Of course, neither Eddie nor anyone else in the Bureau could put together a compelling case to prove it. Just like that, within a month, the Rossos weren’t just solid again, they were the only major family left in the city. The Midwest was theirs to run with Gaetano at the helm and Bryce as his number two.
For years after that, things were relatively quiet, then the bank debacle happened. “FBI Shoots First, Asks Questions Later”, one headline screamed. Since when are lawless thugs glamorized by the media and embraced by the public? Eddie thought. But they were, and it was a black eye on the Bureau.
Eddie finished his bourbon, refilled the ice in his rocks glass, and buried it in Kentucky gold again. There was another side to that story the media never got ahold of, and Eddie had dedicated every waking moment to it for nearly a year and a half.
Vines was sure Bryce Haydenson was still alive. He sure as hell knew he hadn’t been in the alley that day. Everything happened so fast—there were bullets flying everywhere—but Vines was sure of it. He saw all eight faces, and Haydenson wasn’t among them. His director told him to keep his mouth shut; that they were taking enough heat. It was already all over the news that forensics had confirmed Haydenson was among the dead. If it got out that the mob had someone on the inside falsifying records in the forensics lab, they’d look like complete boobs.
“Do your own investigation quietly,” his director said. So Eddie did. He had it narrowed down, but couldn’t get any support from the higher-ups who were terrified of it coming out that the mob had someone on the inside right under their noses and they didn’t even know it. Either that, or they’re on the take, too. What he wouldn’t let go was the fact that Bryce was still alive and out there. Vines only kept his mouth shut because if the higher-ups were on the take, he’d be dead, not retiring. They just wanted him out of their hair and off the payroll.
The nice thing about his senior status, however, was until he was off the payroll, he still had the ability to get work done. Even though he only had two weeks left, he had one more shot. He was sure of it.
He set his glass down on the desk in his home office and hit play on a recording one of his agents had from a conversation with a snitch two days ago.
“The old man is as good as dead.”
“What do you mean? Someone’s going after him?”
“No, man, he’s dying. Rumor is it’s his pancreas. They’re saying another week; ten days max.”
“Then Franco takes over?”
The snitch laughed. “That’s what the old man wants, but we’ll see. Not everyone likes Franco. Some of the guys are sayin’ he’s weak. I got a buddy on Monte’s crew. He says Monte’s thinking of makin’ a move. I don’t know, man. It’s gonna get messy when the old man kicks it. You got my back, right?”
Vines smiled, sipping his bourbon, listening to the recording. He had three more just like it, all from different snitches, all telling the same story. As far as they could tell, the family was split and Franco didn’t have the clout to hold everyone together. There was going to be a struggle for power, and that’s when Vines would move in.
Eddie had the warrants drawn up and a small team of agents ready to move. All reports were that the old man didn’t have much more than a week. Vines slugged back the last of his drink and smacked his lips. He couldn’t prove Bryce was alive right now, but if anyone knew where he was, it was the guys at the top. He smiled. Once he had the top brass in the family locked up and looking to strike some deals, he’d nail Bryce Haydenson too. Nearly ten years of trying to nail the bastards would finally come to an end. He’d retire a hero, the higher-ups be damned.
He hit the lights and crawled under the covers, alone, dreaming about Agent Eddie Vines, the national hero. There would be a book deal, a media tour... he wouldn’t just be a hero, he’d be a star. Screw it. I’ll buy a new boat and get a newer wife with even newer tits. He drifted off, smiling at the thought.
6
ABBY MADE TWO PASSES by the house, snapping photos and video each time. She didn’t dare make a third. It wasn’t a very populated neighborhood. There was the giant Rosso estate, surrounded by a half dozen or so smaller but still substantial homes, all of which were likely owned and occupied by the Rosso family. An unknown car cruising up and down the street would certainly arouse suspicion.
Sitting in a busy shopping center parking lot a few miles away, she reviewed the photos and video and was satisfied that she had a pretty good lay of the property from the front.
Rosso lived in a large mansion made out of gray slabs of rock. The place looked like it could withstand a direct hit from a tornado. A six-foot-high stonewall, topped with another two feet of wrought iron fencing, surrounded the four-acre property. Growing up in Southern California, Abby was no stranger to large mansions and knew that oftentimes homes were concealed by clever landscaping to hide the celebrity owners from the paparazzi.
There were no such landscaping measures taken with the Rosso property, though, and Abby imagined that his vanity worked to her advantage. There was a large wrought-iron gate across the front of the property, probably twenty-five feet long, and through that gate her camera was able to catch a perfect view up the long driveway and the front of the home.
She saw three guards out front on her first pass. On her second, an hour later, there were four. She had no idea how many might be in the back, but she would find out about that later. The video hadn’t caught it, but during her second pass she heard the faint distant bark of at least one dog, which she assumed wouldn’t be very friendly.
Abby grabbed a quick sandwich at a café, where she used the internet to pull up satellite images of the neighborhood. The Rosso estate appeared to be surrounded by the same stone wall all the way around, butted up to a large forested area at the back of the property. The forested area ran for a quarter of a mile until it met up with a deserted road that appeared completely undeveloped.
After making the fifteen-minute ride up the undeveloped road, Abby found a little path out of the way to park her car about a mile from the back of the Rosso property. She hiked through the woods the rest of the way.
Abby figured many a federal agent had trekked this trail, and she had no doubt it was at least half watched by the family. To stay concealed, she moved slowly toward the property, approaching from the side. She found a tall tree a hundred feet away and figured that would be a good spot.
These are thugs, she thought. I’m not dealing with sophisticated masterminds. But still, she figured better to be safe. She imagined there was a video surveillance system in place, likely being watched by some half-asleep lackey. She didn’t see any cameras but decided that, for now, she would stay out of the path where they would be.
Abby settled into the tree about twenty feet up, with a nice clear view of the back of the property. She now noticed that barbed wire extended along the top of the six-foot-high stonewall and the two feet of wrought iron fencing above it.
She adjusted the focus of her monocular for a clear view of the rear patio a few hundred feet away. It was a large patio at the center of the home. Several men rotated in and out of a single door now and then as if changing the guard. There were always two men outside. One stood on the patio, trying not to look bored, while the other walked the perimeter of the property along the wall with the dog. Occasionally a third would pop out the door to chat for a few minutes, then head back in.
One of the men occupied his time chain-smoking cigarettes. Abby couldn’t hear them, but the other guy didn’t seem to appreciate this. He was constantly drinking from a plastic water bottle, whether he was on the patio or walking the perimeter. His own nervous habit, Abby thought. At least it’s better than cigarettes.
The smoker took his time circling the perimeter. By Abby’s watch, it took him fifteen minutes each time. The other one did it in half the time.
Planters down the center of the patio separated the right side, where the guards were, from the left side. The left had a set of French doors tha
t led into a gourmet kitchen with a large granite island in the center. There was far less activity on that side of the patio. With the large table, and an outdoor living set, Abby figured the left side was for the residents and the right for the guards.
Occasionally a tough-looking guy in a nice suit came through the French doors on the left to chat on his phone for a few minutes. Another man came out less frequently to sit on a comfortable chaise lounge to drag on a cigarette for ten minutes. Otherwise, it was quiet.
Directly above the patio, in the center of the home, was a large balcony that interested Abby. She peered through the glass door, adjusted the focus on her monocular, and smiled. The old man lay in bed. Gaetano Rosso, head of the most powerful crime family in the Midwest, rested on what looked like a hospital bed. He was clearly connected to an IV and a heart monitor.
That’s where I need to get, Abby thought.
The guy who kept coming out to make phone calls looked important. So did the guy dragging on the cigarette on the lounge chair. They didn’t pull guard duty or walk the perimeter. Maybe they know where Bryce is. Maybe. But Abby wasn’t here for maybes. She was here to get answers and didn’t intend to waste her time with anyone who might know something. She was only interested in the one guy who did have the information she wanted.
After an hour in the tree, her ass was starting to get sore and a foot was falling asleep. She decided she had done enough watching; it was time to get things in order. On her way back through the woods to her car, she thought about Rosso sitting helplessly in his bed on the second floor. Now she just had to figure out how to get into this suburban fortress to question him. She wouldn’t show him mercy. She doubted he’d ever shown it to anyone on his deathbed.
Guards in front and in back and a half-dozen cars in the driveway made it difficult for Abby to know exactly how many family guys were inside. Even armed to the teeth, she couldn’t just storm in and expect to wind up anything but dead, which would suit Bryce just fine. No, she needed distractions.
Surely an FBI agent or two had once pondered the same thought. If the authorities searching for her daughter knew what she knew, they would be trying to figure out a solution to the same problem.
The trouble with the authorities is that they need a reason to get into the house, but I have my reason: my daughter has been kidnaped, and these felons can tell me where to find her. They don’t play by the rules, and neither will I. The cops need warrants to take thugs in for questioning, but I have the only warrant I need. Abby tapped the .45 in its holster.
But the firepower wouldn’t do Abby any good if she didn’t have those distractions.
She checked the clock as she turned on her car. She figured it was a little more than an hour before sundown and probably a couple hours away from complete darkness.
Taking a hit from her water bottle, she had a flash in her mind of watching the guard sip his water as he walked the perimeter and was struck with an idea for one hell of a distraction. She almost chuckled.
She spun the tires as she turned around to drive back to the shopping center and get ready to enact her plan.
7
MIKEY G., AS HE WAS known in the family and around town, stood on the front steps of the grand Rosso mansion surveying the grounds and taking the last few drags off his cigarette.
The family was made up of many factions and elements, but he saw his as the most important. He oversaw security for Rosso himself and had for the past decade. Back in the day it was an exciting gig. Going into the city, he had a veritable army at his disposal and commanded entire city blocks wherever they traveled. Rosso used to joke that Mikey G. took his job so seriously that even the Secret Service didn’t keep the president as protected as Gaetano Rosso.
The old man had slowed down over the past few years, and over the past six months hardly left the house. When it became obvious that there was no longer a need for such an elaborate traveling entourage, the various crews started taking Mikey G’s best men to work for them. Rosso was fine with this. He knew he didn’t have much time left. After the last trip to his doctor six weeks ago, he knew he wouldn’t be leaving home again until it was in a casket.
Mikey G. made do with what he had left. Ten men on rotating shifts protected the estate. At any given time, he had two patrolling in back, two in front, one in an oversized closet monitoring the closed circuit television feeds, and, of course, himself making sure everything was running smoothly. He ate, slept, lived, and breathed within the confines of the estate, never leaving his post.
He had just checked in on the old man before he came out for a smoke. Guy looks like hell, he thought. He shook his head. He had admired Rosso all of his life. He worked his way up the ladder in the family to earn the trust of such a great man, and then continued to work hard until he was ultimately trusted with the life of the man who ran the Midwest. He considered it an honor, and the pay was exceptional, too. Mikey G. was young when he took his current position, and it meant he had a promising future in the family. What he didn’t know was what that future held for him now.
He snuffed out his cigarette and walked into the house where he could hear the raised voices of the five captains drifting toward the front of the house from the open French door leading from the kitchen to the rear patio.
They are the future, Mikey G. thought, and he didn’t know where the chips were going to land.
Rosso had named Franco to be his successor and take over the family, but not everyone was satisfied with that, and a couple of the captains didn’t mince words when they told Rosso that he was out of his mind to think Franco could lead the family. Ten years ago, had someone raised their voice to Rosso, never mind told him his judgment was wrong, he would have had Mikey G. bury him out in the forest behind the estate. But the old man had softened in his old and sick state and had the crazy thought that he could talk some sense into them.
That’s what brought the five captains here tonight. Rosso wanted just them. No crews, no nonsense, no pissing contests, just his five most trusted men to sit down around the table and hash things out.
The table wound up being Gaetano’s bedroom, as he was too sick to move. There was much head nodding when Gaetano asked them to trust him and his leadership this one last time and respect Franco as the new head of the family. He instructed the men to put aside their differences, and stick together, for the sake of keeping the family unified.
As much head nodding as there was, Mikey G. couldn’t miss the glances that Monte shot the others, as well as the little smirks that some of the other captains had with their eyes cast down to the floor.
As far as Mikey G. could tell, Monte had the support of three of the five crews, and Franco only two. He shared this with Rosso after the old man had dismissed the captains.
Rosso sighed. “Mikey, Franco is the one. He has to be. Maybe he is a little soft, but Monte is an animal. If he had the power to run the family...” Rosso’s voice trailed off as his eyes drifted away before he came back. “Mikey, what do we do these days, huh? We’ve got a piece of God-knows-how-many businesses in the city. We’ve got real estate; we’ve got sway with the politicians; we’ve got the city contracts for half the public services through our business fronts. Mikey, we’re as close to legitimate businessmen as we can be. Granted, with the money laundering we might as well be printing it... but my point is, we’re in good with the right people. Franco won’t just maintain that, he’ll grow it. Hell, maybe in another generation, the Rossos will be legitimate businessmen.
“You put Monte in charge and that’s all going away. You know he’s got his crew dabbling in drugs. You put him in charge, and he’ll be running drugs through the city— hell, through the entire Midwest. You think the feds will look the other way on that? The politicians, we can grease their wheels every election and they’ll make sure the feds and the police look the other way on all the stuff we got going on right now. But you bring drugs in there, Mikey? For some reason, every politician has got a fucking bee in h
is bonnet over the drugs.”
Rosso was lost in thought for a minute though Mikey G. waited patiently as he hadn’t been dismissed yet. When Rosso came back, he stared hard into Mikey’s eyes and was as lucid as he had seen him in weeks, “Mikey, you protect Franco. He is the future. Monte will ruin everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”
He motioned for Mikey G. to come closer. As he leaned in, Rosso grabbed his collar with a weak hand and looked him sharply in the eye. “Mikey, you’ve never doubted me. Don’t doubt me now. Protect the family and take care of Monte.”
Take care of Monte.
With that, Rosso ordered what would likely be his last hit.
Mikey G. poked his head into the oversized closet where his youngest crewmember, Randy, was half dozing off in front of the closed circuit television monitors.
“Hey!” Mikey shouted, startling him awake. “Look alive! We’ve got a houseful tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” the young crewman said, sitting up straight.
Mikey thought a second, “Everything looking quiet out there?”
“Yes, sir, the usual.”
“I’ll watch these a minute. Go get yourself a coffee and wake up.”
“Thank you, sir.”
After the crewman left, Mikey G. took a seat and looked over the eight monitors. “The usual” as the young man had indicated, was a whole bunch of nothing. There were no big rival families anymore—not since that German nut job took out the Patrizios a few years back.
Two cameras by the front gate gave him a view of anyone approaching from either end of the street. In this case, a small, dark import drove slowly by the house before making a right at the end of the street. A plastic water bottle it had probably just hit rolled to a stop at the front gate, and he made a mental note to have one of the guys pick it up later.
Escape, Dead End Page 4