I switched the partial magazine for the one I had taken from Vidali in the bedroom. Seventeen rounds in the spare plus ten in the first magazine. I had twenty-seven rounds of Vidali’s shells, plus my own. I hoped it would be enough.
I stood in the shadows and put weight on my left ankle. Painful, but bearable. I’d hiked and fought in Iraq and Afghanistan with worse. I swiped my cheeks and chin with the back of my hands. The shredded gloves were streaked with my blood, but only on the backs. So were the thorns that had cut me, but I doubted the CSIs would check the bougainvilleas by the pool for DNA; there were bougainvilleas all over the grounds. If they did, there was nothing to do about it anyway.
I pushed behind the bushes to the bottom of the stairs from Vidali’s bedroom. He hadn’t had enough time to get back to his suite. He had to be in the garage still, or maybe making his way back inside the house. I limped up the stairs. I checked the pulse on the man I had shot on the balcony. Dead. I pulled the magazine from the M4A1. The shells wouldn’t fit a Glock, so I tossed the magazine into the pool. I hobbled into Vidali’s bedroom. The power was still off. I blew out the candles. I wanted the bedroom dark.
The door between his sitting room and bedroom hung by one hinge. The landscape lighting reflected off the leaves and palm fronds and lit a wedge from the bedroom door to the sitting room doors that opened to the hall. I shined the flashlight into the sitting room. Both hall doors stood open. I limped over and shut them, but I didn’t lock them. I assumed that Vidali’s henchmen had turned on the lights when they came through. I flipped the light switch next to the door.
Anyone entering the sitting room from either direction would tend to walk straight across to the opposite door. Simple human nature.
I considered options for the kill zone. A love seat on the right side backed up to the wall, ninety degrees from the direct line across the sitting room. From there, I would be invisible in the dark shadows until my muzzle flash revealed my position. I would have a good view of both the hall doors and the broken bedroom door. Whichever way they came, I could shoot from the dark into the dim light.
While I waited, I switched Vidali’s first magazine of ten shells for his full one. I blotted the blood from my cheeks and chin and stuffed the tissue in my pants pocket. I couldn’t leave any DNA at the crime scene. I stripped off the bloody rubber gloves and zipped them into a pocket. I put on fresh gloves.
The longer I waited, the more my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
The doorknob clicked. The pistol grip knob moved downward as the man on the other side prepared to enter the firing range.
I took a calming breath.
Chapter 56
The eye responds to movement. I aimed toward the center of the room and froze in firing position. I waited for the door to open. Easy squeezy, nice and easy.
A hand pushed the door. It swung open all the way and banged against the door stop. Silence.
A dark silhouette walked in, gun held in both hands in front, but pointed at the floor. In the dim light he looked bulkier than the Pisarczik I remembered. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was Orsinati. Or was it Vidali’s supposed fourth man? He walked straight toward the master bedroom.
When he got to the center of the room, I double tapped him. He staggered, and I swung the Glock toward the door in case another man came in. The gunman regained his balance and turned in my direction. I fired again, simultaneously with him. A slug pounded my vest when his muzzle flash blinded my dilated eyes.
I had hit him at least twice earlier, yet he could still shoot. He had to have a bulletproof vest. I needed to make a head shot. I hate head shots. Blinded by the muzzle flashes, I rapid-fired until I lost count. So did he until the muzzle flash of his last two shots pointed at the floor. The Glock clicked empty. I must’ve fired fifteen more times.
My ears rang in the sudden silence. The acrid gunpowder smell in the confined space stung my nose. I sneezed, and for an instant the smell transported me back to Afghanistan. I shook my head to clear it. The gunman didn’t move as I switched the spent magazine for a full one. My own magazine was in Vidali’s Glock now, but I had worn gloves when I loaded it. A future CSI would not find my fingerprints on the shell casings or the magazine.
Aiming the Glock at the fallen man, I limped over and kicked his gun across the room. I checked his pulse. There wasn’t one. When I rolled him over, I felt the hard texture of the vest. His head lolled like a rag doll. I pulled out the flashlight. Orsinati’s bald head gleamed in the beam.
That means that Pisarczik, the professional gunman, had the AK-47 I had heard from the garage.
I shuffled into the bedroom and sat on an upholstered chair, my back against the outside wall. In a few minutes, my eyesight was back to normal. A shadow crossed the light coming through the French doors. Someone was on the balcony. Someone with a bulletproof vest and a Kalashnikov. Pisarczik.
I took a breath and slowed my pulse.
Chapter 57
In the silence, a distant grandfather clock chimed four times.
The shadow on the carpet froze until the chimes stopped. It got longer and moved to the right. The shadow stopped again.
I aimed high for the head shot. Easy squeezy, nice and easy.
A dark movement flashed across the threshold, flying through the air. I rapid-fired four times and tried to follow him across.
Pisarczik landed in a roll and disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the bed. I hoped he was lying flat on the floor.
“You missed me, McCrary. Now I’m gonna cut you to ribbons.”
He knew from my muzzle flashes where I was. Correction: where I had been when I fired before.
I dropped to the floor and belly-crawled toward the bed. I extended my Glock under the edge of the bed and aimed six inches above the floor. I fired once. The muzzle flash lit his feet and ankles. He was standing. I fired three more times and hit him at least once, maybe twice.
Pisarczik yelled and fired a burst across the bed, aiming at the chair where I was before. Too late, stupid. I’m not there anymore.
I crabbed sideways toward the center of the room. Thank goodness for plush carpet that absorbed sound. I didn’t want him to pen me against the wall. Six rounds left. Make them count. I suppressed a sneeze when I smelled gunpowder again.
Pisarczik stumbled across the floor and dropped, groaning, into the twin of the chair I had fired from earlier. I had hit him in the foot or ankle, but he was still dangerous.
I eased around the end of the bed toward the side where Pisarczik sat. Fishing the flashlight from a pocket with my left hand, I extended it under the bed toward where I heard Pisarczik panting. I turned the flashlight ninety degrees to the floor and held the lens against the carpet so I could turn it on without him seeing it.
I flicked the switch and tossed the flashlight out from under the bed. I raised myself to hands and knees as he turned the Kalashnikov on the flashlight and fired a long burst. I frogged forward and rapid-fired at his head, well lit by the back light of the muzzle flashes. I hate head shots. The last muzzle flash showed brains exploding against the white wall behind him. My Glock clicked empty. Again.
Stumbling to my feet, I headed toward the study. I remembered Vidali’s Smith & Wesson revolver I had found in his desk and unloaded. The cartridges were in his study.
My heart sank when I tried the door. Locked. I didn’t have a bazooka; that revolver might have as well been in Timbuktu.
The M4A1 was on the balcony, but I had thrown the magazine into the pool.
And Vidali and possibly a fourth man were out there somewhere.
Chapter 58
I picked up Pisarczik’s AK-47 and checked the magazine. He had emptied it at the flashlight. My only weapons were the knife I had brought with me and the knife I had taken from Vidali’s desk. And two empty Glocks.
I remembered Orsinati had carried a Browning .380. I stumbled into the sitting room and found the Browning. I thumbed out the magazine and exam
ined it with the flashlight. Three rounds left.
I carried the Browning back to the bedroom and sat in the chair, now with stuffing coming loose from the rounds Pisarczik had fired into it. It was still the best firing position in the room.
I waited in the silence while my heart slowed down and my eyes dilated. Again.
A muffled sound came from the closet. Vidali’s blonde was in there. She and her Pomeranians.
I was trespassing, so I had to disappear before the cops got here. What was taking the cops so long? Maybe the neighbors, safe behind their double-paned windows and ensconced in their soundproof, air-conditioned palaces, hadn’t heard the gunfire. Possible, but unlikely. Surely one of the security patrols would have reported the shots.
Wait, we were on an island. The cops could only come by ferry. There was one ferry on duty in the wee hours of the morning. It was that time of night when response would be slow at best. Plus maybe a fifty-minute wait for the ferry. Then they would have to figure out how to get here from the ferry terminal.
And, and, and…I had maybe an hour.
“McCrary, you in there?”
It was Vidali. He sounded like he was next to the pool.
I waited.
“McCrary, you win. We need to talk.”
I waited.
“McCrary, I’m unarmed. You killed my men. What more do you want? I said ‘you win.’ Let’s talk.”
I hollered out the French door, “Turn the power back on and come up to your bedroom.”
“Be there in three minutes, McCrary.”
Five minutes later, he hollered from the hallway, “I turned the power on. I’m unarmed. I’m coming in, McCrary.”
I held the empty Glock in my left hand and Orsinati’s almost empty Browning in my right. “Come ahead, Vidali.”
He walked into view, hands up. “I’m unarmed.”
“Turn on the lights.”
He did.
“Take off your robe and turn around.”
Vidali shrugged out of his robe and did a three-sixty. He was unarmed.
“You can put your robe back on.”
“Can I let Jasmine out of the closet now?”
I waved him permission.
He tapped on the closet door. Furious barks came from inside. Somehow the dogs knew the danger was over. Or maybe they liked to bark anytime someone knocked on the door. Whatever. “Jasmine, honey, it’s Vic. Everything’s okay now. You can come out.”
A mumbled reply came through the door.
“I can’t hear you, honey. You can come out now.”
The door opened a crack. “I heard lots of guns, Vic. Is it safe?”
“Yes, it’s safe. The shooting is over. You can come out.”
“Great. I gotta pee something awful.”
She took two steps out of the closet and turned toward the bathroom, naked as a nudist queen. The dogs followed right behind. She saw me and stopped in her tracks, swaying a little to keep her balance. She looked at me through her drug-induced haze. “I remember you. You’re the guy who interrupted Vic and me before we was finished.”
I made a little bow where I sat. “Sorry about that. You kids can finish when I leave.”
She looked back at Vic, then at me. “Whatever. Shit, I gotta pee.” She scurried to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
The dogs trotted over and sat next to the bathroom door.
I waited. Didn’t know what else to do. I was in uncharted waters. I figured I’d let Vidali take the lead from here, as long as things kept moving in the right direction.
“She’ll need her clothes.” Vidali stepped into the closet before I could object.
Oh, well, I thought.
A moment later, Vidali rolled from the closet with another Smith & Wesson loaded with eight .357 Magnum bullets. One round hit me square in the chest and another blew the corner off the upholstered chair right beside my head.
I put all three Browning rounds in him.
Poor Jasmine would hide in the bathroom until the cops found her. At least she would have a place to pee if they took a long time to come.
Chapter 59
I limped to the marina. It was 5:40 a.m. I could have made it quicker, but I had to find Graciela’s cell phone. As far as I could tell, I had left no evidence that either one of us had ever had anything to do with Vicente Vidali.
Poor Jasmine was so stoned she wouldn’t be a credible witness, even if she was willing to talk to the cops.
Of course, there were security cameras all over Mango Island, but hundreds of strangers visited the island that night. I doubted they would pay much attention to my little ol’ boat. All the victims were mobsters with lots of enemies. And all the bullets were from the victims’ own guns. The cops would wind up barking up the wrong tree. I hoped.
As I passed the harbormaster’s office, a dock attendant dozed inside, turquoise jacket tossed over the back of a chair. I let him sleep. Better he didn’t see me anyway. My face and were marked with red cuts and dried blood. I hadn’t dared wash them at Vidali’s for fear of leaving DNA.
Two minutes later I cast off and turned the SeaRay out of the harbor. As I crossed the ship channel, I pulled the battery from Gracie’s phone and dropped it and the phone in forty-five feet of water. An hour after that, I pulled into Mike’s Marina. I dropped the boat keys through the slot in his office door.
Halfway back to the Avanti, the adrenalin caught up with me. I leaned on the fender and got the shakes. The water and the energy bars I had consumed driving back to Mike’s marina objected. I vomited in his parking lot. Macho, that’s me.
I got in the Avanti and turned the A/C up to frantic. I had an after-action attack of the sweats.
I concentrated on breathing for a few minutes. I sent Bob a text. All is well. You and Gracie are safe. No one will bother either of you. Have a great game. Go Jets!
I texted Snoop and Jorge: All is well. You are free to go home, with my thanks.
I put the Avanti in gear. I felt pretty damn good, except my sprained ankle made it hell to shift gears. I managed to get it in second and drove home that way.
The sun was just peeking above the horizon as I got home and fell into bed. My last thought was about what Jorge would think when he learned about the massacre on Mango Island.
Chapter 60
“Chuck, glad you could make it. Clint, it’s good to see you again. Y’all come on in.” Hank Hickham grabbed my hand and shook it with the gusto only a three-hundred-pound, five-foot-nine man can muster. Then he shook Clint’s hand with equal fervor. Hank was past anyone’s normal retirement age, with a fringe of gray hair around his bald pate, but he had the energy of a high-school track star. He had to be a human dynamo to run the busiest restaurant in Florida.
Hank frowned when he saw the Band-Aids on my face. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t mention them. “The bar’s over there and the buffet’s over yonder. Make yourselves to home.”
Neither Clint nor I had ever seen a Super Bowl live. I’d been delighted when Hank called me a month earlier to invite me to his thirty-five-yard-line stadium suite. His suite had only twenty seats and I was surprised he’d invited me since he knew every mover and shaker in Atlantic County. I had done Hank an indirect favor the previous year, and, apparently, he thought he still owed me, even after getting me onto Mango Island twice. He had become a loyal and influential friend.
We arrived a little after 6:00 p.m., a half hour before kickoff. The setting sun had dipped below the top rows of Port City Super Stadium, but the field below dazzled beneath the stadium lights. The Dallas Cowboys logo was painted in the south end zone; the New York Jets logo in the north. The NFL logo painted in the center of the field stretched between the forty-five-yard lines.
Clint grabbed two pulled-pork sandwiches and a glass of iced tea. I remembered when he was an underfed street kid living off spare change that he bummed to get McDonald’s fast food. I felt a little swell of pride for how far Clint had come. He was now a sta
rter on the Port City Prep varsity basketball team and an honor student.
I filled a plate with boiled shrimp, horseradish, and cocktail sauce and walked stiffly to a bar stool at a round table at the back of the spacious suite. My ankle bothered me so much when I shifted gears that Clint had driven the Avanti to the stadium. He had earned his learner’s permit and was excited to drive the antique car.
When I woke up at three o’clock that afternoon, I’d turned on my cellphone. A text from Bob was waiting for me. I can never repay you for what you’ve done. But at least I can pay you for your services. Bring a bill tomorrow and let’s have lunch. My suite at 1:30?
On the natural grass turf below, the teams finished their introductions and lined up for the national anthem. Bob Martinez stood with the other players, looking up at the stands. There was no way he could tell which suite was which—the stadium had over a hundred of them on three different levels. Yet he pointed right at me, waved, and gave me a thumbs-up. I had to grin. I felt pretty good right then.
On the field, the announcer introduced several notables to the crowd. Among them was Arnie “Bigs” Bigelow, a Hall of Fame member and retired defensive lineman for the Port City Pelicans. Back when Bigs played, he’d dominated the field so much that sports journalists had dubbed the entire Pelican defensive line The Bigs Brigade. After the Pelicans retired his jersey, he’d joined the Port City Police Department and worked his way up to detective. I was proud to call him a friend.
After the national anthem, I sipped my Diet Dr Pepper, ate my shrimp, and watched Clint having the time of his life.
On the field, the two teams’ captains shook hands. Honorary captains, Joe Namath of the Jets and Troy Aikman of the Cowboys, presided over the coin toss.
Hank’s wife, Lorene, came over and kissed me on the cheek, carefully avoiding the Band-Aids. “Chuck, it’s so nice to see you.” She sat down at the table with us. She and Hank had been married over forty years and acted like honeymooners. A few years younger than Hank, Lorene had aged well. She was proud of her silver hair and wore it short. Just a bit of lipstick and eyebrow pencil accented her slightly wrinkled face. She reminded me of one of my older aunts. She smiled at Clint and put a hand on his forearm. Lorene is a toucher. “I don’t believe I’ve met this young man with you. Could you introduce us?”
Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3) Page 19