by Tom Barber
‘Is?’ he said, as she started to walk away.
She turned.
‘After tonight, no-one is going to come after you ever again. I promise.’
Her face brightened slightly for an instant, but then she turned again and left, Vargas glancing back at her colleague and ex-partner before following.
Archer rose but remained where he was on the walkway, looking around at the surrounding landscape. He’d anticipated the possibility of the Baltimoreans coming down here too.
But knowing Stefani and her men were now on their way, the night immediately took on a different feel.
This was going to be one hell of a fight.
These people had given him, Vargas and Bellefonte no other choice. Sarah’s life was on the line, as well as theirs. Just let us be able to save her and Issy, he thought, sending up a prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he turned and set to work baiting a trap.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Bellefonte said, in the parking lot out front. He saw two NOPD officers outside their car, one with his radio receiver in his hand. It seemed private security and city police had done a shift change. ‘The hell you doing?’
‘One of the guards on duty earlier took a leak before he left for the night and reported seeing you bringing bags of goddamn ANFO into the park?’ an officer asked.
‘I need you to listen to me-’
‘We can’t let you do whatever you’re doing without authority. What are you up to?’
‘I’m the authority,’ Bellefonte said, but even as he spoke, saw the guy reach for his radio. With a rasp of metal on leather, Bellefonte pulled his weapon, and for the first time ever, aimed it at someone who wasn’t a criminal. ‘Put that down.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Does this look like a joke? Don’t do that!’ he said to the other, who was reaching for his own weapon.
The man tossed the radio handle onto the seat of the car. ‘You’re going to jail, asshole.’
‘And you’re gonna survive to put me there, because of this,’ he said. ‘Pistols on the concrete, fellas. Let’s go.’ Once they did as he said, he stepped forward and kicked the weapons out of reach across the weed-covered concrete lot. ‘Turn around and show me your wrists.’
FIFTY ONE
The criminal gang headed up by Stefani held a lot of territory inside the Port of Baltimore, which was how they’d managed to smuggle her through the docks back into the United States with relative ease. Not all her men had travelled with her to New Orleans though, and four who’d remained behind were at the Port tonight.
One of them was the man who’d been stabbed in the leg by Vargas. Loaded up with painkillers, heavily bandaged and in a foul mood due to the constant throbbing pain in his thigh, he was drinking whiskey while wearing an earpiece to monitor radio chatter from Baltimore’s police scanner. Cutting into the cop frequency was something they’d done for years. The Orioles game was on in the background, which was also occupying his attention.
Sarah had been brought to the Port several hours earlier after being bundled into a car and driven up from D.C.; she’d been left in the same room as the guy on the radio. Two others were with her; one was a man who’d clearly been given a serious beating, his hands duct-taped behind his back. He was lying on the shipping office floor, wearing a baseball jersey matching the ones the players on TV were wearing, and although someone had given him a real kicking, she could see he was still conscious, dried blood caked around his nostrils and having leaked out of the side of his mouth. Another man was sitting above him on a chair, and every time he got up for something, gave the guy on the floor another punch or stamp to the ribs.
Sarah felt sick with fear. Her own hands had been bound in front of her, but her captors hadn’t bothered with her feet. Her wheelchair hadn’t made the journey, and she’d been dragged out of the car, her slack feet sliding along the ground as they hauled her into the office. The men weren’t telling her anything, and she’d initially wondered if this was connected to a case she’d taken.
But then she’d heard them talking in the car on the drive here, and recalled what Vargas had told her when they’d shared a drink in that Boston hotel two nights ago.
It was all to do with that child, Isabel. It seemed the little girl was still alive.
But what could they want with me? Sarah thought. She’d never even met the girl and wasn’t related to her.
The man with his thigh strapped up rose awkwardly to fill his glass, not taking his eyes off the Orioles game, then put the earpiece back in once he had more whiskey in the tumbler; the other man was keeping a casual eye on Sarah and the man on the floor, clearly not considering either of them a threat, a black pistol held loosely in his left hand. Watching him warily, Sarah noticed he was staring at her legs. He was wearing a grey t-shirt tucked into black dress pants, jet black hair combed backwards, a gold chain around his neck and a cigarette held between his forefinger and thumb, blowing out smoke as he studied the lower half of her body with malicious curiosity.
He stepped forward. ‘You freaks always make me curious. Can you feel that?’ he asked, nudging her foot with his shoe.
She looked up at him, not answering. He grinned, taking a drag on his cigarette, then pushed the lit end of it down on her foot.
‘How about that?’
The smoke made a hissing sound as it burned the skin.
‘Cut that shit…Paulie,’ the beaten man on the floor suddenly said.
The smoker rose and punted him in the gut again, folding the bound man in half.
At Six Flags, Archer had finished what he was doing up top on the Zeph and joined Vargas behind a low wall on the west side, who’d just got there after making sure Issy was safely hidden away. The two NYPD detectives double-checked their weapons and back-up ammunition while listening out for the noise of any arrivals. Night-time also heralded the sound of the local wildlife who’d found their voice, among them the clicking of cicadas and the occasional hoot from an owl somewhere nearby.
The sound of someone approaching fast came from their right; Vargas snapped her pistol up, but then lowered it as she recognised who it was. Bellefonte dropped down beside them, panting, his rifle slung over his shoulder on a strap.
‘Security outside switched up with city PD for the night shift,’ he said quietly. ‘Win or lose, I’m probably gonna be out of a badge by morning.’
‘What happened?’ Vargas asked, as Archer maintained a lookout.
‘Pulled my gun, cuffed and gagged them. Hid their car on the west side of the lot, behind the trees and weeds. Best I could do without leaving and coming back. They were cussing me out big time before the gags. But better they spend a few hours uncomfortable than fall into Stefani’s or McGuinness’ hands.’
‘Hide where we agreed and stay ready,’ Archer told him. ‘We don’t deviate from what we planned. Stick and move, try to use the explosives to hit them hard if they get within range. Don’t try to take them all on yourself, Leo. I know this is your town, but this is our fight. Don’t want you getting hurt through this.’ Archer paused. ‘And if all goes to hell, meet where we agreed in the Looney Tunes section. Final meeting spot. OK?’
They both nodded. ‘Where’s the girl?’
‘Hiding where we told her. She’s safe.’ He paused. ‘We die, she knows to call Ruiz and stay where she is until he gets here.’
Bellefonte nodded. ‘They’ve come after this girl enough. Let’s hit them back.’
‘Good luck,’ Vargas said.
‘You too.’ Bellefonte took off, running towards the other side of the park, leaving Archer and Vargas alone. Wind rustled through the weeds and reeds out in the swamp, noises of the wildlife surrounding them accompanied by the occasional horn from the highway a few miles away.
‘You ready?’ he asked her quietly.
‘I think so.’ She exhaled. ‘If this is what it takes for her to live a normal life, finally, then let’s do it. We’ll have a lot to answer fo
r. But I’m so done with this.’
‘Me too.’
They shared a look, both silently acknowledging they might not survive this, but knowing they had no alternative. Two people who’d been through so much together.
Each leaving a lot of things unsaid.
Archer went to speak, but then a firework they’d bought from Walmart earlier suddenly shot up into the sky from the direction of the parking lot, ending any thoughts other than those involving their current situation.
Both of them looked up as it burst overhead, its shimmering light reflected in the dilated pupils of their eyes, the sparks drifting out then fading as they fell back to earth.
‘Park’s open again,’ Archer said to Vargas quietly, before taking off.
‘So let’s give a good welcome,’ she muttered, heading the other way.
*
‘Carla, phone.’
Unknowingly in the last thirty minutes of her life, Carla Lombardi turned away from entertaining guests at the East Hampton villa and walked through to the hallway, her expensive cream-colored dress falling in soft folds around her slim frame, over ten thousand dollars of jewellery on her fingers, wrists and around her neck.
‘Who is it?’ she asked her brother-in-law, who’d walked down from the main hallway to get her.
‘Didn’t say. Woman said she wants to speak to you.’
She moved through the villa to the phone near the front door and picked up the receiver. ‘This is Carla.’
‘Woof woof.’
Carla’s face turned to granite and she gripped the phone slightly tighter. ‘That the best you can do?’
Stefani laughed. ‘Need to teach your dogs how to run faster.’
‘How’d you know we were here?’
‘I never forgot today’s his birthday, and that we always spent it out there. Called to wish him the best. And ask how you’re all dealing with losing your pet.’
‘You can’t lay a finger on me or my family, so you get your boys to kill our dog. You’re pathetic.’ Carla turned to look down the end of the corridor. ‘Gino’s in the next room. You wanna speak to him too?’
‘He’s half the man I need.’
‘He’s everything you couldn’t keep,’ Carla snapped back, watching as her husband talked to someone just out of her vision, a cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth, a gold chain around his neck. ‘I’m one of the most powerful women in Manhattan, and you’re pulling tricks like sending deadbeats to shoot our pet mutt. Maybe you should think about turning proper tricks instead? Sure plenty of johns would love ten minutes with a freakshow.’
‘I’m gonna get you one day, bitch. You and your whole family. Believe it.’
Carla laughed and put the phone down, then turned and walked back into the main section of the villa, where everyone was gathered for her husband’s birthday.
‘Mom, I don’t feel so good,’ Isabel said, as Carla passed her in the hallway. The girl looked pale and was holding her stomach.
‘Stop whining,’ she snapped, the call having irritated her even though she’d never admit it. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘I think I ate something bad.’
‘So go puke it up and come back,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t need this shit right now. Today isn’t about you.’
Isabel wandered off towards the downstairs bathroom, as Carla went back to her guests. Everyone was so busy talking, no-one except a few kids playing on the beach had noticed a lone boat heading towards their section of the shore.
The small group on board were waving.
Two of the kids on the sand waved back.
Thinking about that phone call, Carla continued with helping prepare the meal, placing out some baked ziti, olives and salad, doing her best not to let that bitch Stefani get to her. She’d never forgotten about her former rival, knowing she would always be a problem, and after Stefani’s last attempt a few years ago to kill her and two of her children, had used all her husband’s resources to try and track her down to end it for good.
But wherever she was, Scarface was doing a decent job of keeping a low profile. Carla knew she’d married into some made group in Baltimore, and she and her husband had gone on the run to Europe after the botched drive-by shooting on Carla and her two eldest kids. Targeting her offspring was a giant no-no, and guessing they’d run to Italy, Gino had put the word out to the Italian arm of the Lombardi crime family.
They hadn’t had long to wait. A connected family who knew of their feud informed Gino that his ex-fiancée’s husband had asked their group for protection, while hiding out in a quiet Italian town on Lake Garda. Gino immediately requested they be dealt with. They’d killed Stefani’s husband, but had missed her, and in retaliation, some of her boys had offed the three men who’d made her a widow. She’d been hunted across Europe, but to Carla’s frustration, to this day, her mortal enemy had never been found.
A seagull called from outside, pulling her attention back to her guests; she focused on her company as the clock on the wall drifted forward another minute, going to 2:05pm. Her husband was looking at her from across the room and she smiled at him, indicating all was OK.
The members of the Lombardi crime family all started to assemble to eat their lunch, the boat out on the water coming closer and closer to shore.
By the time the clock reached 2:10pm, bullet holes, shell casings and spatters of blood were everywhere inside the house.
And every person at the party apart from Isabel was dead.
Despite Stefani and her men using fake identification to board the planes, bringing any firearms to Louisiana through the airport was an impossibility if they wanted to keep a low profile. It also seemed TSA had called ahead anyway, despite their false IDs, the look of the group sufficient to flag up suspicion, and it took the three SUVs almost thirty minutes to lose a tail from Louis Armstrong International, finally managing to ditch them in the projects around the Ninth Ward.
But mob families had connections all over the country, and one of Stefani’s men had already spoken to a fixer who’d arranged a meet. Around the back of an abandoned gas station, the man with him opened his trunk to reveal a cache of weapons, including a row of Galil assault rifles, and after money exchanged hands, the Baltimore crew were on their way towards the park in East New Orleans, armed with enough firepower to start a revolution in Africa somewhere.
Arriving in the main parking lot, the men in each car checked then reloaded their weapons before stepping out of their SUV.
‘Who let off that firework?’ one of the men said, the group seeing it head up into the sky as they arrived.
‘Tripwire,’ Marco said. ‘Thread for it must’ve been pulled across the road.’
Climbing out, Bianca Stefani slammed her door and looked at the abandoned amusement park, the firework having burnt out, the site quiet again.
‘The hell is this shit?’ she muttered, studying the dark, looming spectre of the Six Flags. Her eyes searched the lot, then checked the skies for any police choppers holding back in the distance, waiting to move in with their night sun to illuminate the park. But all seemed quiet.
‘Looks like the Yankees did what they were told,’ Marco said.
‘Think they’re here?’ another man asked.
‘The firework was them. And if they’re not, the cop’s sister dies. They know that.’
NO TRESPASSING, a sign to their left said, red lettering daubed on a white sign. VIOLATERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
‘Don’t go in from the front,’ Stefani told them. ‘Too obvious. But find the kid and bring her to me. We don’t have our hands on her in thirty minutes, get on the phone to Paulie and tell him to shoot the lawyer in the head.’
As her men dispersed and started looking for another way into the park, Stefani’s mind went back to that day when Carla had first tried to have her killed.
That woman had taken her man, her life in New York and subjected her to a lifetime of shame, looking like a sideshow attraction at a place li
ke this.
I always told you I’d get you back, she thought quietly.
Pull up a chair from down there and watch, bitch.
As she moved off with her two remaining men protecting her, none of them knew an additional player had also just arrived.
And was watching them from the shadows as they walked towards the park.
*
In 2005, two weeks before Katrina and with two scoops balanced precariously in an ice cream cone, a seven year old girl licked at the lump of strawberry on top then looked around and realised she couldn’t see her brother or her babysitter.
The park was busy, people everywhere, but they’d been standing there only ten seconds ago. She’d come this way to see an animal being led past on a rope, ‘a llama’ the woman leading it had said to some other kids who wanted to step forward to pet it. She started running over towards where they’d last been, but then tripped over her untied laces and fell hard, the unforgiving concrete scraping her bare knees, her ice cream spilling in front of her as the cone cracked.
The shock and pain startled her, and when the grazes started to sting, she felt tears well in her eyes.
‘Are you OK, princess?’ a voice asked, a figure kneeling down beside her. The girl looked up and saw a man in park clothing beside her. The tag on his shirt said his name was Gerry. ‘That was a nasty spill.’
‘My leg,’ she said, starting to cry quietly. ‘It hurts.’
‘Yeah, that looks painful. I’ve got a first aid kid over in the parking lot. Come with me and we’ll get you fixed up. Don’t want it to get infected.’
He had a nice voice, and although she knew not to talk to strangers, his uniform told her he worked at the park. He’d already taken her hand to help her up.
His grip was firm.
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘My mom told me I shouldn’t-’
‘You think she’d want to see you bleeding?’ Gerry asked, his smile remaining on his face although his eyes were on the injury. ‘Or your leg becoming all rotten? It might have to be cut off if we don’t treat it.’ Now he was standing, she could see how tall he was; she felt as if she was looking up and up almost forever. The sun was behind him, darkening his face.