“No, and he is a cop himself.”
“Yes, but not a traditional cop, and he’s also a true crime writer.”
“That’s even more reason for him to turn us in; he might write a book about what happened today.”
They had just stepped outside the bar. As Sara considered Tanner’s words, she looked worried.
“What if Durand did decide to write about this battle between you and Scallato?”
“That wouldn’t bother me, if he changed our names, you know, to protect the innocent.”
Sara laughed.
“You are many things, Tanner, but innocent isn’t one of them.”
Tanner grew quiet as they waited for a cab to come by. Sara studied his face, while wondering if something were wrong.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I want to find Scallato, kill the bastard, and head back home.”
“You will, but if he were easy to kill, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has.”
“Going to Genoa could be a trap, Sara. Maybe it’s time you went back to America.”
“Forget it, Tanner. I’m all in, or have you forgotten that Scallato tried to kill me too?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I just want you to be safe.”
“I will be, because you’ll kill Scallato.”
A cab appeared, and Tanner flagged it down. As they rode along, they saw that the streets were still full of people celebrating Unification Day, as many spent a night out at dinner, or with friends.
“Tanner, if Genoa turns out to be a trap and Durand can’t be trusted, let me handle him.”
“Why?”
“One, because you would kill him and bring down nothing but trouble upon yourself. But secondly, that would mean Durand used me to try to hurt you, and if that’s true, he’ll pay for that.”
“I guess we have each other’s back then.”
Sara took his hand.
“Yes, we do.”
15
You Want Me To Shoot What?
Antonio fired off three more rounds from the shotgun he was holding as the ache in his shoulder increased. Scallato had been making the boy practice with the modified Mossberg for hours. Antonio was ready for a final test before night fell and their light was gone.
After telling Antonio to take a break, Scallato returned to the old pickup truck he’d used to drive them up into the hills. From the bed of the pickup, Scallato removed a cardboard box containing two puppies. The pups were a pair of Dogo Argentino, or Argentine Mastiffs, if mature, they would weigh nearly a hundred pounds each.
Antonio smiled as his father released the dogs from the box, then laughed at their playful antics. Scallato had bought the pups from a woman who lived at the foot of the hills and Antonio assumed they were to be a gift for his sister, Anna, whose recent birthday their father had missed.
When he learned the actual motive behind his father’s purchase, Antonio was repulsed.
“You want me to kill them?”
“Why are you so surprised, Antonio, are we not planning the murder of three men? What do the lives of a couple of dogs compare to that?”
“But Patri, these puppies are innocent.”
“I’m training you to deliver death, Son; there are no innocents, only victims.”
Scallato picked up the shotgun that Antonio had rested atop a tree stump and thrust it at him.
“Kill the dogs, Antonio. Do it now!”
Antonio held the rifle as he’d done all morning while shooting at wooden targets. When he stared down at the puppies playing at his feet, the gun felt as if it weighed a metric ton. After looking over at his father and seeing the expectant look on his face, Antonio took several steps backwards and took aim at the dogs.
A minute passed with the weight of an hour before Scallato took the gun from his son’s hands and looked into his tear-stained eyes.
After taking the boy by the arm, Scallato led him over to the truck and told him to get in. Antonio did so, then startled as his father walked back toward the puppies. He needn’t have worried, as his father was only lifting the truck’s tailgate back in place before returning to the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
As they rolled down the hill, Antonio wondered if it might have been more humane to shoot the puppies anyway. They wouldn’t survive for long on their own among the craggy hills.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Scallato said and received a shrug in return.
The truck came to a hard stop and Scallato glared at his son.
“You do not shrug at me, Antonio. When I ask you a question you answer me.”
“I… I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”
Scallato let out a sigh.
“My brother Bernardo was the same way, only they were kittens, then, two days later he killed the junkie who had snatched our sister’s purse. You failed to kill the dogs, but you will not fail to kill the three Martello brothers.”
“You still want me to kill them?”
“Yes, and you will find them much easier to kill than the pups.”
“But, if I couldn’t kill a dog… will I be able to kill a man?”
“You’d better be, unlike the pups, the men will kill you if you fail. I will help you gain entry into their home, but killing the Martello brothers is your task. If you’re worthy of carrying on the Scallato tradition, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
As his father placed the truck in gear and drove, Antonio turned his head and looked back at the shotgun that was now secured in its rack.
Tomorrow it would be kill or be killed, but the thing he feared most was the disappointment he’d glimpsed in his father’s eyes.
“I will kill the Martello brothers and make you proud, Patri. I swear it.”
“That’s my boy,” Scallato said, and a smile returned to Antonio’s lips.
After arriving back home, Scallato saw on the news that suspected terrorist Malek Kalah had been killed, along with his security team.
Scallato retrieved one of the cheap cell phones he kept stashed away in his workshop and called his contact, his pet cop.
He had to leave a message, but he knew that the contact would respond sooner rather than later. Despite the scant moonlight of the cloudy night, Scallato navigated through the trees in the hills above his home, as he waited for his call to be returned.
At the rear of the property was a cliff with a sheer drop of over a hundred feet. Below were boulders, many were small, but some were the size of a man.
Scallato left the cliff and strolled toward the front of the home. After leaning against a tree and looking down at the lighted windows of his house, it struck Scallato how like a dream the home appeared.
The two-story structure sat in the middle of its own land with no other homes in view. It was made of stone and hidden by the surrounding trees, while its earth tone blend of colors made it coalesce with the rocky hill behind it.
A rare whimsical thought came to Scallato, and he turned around and faced the trees. He could no longer see his home, and he thought that when he turned back around it would be gone, vanished.
The realization that he would care little about the disappearance of his home and family both amused and pleased him.
He was Maurice Scallato, the greatest assassin who had ever lived, or would ever live, and no one and nothing had claim to him.
His father had once called him a sociopath. That occurred when the elder Scallato finally realized that Maurice had killed his own brother, to take Bernardo’s place in the family hierarchy. But no, Maurice had feelings, he knew he did. He was just the master of them and not their slave, as were other men.
He turned around and saw his home was still there. That was good, he had invested a lot of time and much effort into establishing its cover identity. His wife was a good companion and his son would make a worthy successor. As far as his daughter, Anna, was concerned, Maurice held little affection for the child. She was a girl, and thus, of no benefit to him. The be
st he could hope for was that she would marry young and become someone else’s burden.
The phone vibrated in his hand. He answered it, then waited for the other party to speak.
“Maurice?”
“I see that Tanner was successful in eliminating the target in Germany.”
“He was, and I have news that will please you.”
“Tell me.”
“Tanner will be in Genoa soon, and I can give you his exact location.”
“Which is?”
“He’ll be at your father’s nursing home. He thinks that the old man will lead him right to you.”
“That won’t happen, and Tanner won’t be fooled for long.”
“Yes, so I suggest you fly to Genoa as soon as you can. This is a golden opportunity to rid yourself of that amateur.”
“Amateur? Tanner is no amateur. He might even be second only to myself.”
“Maybe, but when can I expect you? I’ll be in Genoa tomorrow, and so will Tanner, most likely.”
“I’ll catch a late flight tomorrow. I have to deal with something here first.”
“All right, but one thing, do you really need to kill Sara Blake?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“You already know the reason. She was helping Tanner, for that, she dies.”
A great sigh came over the telephone.
“I understand.”
“I knew you would,” Scallato said, then ended the call.
Back in Germany, Tanner was surprised to get a call from Sara, who he’d assumed was asleep in her suite across the hall from his own.
“When do you want to leave for Italy? I have to check the schedules.”
“I’ll hire a private jet.”
“If you insist; I never pass on luxury, but I’ll pay for our rooms.”
“Rooms? You’d save money if you’d only get one.”
Sara laughed.
“Yes, rooms, at least until the threat of Scallato has passed.”
Tanner sighed.
“I can’t kill him quick enough.”
“Agreed, and you may get the chance tomorrow.”
“No, tomorrow we’ll fly to Rome and stay there overnight.”
“Why?”
“If Genoa is a trap, then, the ones springing it will be forced to wait a day and grow bored. People who are bored are also careless, and easier to spot.”
“But what if it’s not a trap and you miss an opportunity to kill Scallato?”
“It’s a risk, yes, but a slight one. It’s not very likely he would pick tomorrow to visit. The truth is, he may not visit his father for months.”
“Months?”
“My longest hit took many weeks. That was weeks of me looking through a rifle scope and waiting for a sign of movement behind a window.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Anyway, Rome it is, and I think I’ll do some shopping while I’m there.”
“So will I, I know a supplier there. I’ll get us hooked up.” Supplier was Tanner’s code word for gun dealer. While getting hooked up meant that they would acquire new weapons. Sara understood his meaning, as he had explained the phrases to her at an earlier time.
The sound of a yawn came over the phone.
“Hang up, Sara, and get some sleep, unless there’s something else you’d rather do in bed?”
A giggle came over the line this time, and it was followed by one word.
“Soon.”
Tanner heard her click off and put his phone down. He smiled. Soon couldn’t be soon enough.
16
Pull The Trigger And Watch Them Die
The villa that the Martello brothers lived in was one of the oldest properties in town. It had been a showcase vacation home for an Italian mobster during the 1940’s.
For most of its nearly hundred-year existence, the villa was well-maintained, but had been neglected since the mid-eighties by a series of short term owners. The grounds were the worst. They were overgrown with weeds and a fire had destroyed much of the olive orchard, what was left of the orchard had died of neglect. The main section of the three-story home was intact, but an earthquake had collapsed the roof of the west wing, while graffiti marked the walls of the east wing.
Still, despite having seen better days, the villa had a certain regal quality about it, and there was nothing wrong with it that a million or so euros couldn’t fix.
An aspect of the villa that remained standing straight and tall was its stone walls and iron gates. They protected the villa from unwanted guests and were aided in their duty by a pair of pit bulls that roamed the courtyard.
Maurice Scallato had rendered the dogs useless by feeding them chunks of meat that had been laced with a sedative. Once the dogs began stumbling around, he climbed over the wall and moved silently toward the villa. A look through a lighted window revealed to him that the Martello brothers were at home. The tall one and the fat one were engrossed in a soccer game on TV, while the short one had headphones on and held his phone in his hand.
Scallato returned to the wall and called out softly to his son, who was waiting on the other side. After helping Antonio scale the wall, Scallato walked over to the dogs and nudged one of them with his foot. The hound didn’t move, but he did release a foul odor as he expelled gas.
“Ugh, what did you feed them, Patri?”
“Never mind the smell and listen to me carefully. I will wait for you on the other side of this wall until I hear the shotgun blasts. Afterwards, you return here. Then, I will come inside and the two of us will load the bodies and dispose of them.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No, Antonio, these are your targets, not mine. Just enter the house through the rubble of the west wing and come up on them silently. If you catch them unawares, all you’ll have to do is pull the trigger and watch them die.”
Antonio swallowed so hard that the sound could be heard clearly.
His father took him by the shoulders and gazed at him solemnly.
“Who are you?”
Antonio looked confused for a moment, but then understanding flashed across his young face. After straightening his back, he answered his father.
“I am Antonio Scallato and a Scallato is a dealer of death.”
Maurice turned his son sideways and pointed at the lighted windows of the villa.
“Go in there and claim your heritage. Kill those bastards and begin the legend of Antonio Scallato.”
At the utterance of the word, legend, Antonio felt a fresh resolve come over him. Yes, he was a Scallato and the Scallato’s had been feared and respected for over a century. A legend, he would be a legend just like his father, and all he had to do was sneak inside a building and tug on a trigger several times.
It will be easy. He told himself. So very easy.
The darkness swallowed him as he headed toward the ruined west wing of the building, as inside the villa, his intended targets were blissfully unaware of the fate that approached them.
While most in the town of Raguso referred to the Martello brothers as the fat one, the tall one, and the short one, they did have names.
The fat one was named Nerio and he was the youngest. The tall one was Romy, and Romy had been of normal height until a growth spurt at nineteen added ten inches to him. The oldest brother and by far the smartest was Dante, who was called the short one. At five-foot-five, he was still the leader of the trio, and had been an only child until Romy came along when he was eight.
Dante was smart, and crafty. He was far more intelligent than his two halfwit brothers. He also possessed a calm and dignified demeanor along with a sense of self-control.
While his brothers routinely approached women in the street and made lewd advances, Dante’s approach to romance was subtler, although equally obscene. Dante made arrangements with the wives or daughters of the merchants they were strong-arming.
Dante’s deal was simple. He got to sleep with the wife or daughter once every
two weeks and the woman’s husband or father paid a pittance in extortion as compared to the other merchants who were being bled dry.
Dante had made this offer to eighteen women he found desirable and seven had agreed to the arrangement. Five were wives while two were daughters. He wasn’t a bad looking man, he thought, nor was he an insensitive lover, and women were far more practical than most men gave them credit for being. So, on average, Dante enjoyed the pleasures of a beautiful woman roughly every other day. Sometimes the timing was wrong, or the assignations had to be postponed to maintain discretion. Whenever a woman called and begged off a planned meeting, Dante was gracious and always agreed to the postponement.
None of the women ever asked him to release them from their obligation, not once they had lain with him and discovered that he was gentle and discreet. Dante even suspected that one or two of his paramours had true feelings toward him. He also knew of one who would gut him like a fish if she didn’t fear reprisal.
In any event, Dante Martello had a virtual harem to pleasure him. Meanwhile, the brutish Nerio and the clueless Romy hadn’t been laid in months, and their last “conquests” were a pair of forty-something hookers that they ran into down at the docks.
Dante, Nerio, and Romy were enjoying a night in, as tomorrow they had to make their collection rounds. The TV was on and Dante was listening to an old Giorgio Gabor album via a pair of earphones.
None of them heard the faint rustle of thick plastic that came from the hallway that led to the west wing, nor did they see the shadowy figure growing closer. They would have remained ignorant of Antonio Scallato’s presence in their home had Dante’s cat, Sonno, not let out a great hiss at first sight of the boy.
Dante Martello saw his cat streak off toward the kitchen and wondered what could make the lazy feline move with such haste. He pulled the earphones off his head while at the same time he saw his brothers jerk in their seats and stare at the hallway on the left.
There was a boy there, a rather tall boy, and he was holding a shotgun. The boy’s breath was coming rapidly, and he was licking at his lips.
[Tanner 16.0] To Kill a Killer Page 10