Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  She rose to her feet, leaving her children to comfort each other and banged on the wooden door.

  “Let us out!”

  “My boy!”

  “Help!”

  Her kids might actually find out something about their mother today. She wasn’t as innocent and fragile as she tried to project.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  THE NAME GIVEN TO WINGHAM for the company that hired the car service was one Grugger’s Waste Management from New York, New York.

  According to the Internet, it was a large corporate company that specialized in the removal of garbage and recyclables from businesses. People paid thousands a month just to have the crap hauled away.

  “Ironic it’s waste management,” Wingham said it with a smile, and Clinton picked up on the connotation.

  The Mafia operated profitable business fronts in areas such as construction, waste management, casinos, and restaurants. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I know you don’t. So what do New York Mafias have to do with our case?”

  “I’m not exactly sure yet. Let’s talk this out. You’ve got this guy from Detroit, a Don’s son. He wants the power,” Clinton said.

  Wingham nodded, following along so far.

  “He doesn’t just want to take out his father—too easy. Maybe not enough of a challenge.”

  “Okay, but it still doesn’t explain New York Mafias.”

  “Patience.” Clinton smiled at her. “Say if, for some reason, Christian knew he’d never have the power within the Russo Family.”

  “His father, the Don, Pietro was going to leave the legacy to someone else. Yeah, that would piss me off.”

  “So he makes it look like Pietro betrayed the New York Families. At a meeting set up to make the New York Governor submit to mafia direction, their spokesperson is taken out. Then Christian will swoop in, look like a good guy, replace his father.” Clinton shrugged. “It could work like that. It’s still speculation.”

  “I wonder if they knew of Christian’s elaborate scheme.”

  “Hard to say.”

  “They’re normally loyal, aren’t they?” Wingham held the cup near her face as if about to take another mouthful but didn’t.

  “Normally, but if they sense a conflict in direction, they will eat their own.”

  “So, Christian hired a guy, Tux, Raymond Hunter, to kill the Governor, the same weekend she’s there to convince Talbot to see the power of the dark side.”

  Clinton rolled his eyes at her reference to Star Wars.

  “It says to them that Christian’s serious about this. He and his father are working on bringing the New York Governor into the fold, as it were. But with the hit, it makes the New York Families think the Russos have betrayed all of them. At the same time, it tips off Pietro Russo. He knows something’s been set up.” Wingham put her cup down.

  “I wonder if the guy’s still alive.”

  Silence passed between the two of them for a few seconds.

  “This is going to be a bloodbath before it’s over,” Clinton said.

  Wingham nodded. “We’ve got to get to the private hangar and find out about the flight Hunter came in on. Find out where his origin was, more specifically than Detroit.”

  “How much do you want to bet it’s another private hangar?”

  “Not a gambling woman, but I’d say there’s a dang good chance.”

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  LEONE COUNTED OFF THE ROUNDS. Fifteen. The magazine was empty; it must have been standard stock issue. There was a pause, but he sensed movement. The guy was getting ready to insert a fresh magazine. This would be Leone’s only chance.

  He rounded the corner. The man didn’t even have a chance to yell before his brains splattered onto the metal of the hangar.

  -

  Chapter 83

  OUTSKIRTS OF NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 7:45 AM

  CLINTON AND WINGHAM DROVE TO the private hangar where the Town Car had picked up Raymond Hunter. Wingham had finally dropped his nickname in exchange for his given one. They were now past generics and had adopted Hunter as their assassin.

  His DMV photo was a close match to the grainy video from The Grandeur. And they had Murray go back to visit the former Canadian, living the American dream as a motel manager. He confirmed the man in the DMV photo was, in fact, the man who had stayed at The Oasis.

  “So Hunter gets on a private plane, comes here and kills Behler. Do you think he was the one who originally failed? Or do you think it was Rick Carson?” Wingham slipped a hand under her chin and delicately scratched it with her painted nails.

  “Well, I don’t believe in coincidences remember? Hunter was on the security video. He went into the suite with Behler. He was also the one who checked into The Oasis motel twice.”

  She let out a deep yawn. “Yeah you’re right. Blame it my lack of sleep.”

  “Well, then let’s get this thing wrapped up, shall we?”

  She gestured to the road in front of her. “You turn right here.”

  Clinton passed her a glare. He was better at following directions—when it came to destinations—than she was.

  The private airport hangar was on the outskirts of Niagara Falls. There was nothing but crop fields around it.

  The gravel crunched under the tires of the department-issued Crown Vic as Clinton pulled into the drive.

  “Hopefully, someone’s home.”

  “Well, it’s still early.” Wingham let out another yawn.

  “Am I keeping you up?”

  “Ah, yeah.” She reached for the door handle and got out.

  From first observations, it didn’t look like anyone was around. All the doors on the hangar were closed. Clinton went for the handle on the front door and found it unlocked.

  There was a plane inside, but no one they could see. A piece of metal hit the concrete floor and rang out through the hull of the building.

  “In the back,” Clinton said, and they both approached where the noise came from.

  More metal hit the ground, and they had their room. Extra parts for planes were stored there with the tools to fix them. Wrenches lay on the ground scattered as if the person was looking for the right one.

  “Niagara Falls PD.” Wingham showed her badge to the man who came around from the back side of the room.

  “Holy shit!” A hand went to the guy’s chest. “Never even heard anyone come in.”

  The guy was easily mid-to-late forties wearing stained mechanics coveralls. His rounded torso fought with the straps for control. He stood there gasping to catch his breath.

  “What…do…you…want?” He spoke through exhales.

  “We need to know the origin of a man who flew in here yesterday.”

  “Nope.” His head shook and along with it his thick neck.

  He could be a preventative poster candidate representing the benefits of a healthy diet and exercise. Do it, or look like this.

  “I’ll need to see a warrant.” He bent over and picked up the wrenches, one at a time.

  “There shouldn’t be a reason for that. It’s just a simple favor we’re asking,” Wingham said.

  “People fly from here, and to here, because of confidentiality. I’d lose my job.”

  You have a lot more than a job to lose, Clinton thought, realizing how shallow he could be at times.

  Wingham splayed a hand on her hip and bucked it slightly to the right. “You sure? Just one location.”

  “Listen, lady, if you’re trying to pick me up, you’ve come to the wrong place. Monty’s Bar is down the road.”

  Wingham straightened and her jaw tightened. She gave him a definite glance over. “If you relish not going to jail, I suggest you cooperate with us—”

  “You can�
�t make me do something without a war—”

  “People do it all the time. It’s termed cooperating with law enforcement,” Wingham said.

  “It’s called the unemployment line.” He picked up a wrench and stood back, a hand resting on his rounded belly.

  “Think of it this way, when was the last time something exciting happened to you?”

  Wingham could be impressive. Clinton remained quiet.

  “I don’t need excitement in my life. I have to get through it.”

  Clinton stepped forward. “We don’t have time for this—”

  “Nobody has time.”

  “There was a man who left here in a Town Car yesterday. We know this for a fact. We also know his name, for a fact. We need to confirm his origin.”

  The mechanic remained quiet.

  “I’ll make it real simple for you. Yesterday morning. Early. Did you have any flights come in?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Okay, we’ll go with maybe. Did this maybe flight come in from Detroit?”

  The man passed glances between the two of them deciding whether to acknowledge Clinton’s question. After seconds of silence, he bobbed his head.

  “Now, was that so hard?”

  “Now, this maybe flight, where in Detroit did it originate from?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “We’re just talking in maybes.” Clinton smiled at the mechanic.

  “Another private hangar. But that’s all I’m telling you.”

  Back in the car, Wingham snapped her belt up with a hasty click.

  “Something wrong?”

  “How could he not find me attractive?”

  “Honestly? I don’t think it was that.” Her head snapped to face her partner. “I don’t think he’s seen his pecker in years and it’s dead.”

  “Yeah, you might be right.” She laughed. “And there’s nothing like feeding him the answers.”

  Clinton shrugged. “Hey, we do what we’ve got to do. The next step would have been threatening to actually get a property search warrant. Guessing his employer would appreciate that even less.”

  -

  Chapter 84

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 7:45 AM

  LEONE KNEW HE HAD A clear line into the building now. He watched the farmhouse intently, expecting a door to open, for a shot to ring out—nothing but silence. He hated silence; in fact, he preferred chaos at any point in time.

  Maybe he should have relished the moment a little longer though. A door opened, one he didn’t see, and before he could turn around, something hard hit him in the back of the head. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground.

  I CRADLED MY KNUCKLES INTO MY CHEST. They burned like fire from the repetitive beating on the door. Panic mingled with pain, and a sense of hopelessness threatened to diminish all my power. But the only thing that kept me moving forward was knowing that my family needed me. I would be their only saving power from this place that they had known for over twenty-four hours now.

  The hail of bullets that rang out in the morning air had sliced through silence, and with their demise an eerie calm had returned. But something inside told me they were all right. I had to believe we were all going to come out of this alive.

  I set to banging on the door again and screaming whatever random words spewed from my mouth.

  CHRISTIAN PACED AROUND LEONE. Two other men, one with a large build and one with a scar that ran the length of his face, must have dragged him inside the hangar. Leone kept drifting into unconsciousness. His head throbbed like it had been busted open. His vision was fuzzy and faint. It hurt to breathe.

  “There’s been so much disappointment these days.” Christian took the butt of a pistol and jabbed it into the meat of Leone’s upper thigh.

  The pain ricocheted through him, but Leone refused to give in to the cry that balled in his throat.

  “You can take pain?” Christian replaced his gun in the waist of his pants and withdrew a knife. He laid it carefully in his hand, seemingly admiring the blade. His face went from an expression of peace to one contorted with anger as he brandished the blade downward into Leone’s thigh.

  Leone could no longer fight against the intense pain. He let out a wail that echoed off the walls of the hangar and back to his own ears.

  “Oh, now we’re getting somewhere.” Christian paced a few steps. “Every man has a pain tolerance threshold. We’ll find out where yours really is.” Another downward jab with the blade. As it tore through his flesh on the other thigh, Leone felt dizzy and faint. The pain was overtaking his mental powers and his other sensory functions. He would die here.

  “You killed my men—” Christian stopped talking and kept still. “What the fuck is that?” He turned around to look at the two other men who seemed to be nothing more than spectators waiting to watch justice be meted out.

  The man with the scar said something, but to Leone’s ears the words were faded and jumbled; they seemed to be spoken miles away. Leone had to fight to remain conscious.

  “Go! Shut him up!” Christian snapped both fingers and dogs snarled.

  Leone couldn’t see the dogs, but he heard them. They sounded even further away than the man’s voice had been. He made out faint footsteps as one of them walked away on Christian’s command.

  Christian looked back to the knife in his hand. With his eyes on the bloody blade, he said, “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  I CONTINUED POUNDING UNTIL I heard the door in the hangar open. Someone was in the hallway for certain. I screamed out, “Come here!”

  I watched the handle turn and the door opened cautiously. Limpy Scarface came in.

  “Shut up!”

  He went to shut the door again. I moved quickly and grabbed his wrist. I bent it backward and felt the bones snap under the pressure. He reeled back and cried out. He lashed back out of instinct, coming at me with the determination of a locomotive, yet weak in strength. My fist met his nose and I returned the favor that he had bestowed on me earlier. Vengeance in my hands felt redeeming and more rewarding than waiting for someone else to step in, whether it be a Greater Power or another person.

  “You son of a bitch!” Spittle flew, and blood streamed from his face. A man truly gone mad, his eyes raged a wildfire. This man would leave me no choice.

  He lunged at me, with his arms flailing as if an epileptic and unable to control his movements. “I will kill you!”

  I jumped backward. The pain in my leg bit. I stumbled while trying to redeem ground but lost the battle. I fell to the concrete floor; the man continued to come at me with fury and speed. He kicked at my ribs and I spewed blood.

  I refuse to die in this place.

  I curled down on the floor in a fetal position, the pain in my torso sapping my sanity. He kicked me again; this time in my back. For a moment, I envisioned just falling asleep. But then my family’s faces paraded in my mind. I saw them clearly, felt them. I was their only hope.

  -

  Chapter 85

  OUTSKIRTS OF NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 8:00 AM

  CLINTON AND WINGHAM DROVE BACK to the station with the lights on, flying through intersections in the city as if in a car chase.

  Wingham said, “All right, I guess the call has to be made. Leone still isn’t answering his phone.” She had repeatedly tried to reach him as Clinton drove and they made their way through the morning commuter traffic.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious he’s not one of the good guys by now.”

  “But the guy got a medal. That should mean something,” Wingham said.

  Clinton found it amusing after all her years as a cop and detective, having witnessed all the horrible things she had, that she still sought to see the best in people. He had lost that abilit
y a long time ago.

  “Maybe at the time it did.” Clinton shrugged. And maybe it didn’t.

  He pulled the Crown Vic into the parking lot and parked on a wild angle. They both bounded from the car and hurried up to the Chief’s office. They needed the Detroit PD’s full involvement.

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  “WHAT THE FUCK? What…the hell is going…there now?”

  “Want me to…out Boss?”

  The words were only making it through to Leone’s ears in broken segments. He expected to feel shivers and chills just before his last breath, yet he was experiencing the opposite effect—warmth. Maybe he would survive this, though he highly doubted it. His eyes wanted to close and he feared that if he allowed them to, they would never open again.

  He heard faint screams coming from another part of the hangar, even over the racket of barking dogs.

  “Basta!” Christian shouted out in Italian and Leone assumed from the little he knew that meant enough or shut up.

  Leone pulled up on his arms, but they were tightly bound to the chair he sat on. He willed his legs to move, but they weren’t responding. He looked down at the gashes Christian had inflicted on him. He would need rehabilitation at minimum. Blood leeched out of the wounds and soaked the jeans he wore.

  Christian turned back to Leone and based on the intent in his eyes, Leone knew he was on borrowed time. “You killed two of my men.” He placed the blade in front of Leone’s face. “They were good men. Faithful men.” He bent over and kissed Leone’s cheek—the Italian Mafia kiss of death.

  The feeling of warmth was overtaken by a chill that made Leone’s skin prickle.

  Christian dropped the knife to the floor and pulled out the pistol from the back of his pants.

  Please make it quick. Leone closed his eyes.

  He heard the bullet leave the chamber. It was as if time had slowed down and he could distinguish everything. His hearing was clear now. He opened his eyes to face his death, but the bullet kissed a shoulder.

  Christian started laughing. “I will not let you off that easy.”

  The sound of the man’s laughter froze Leone further. He watched Christian raise the gun again, readied to fire on him.