by Larry Enmon
Just then the vehicle came into view in Jesse’s rifle scope.
Mark keyed the mike. “Ops, this is Disney Gate. Vehicle on Disney road approaching our position—approximately 500 meters out. Do they have clearance to approach the gate?”
Silence filled the tower as Jesse and Mark waited for an answer. Finally Ops said, “Wait one … we’ll attempt to contact.”
Jesse tried swallowing but her throat was too dry. Any vehicle approaching the air base was required to notify Ops and receive clearance before entering the 500 meter exclusion zone. The Afghan Security Forces patrolling the perimeter and stationed just outside each gate never gave the regulation much notice. Each ASF commander pretty much did as they liked without regard to what their American guest wanted.
A few seconds later, Ops broke their silence. “Disney Gate, unable to establish contact. Deploying ASF to interdict.”
Jesse zeroed in on the driver side window of the suspect vehicle—poetic justice. The ASF were stationed below her tower on the other side of the wall. They’d better hurry. The truck was almost within the 300 meter kill zone. Any uncleared vehicle entering that area was subject to being fired on. Jesse glanced over the edge of the tower at the ASF guys standing around. One of their armored personnel carriers should be heading that way by now, but they just sat there.
“Truck approaching kill zone, Jess,” Mark said, keeping his eyes glued to the high-powered range-finding binoculars. “I make it at 400 meters.”
Jesse pressed her eye tighter to the scope, and her fingers found the candy in her pocket. She unwrapped it and popped the peppermint into her mouth as she watched the mysterious vehicle draw nearer to the gate.
Clive’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “Ops, this is Reaper 5, we’re going to interdict that vehicle approaching Disney Gate.”
Jesse kept the scope on the truck, sucking the life out of the candy. All markings on the vehicle looked genuine. It was a two-and-a-half ton Afghan standard transport with two occupants in the front.
“Reaper 5. You are cleared to interdict. ASF not responding,” Ops said.
A cold feeling invaded Jesse. This isn’t going down right. Too much wrong. Too many coincidences—a set up. As Clive’s armored car closed the distance, the truck hit the gas. It entered the 300 meter kill zone as Jesse worked the bolt, slamming a round into the breech. She said, “Mark, request permission to engage.” Jesse’s full concentration remained on the truck. She kept the crosshairs centered on the blurred figure behind the wheel, but her mind also was with Clive in the scout vehicle racing to catch it. Beads of sweat wormed down her cheeks, tickling her neck. The sweet taste of peppermint filled her mouth, and she relaxed, again focusing on the approaching target.
“Ops, this is Disney Gate,” Mark said. “Target in kill zone, request permission to engage?”
“Stand by,” the voice said.
Jesse had been blessed with a cool head and sharp eye. A rope or heavy black string flopped in the wind from the passenger’s window leading to the back of the truck … a wire!
Clive’s Bradley Fighting Vehicle was going its full thirty-five miles per hour and then some, catching up to the truck.
“Mark,” she yelled. “Request permission to engage!”
Mark relayed the request to Ops, but there was no reply. The sun was at that angle reflecting off the truck’s windshield that made it impossible to get a clear picture of the occupants. All Jesse could make out were the outlines of two men. The Afghan forces outside the gate scattered. She took two deep breaths and slowly exhaled through her nose as her finger tightened on the trigger. If she fired without approval from Ops, it would be hell to pay. Especially if it was some new Afghan driver behind the wheel.
Screw it!
Jesse fired, shattering the truck’s front windshield on the driver’s side. She worked the bolt, got back on target, and fired again just as Ops signaled the all clear to engage. Automatic weapons from the base, as well as the 25mm chain gun on Clive’s vehicle, let loose as she racked the bolt the third time and fired. Machine-gun bullets tore through the speeding truck and peppered the ground, sending up little puffs of dust as the truck began to weave off the road toward the ditch. Her last shot drove through the cab as a bright orange flash and deafening explosion followed. The hard concussion raced through the air in a visible wave and slammed into the tower.
The whole structure shuddered as she and Mark were knocked back off their stools against the wall. Jesse’s ears throbbed. She opened her eyes to a cloud of dust blowing through the tower’s openings. The stink of cordite filled the air. Something warm and wet in her right eye made it difficult to see.
“You okay, Mark?” she asked.
He sat up and touched his face and ran a hand over his head. In a hesitant voice he said, “I … I think so. Jess! You’re bleeding.”
Jesse touched her right eye and stared at her hand. Blood covered her fingers.
Mark crawled to her and held her head, staring at her face, a mask of fear distorting his handsome features. “Can you see?”
Jesse nodded. “I think it was just the rifle scope. Must have blown back and nicked my eye during the explosion.” Jesse stood and slapped a handkerchief over her bloody eye. As the view cleared, a black and orange mushroom rose from the area where the truck had vaporized. A cloud of smoke and dust drifted over Clive’s armored Bradley. It had been blown sideways and rested less than fifty meters behind.
Jesse stuck the earpiece back in her ear and keyed the radio. “Reaper 5, status?”
She held her breath as tense moments past and ops also attempted to raise the stricken Bradley.
Jesse shook, the adrenaline kicking in. God … not Clive too.
Mark found the binoculars in the corner and focused them on the Bradley. “No movement,” he whispered.
Jesse scratched around and located her rifle. Using her only good eye, she aimed it at the Bradley. No hatches opened. No radio transmission. The Bradley’s tires were on fire. A wave of dizziness hit her and she slumped, her knees so weak they no longer supported her. She couldn’t take losing—
A scratchy radio transmission filled her earpiece. It was Clive’s voice that said, “Reaper 5, we’re down, but not out. Nice shooting, Disney Gate.”
Jesse dropped the rifle and fell back on her butt. She laid her face in her hands and shook. She didn’t want to cry, but all the stress and emotion bubbled up into tears that burned the cut on her eyelid. Mark wrapped his arms around her, and she rested her head on his chest, crying like she’d cried at Glen’s funeral.
It took several days to complete the investigation of how insurgents made off with an Afghan truck, loaded it with explosives, and got so close to the base. Engineers determined the blast was equal to almost two tons of high explosives. It took days to repair the crater in the road. Jesse actions, engaging the vehicle before being officially cleared, were conveniently swept under the carpet. The Air Force just happened to be in the market for a new hero. The fact she was an attractive female made it an added bonus. Jesse had no illusions—Clive and the chain gun in the Bradley probably had more to do with stopping the truck than she. But his radio transmission came to be the definitive last word on the subject. “Nice shooting, Disney Gate.”
Stars & Stripes ran a feature article on her. She was named Outstanding Airman of the Year, received the Purple Heart, Combat Action Medal, Achievement Medal, and several lesser medals and awards. She was the person to know on base—a celebrity in her own right. They pressured her into accepting an offer to return stateside several months early to help with recruiting. Magazines, newspapers, and morning shows all wanted to interview the “Hero of Bagram.”
Two days before she was scheduled to fly out, a full bird colonel walked in on her and Clive screwing like two dogs in heat in the back of the gym late one night. Their punishment was fair, but not good. As the subordinate to Clive, she would be allowed an honorable discharge and Clive would get a general. Any a
ttempt to challenge the decision would result in immediate court martial. Of course they had accepted the ruling. What choice did they have?
It felt good to be on top for a while. But that made the fall even worse. Jesse was disgraced and humiliated—from hero to heel in record time. Again she faced an uncertain future. What to do with the rest of her life?
At least she still had Clive. She came to be more psychologically dependent on as him as the weeks passed.
In the lonely hotel room, Jesse kept her eyes on the TV. Clive had been her rock, and nothing he could have done would cause her to let go. Not even when he asked her to help him kill a man.
29
As Anthony Palazzo sat at his desk and thumbed through the papers, a grimace twisted his face. Son of a bitch! Jesse had been busy. She’d whacked over a half dozen guys in Dallas. He’d give her credit, she was good. Too good. Because the Godfather insisted on using her instead of their own enforcers, she’d racked up over a quarter of a million in fees. After every hit, she’d confirm the money had been wired into her Cayman bank account before she’d go after another one.
Palazzo slammed the folder shut. This could end up costing more than the loss of Ricardo Salazar. Palazzo understood Gambizi’s rationale for using her, but enough was enough. All the Dallas papers reported on the vigilante sniper targeting drug dealers. The cops were going nuts and now the feds were even snooping around. Drawing so much attention wasn’t smart. By Palazzo’s way of thinking, they’d made their point to the other families. It was time to put an end to this. Whack the Levern guy and call it finished. He’d almost convinced the Godfather to either suspend Jesse’s contract or at least let some of their enforcers finish it. One last try should do it.
Forty minutes later, Mrs. Shaw, Gambizi’s housekeeper, led Palazzo down the dark hall of the nineteenth-century Manhattan Beach home Joseph Gambizi had occupied for the last fifty-two years. One of the organization’s boys always stood in the hall leading to the Godfather’s office. Palazzo nodded to the guy. His street name was “Eddie the Eyes,” because his stare could melt steel. Crazy-ass eyes that spooked most folks—black as Satan.
“Is he in his office?” Palazzo asked, without breaking stride. Maybe the Godfather would see the logic behind using family resources.
Eddie marched beside him to the door at the end of the corridor. “Went in a couple of hours ago.”
Palazzo knocked twice before entering and found Joseph Gambizi slumped in his executive leather chair. The old Don stared up into space through lifeless eyes, like a man trying to get a glimpse of heaven. Eddie rushed to him and checked his pulse. Palazzo had seen enough dead guys to know when it was too late. They called an ambulance and Palazzo covered the Godfather with a blanket from the sofa. A sick feeling rumbled in his stomach. Palazzo sat on the couch and gazed at the far wall.
Eddie poured a drink from the crystal decanter. He walked it over to Palazzo and shoved it into his hand. No one spoke for a couple of minutes. Palazzo sipped the whiskey and Eddie leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed. After a moment he cleared his throat.
When Palazzo looked up Eddie said, “What are your orders, Godfather?”
Three days later, Joseph Gambizi was laid to rest at the Old Calvary Cemetery in Queens. Tony Palazzo stood graveside with the family and held the hand of Gina, Gambizi’s wife of over sixty years. It was a mild day with low clouds and a light breeze. Palazzo pulled in a slow breath and took in the view. The heads of the other crime families, wearing serious expressions and dark suits, had assembled on the opposite side of the grave. At forty-four, Palazzo was the youngest of the group. Most of those old men standing a few feet away had hemorrhoids older than him.
At the conclusion of the service, the priest blessed the coffin and those in attendance. One at a time, each head of a crime family approached the casket, laid a single red rose on top, nodded to Palazzo and Gina, and stepped back in line.
Burying Joe was the easy part. Palazzo didn’t look forward to attending the meeting after the funeral. He’d called it, but it still sent chills through him.
He gave Gina a hug and handed her off to one of her daughters before nodding to the men with the dour faces a few yards away. A reception was scheduled at the church for friends and family. Palazzo would not attend. The crime family leaders would meet at Joseph Gambizi’s house in a half hour. Palazzo had played every psychological card he had. Making sure he was seen holding Gina’s hand graveside was the first. The second was scheduling the meeting in Gambizi’s home. And the third, making sure it was in Gambizi’s own office with Palazzo sitting behind the Godfather’s desk.
He’d heard no rumors from his spies about the other families conspiring against him, but he recalled Gambizi’s words that night in the cabin. “You’ll go to my funeral one day and your own in less than a week.”
A half hour later, he sat behind Gambizi’s desk and waited. They trickled in one by one, and soon the most dangerous group of men in New York formed a half circle in front of his desk. He’d met them all before, but having them in one room this close felt like swimming with a school of great whites.
The maids served each man his drink of choice and then quickly retreated. Palazzo sat with his back straight and eyed each Don. “I called this meeting to clear the air and make sure you all know where I stand.” Under the desk he wiped the sweat from his hands and touched the automatic pistol in the holster glued to the underside of the desk.
“In the past there’s been bad blood between some of you and the Gambizi family.”
No one said a word, but several of the men nodded.
“But I want you to know,” Palazzo continued, “that I’m willing to put all that behind us. I’m Gambizi’s chosen successor. And you know me as a serious man of my word. It’s my hope that we can get along. Start a new relationship, free of all the misunderstandings that plagued Joe these last few years.” Palazzo’s throat was so dry he found it difficult to talk. He licked his lips and tried swallowing.
“If anyone has anything to say I’d be happy to listen.”
No one spoke for perhaps ten seconds. A few sipped their drinks, a couple smoked, and everyone waited for something to happen. Finally Giuseppe Morello stood. Palazzo had never cared for the guy. Gambizi said to never trust him. Morello headed up the Genovese crime family and went by the name Bobo. At five-foot-seven, he was short in comparison to the other Dons, dark complected. His sixty years only showed by a little graying on the sides of his short black hair.
“Don Palazzo, I want to thank you for calling this meeting. It’s been a long time coming.”
Palazzo relaxed a little and released a breath. By Bobo using the term “Don,” he had acknowledged Palazzo’s right to lead the Gambizi family. Good sign.
Bobo looked around at the other family leaders. “I have to admit a few of us have had concerns of late. Joseph Gambizi was an old man—a hard man. We all respected him, but he grew up in bad times.” Bobo shrugged. “God only knows what things he had to endure in the past. But times have changed. The way we do business has changed.” He waived his hand at the other men. “We all do things different now. We’re more interested in making money and staying out of prison than acquiring new territory.” He laughed and several others who’d served time did as well. “But as I was saying, speaking for myself.” Bobo laid his hand over his heart. “I welcome this peace offering from you.” He sat down and crossed his legs.
This was going better than Palazzo could have expected. He glanced at the other men’s expressions and couldn’t get a read on any of them. Winning over a big fish like Bobo should have broken the ice for the others, but everyone remained silent. Palazzo waited a few more moments for someone else to speak. Perhaps he should throw down the gauntlet. He stood and said, “Thank you, Don Morello for your endorsement. I look forward to working with you.”
He eyed the others. A knot had formed in the back of Palazzo’s neck and signaled the beginnings of a headache. “
Anyone have anything else to say before we adjourn the meeting?” Palazzo didn’t like this. Getting one endorsement out of five wasn’t good. He released a breath and calculated how many seconds he needed to pull the pistol under the desk if things went tits up. The leaders of the Bonanno, Colombo, Gambino, and Lucchese families sat mute.
Palazzo’s mouth was so parched his tongue felt like sand. He reached for his glass of water. As he took a sip, his eye caught movement from one of the family leaders to the left. Angelo Armone from the Bonanno family nodded to Bobo. When they stood, it startled Palazzo and he flinched, spilling a few drops of water on the desk.
Palazzo figured they’d have guns in their hands, but instead they wore broad smiles. Nobody had to tell him what they were thinking as he wiped up the water with a napkin. Yeah, they’d spooked the hell out of him.
“Don Palazzo,” Bobo said, “you speak of this new beginning, of clearing the air.” He looked at the others. “If we’re to work together, we need to understand that anything one does affects us all.”
Next to him, Armone nodded.
Palazzo returned his glass to the desk. “I understand this, Don Morello, and I intend to do my part.”
Finally, Armone spoke up. “If what you say is true, then a small gesture would go a long way to help seal this new deal.”
Palazzo couldn’t believe it. Did he just say seal this new deal? That meant they were ready to accept him into the club. The only question—what kind of gesture?
Palazzo motioned for the two men to sit. He leaned back in the leather chair and put on what he hoped was his most serious face. “What kind of gesture did you have in mind?” Palazzo was ready to offer anything to insure he’d have their backing as the new Godfather. The seconds felt like hours waiting for them to answer.
“This business you set in motion needs to stop,” Bobo said.
Palazzo wasn’t sure what he meant, but the other family leaders all nodded. They’d probably already discussed it among themselves. Best to let them clarify it.