division; Robert Mason for teaching me about “electronic” tailing methods; my agents, Knox Burger and Kitty Sprague, for always being there for me; James O’Shea Wade for his tremendous help with editing the manuscript; Paul Boccardi of Crown Publishers for his many kindnesses; Mary Higgins Clark for her insightful suggestions; Sally R. Sommer for the pleasurable experience of learning about tap-dancing. A big thank-you to my friend in Delta Force and my buddy in the Agency for teaching me about the Parapoint delivery system and other high-tech wonders. Wyatt Sprague of the band Urban Blight for taking the time to teach me about the music business and the club scene. A special thank-you to all my friends in Zihuatanejo for giving me the flavor of Zihua: Bill Fish, Tanya, Juan Carlos, Don, Dan and Dennie, and Rex.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William J. Caunitz was a thirty-year veteran of the New York City Police Department. During his career, he achieved the rank of lieutenant and was assigned commander of a detective squad. At the age of fifty-one, Caunitz began publishing crime novels, which were noted for their realistic depictions of the daily workings of a police precinct, as well as for their sensational plots. He wrote seven novels, and the first, One Police Plaza, was made into a television movie. Caunitz died from pulmonary fibrosis in 1996. His last work, Chains of Command, which was halfway completed at the time, was finished by Christopher Newman, author of the Joe Dante series.
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Copyright © 1993 by William J. Caunitz
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2832-5
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