Deadly Promise

by Brian Crawford

  I raised my right hand high in the air with three fingers up, my signal for Boyd to start part three of today’s operation.

  “What did you do?” he asked sheepishly.

  “I gave my team a signal.”

  “What do you mean by a signal?”

  “Did you bring your cordless phone with you?”

  “It’s in my jacket.” He started to walk towards his discarded suit jacket.

  “I’ll get it. It’s better if you stand still in one place. You know...” I pointed at the laser dots still moving across his torso.

  I walked over to the jacket and rummaged around inside, finding the pistol and his cordless phone. I stuck the pistol, another .380, in one of my pockets and grabbed the cell phone.

  “Now what?” he asked, no longer cocky and scornful.

  “We wait.”

  “Can I at least have my jacket back? It’s cold.”

  “No.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? We waiting for a phone call, dumbass. I promise you it’s coming. I’m familiar with the concept of made men in the Mafia. How you have to ask permission to whack anyone with a rank of soldier or higher. It’s my understanding that associates are a different story.”

  “But she’s my goddaughter!”

  “I know. And Ingrid McCain is my mother. Life’s a bitch, huh? As you’ve probably guessed, your goddaughter is only one of the eight names in these balloons. I like to name my operations. This one is called Operation Offer He Can’t Refuse. Being the cosmopolitan guy you are, I’m sure you can guess why I named it that.”

  Deluca stared at me. Clenched jaw. Slitted eyes. Balled fists. He was boiling mad.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’m dead. I’ve heard it all before.”

  The wait for the phone call took longer than expected. Even my snipers grew impatient and turned off their lasers, something Deluca felt the need to comment upon.

  “Don’t worry, Deluca; real snipers don’t use lasers anyway. Those were for dramatic effect. So you’d know how big my crew is. In fact, those lasers saved your life. If you hadn’t seen them and gone for your gun, you would be dead right now.”

  “How much longer do we have to stay like this?” Carlisi interjected.

  “Until I leave.”

  “It’s cold on the pavement.”

  “I don’t care. Shut up.”

  Deluca’s cordless phone finally rang. I handed the phone to Deluca. The call from his god-daughter went as expected. She yelled into the phone while Deluca tried to calm her down. I let him have one minute with her before grabbing the phone from him and hanging up.

  “That’s enough. You can iron out your problems with Ms. Castelleno at another time. Plus, you’re bound to get a few more calls.”

  “You smoke bombed her car.”

  “Hers and seven others. Your sister, three known business associates, your accountant, and Scott Beyers. We even targeted Lorraine White.”

  Deluca’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yeah, we know about your mistress. My crew is extremely thorough. I’m a little disappointed in your goddaughter, though. How could she not mention the fact that ‘99 Red Balloons’ was playing on a loop in the tape deck? That is my favorite part.”

  The cordless phone rang, temporarily interrupting me. I dropped the phone to the ground and smashed it with the heel of my foot.

  “Deluca, I’m leaving now so you can deal with the plethora of calls you are about to receive.”

  Deluca was staring at me with pure, unadulterated anger in his eyes, his face, his posture. “You’re dead, McCain.”

  “Deluca, you can knock off the tough guy act. You think you’re hard because you’re a criminal, someone who is willing to do things normal, decent human beings would never consider doing in a million years. Listen, dumbass, and listen good. I am not normal. I am not decent. I promise I will end you and everyone on that list without even a blip on my emotional radar.”

  “I have a crew of nearly twenty soldiers. You’re a doctor.”

  “Yet, I’m standing here with sixteen snipers, each of them with body counts in the hundreds. All of them are former CIA, MI6, and Mossad.” I stopped to let Deluca digest what I was saying.

  “What do you want, McCain?”

  “I want you dead, Deluca. In fact, I want to choke the ever-loving crap out of you right now. I could do it. It would be easy. I wouldn’t even break a sweat. Yet, I’m willing to try something else first. I can always kill you later if this doesn’t work. Would you like to hear my offer?”

  The capo didn’t realize how strongly I desired to kill him. He sent men after my mother, a heinous and unforgivable act in my eyes. Breaking Genovese’s arm, breaking Mancini’s hyoid bone might have been enough to help some people, other people, down the path of retribution. Not me. I felt incomplete. Unsatisfied. I hate fighting the same guy twice, meaning deep down I hoped Deluca would turn down my offer.

  All I need is a reason. Please give it to me.

  Deluca shook his head affirmatively.

  “I don’t care what kind of quid pro quo arrangement you made with Scott Beyers. Don’t bother explaining it to me because I don’t give a damn. All I want from you is exactly nothing. Move on with your life like the McCain family is nothing to you. Someone you’ve never even heard of. I don’t even want to be a footnote in the life of Robert Deluca. Is that something you could live with, Deluca?”

  The Mafia capo nodded his head. He was beaten, and he knew it. It looked like I didn’t need to kill him after all. I should have been relieved. I was disappointed.

  ***

  “You, my friend, are without a doubt the best bullshit artist I have ever seen,” Boyd said as soon as I entered the Chicago sports bar where we agreed to meet after our visit with Robert Deluca. “Listening to you, I even started to believe you had 16 snipers set to kill Deluca instead of four of us with four laser sights strapped to each of our rifles.” Boyd stopped to laugh at the fact that we had conned a Mafia capo into believing I had brought a small army with me. “The laser sights were such a nice touch.”

  Using the laser pointers was my idea, but Boyd was the one who rigged the sights to each gun, so in effect, he was congratulating himself as well.

  Boyd and Jessica were sitting at a private table along with Ryan and Travis Lancaster, two brothers who worked for Kent Rutherford. The Lancaster brothers had helped us since the beginning of the operation and proved to be worthy additions to our team. Both were former Marines. Ryan was 26, his brother was 24, and both were nearly as crazy as Boyd.

  Jessica stood up as I reached the table, grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me hard on the mouth. “I feel a little left out. You mentioned former CIA, MI6, and Mossad. You forgot me, your Russian wife. You could have told them you had a former KGB agent.”

  “Next time, Katerina. I promise.” I turned to the group and thanked them all. “Food and beer on me.”

  A month of preparation and reconnaissance had paid off. Operation Offer He Can’t Refuse was executed flawlessly and effectively. Robert Deluca promised to stay out of my life and the life of my family. I promised to kill him if he didn’t. He believed I would. Which was good, because I didn’t go through a month of planning to deliver a threat. I delivered a promise — a deadly promise.

  Scott Beyers received the same smoke bomb message as the rest of our targets, with the addition of a log of phone records and photos tying him to Deluca. I wanted more, but Mom insisted I take a more subdued approach for now. Mom stated that everyone in Chicago with half a brain knew Chicago alderman often conspired with the Outfit. That didn’t mean the public wanted to be reminded of it in the newspapers. She insisted the threat of exposure would be enough to keep Scott Beyers out of our life for good. Out of respect for her, I relented.

  Near the end of the meal, Boyd and I found ourselves sitting at the table alone. “Nice job holding it together, L.T. We could hear you loud a
nd clear over the wire. I could tell you wanted to kill Deluca.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “To me it was. Your acting seemed a little too real to me. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “No, you’re right. Part of me was hoping he wouldn’t accept my offer. All in all, this was the good play, Boyd. I don’t need a war with the Chicago Outfit.”

  Boyd said, “It sure sounded like Deluca received your message loud and clear, but what’s your take, being the human lie detector that you are?”

  “I’m going to share something with you, Boyd. I’ve sort of lost my ability to read people like I used to.”

  “Kind of like you lost that little voice in your head?”

  “You’ve been talking to Jessica. She told Agent Marshall all about it, too. Marshall wants to talk about it, but I’ve blown her off a couple of times already.”

  Boyd said, “Special Agent Marshall is still in Memphis?”

  “Yes. We’ve seen her a couple of times. Why? Are you interested? I know how much you like redheads,” I teased.

  “There is that. And she probably isn’t a psychotic killer. Back to your little problem, you know what’s wrong, don’t you?”

  “No, but it looks like you’re going to tell me.”

  “That’s right, I am. I’m pretty sure you have PTSD.”

  “Post traumatic stress disorder? Me? From what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe from literally dying last year.”

  “Death doesn’t scare me, Boyd.”

  “Sure it does, L.T. Maybe not in the same way as normal people, but it still does. Your mother is back in your life. Then there’s Jessica. You feel responsible for them. Being dead means you wouldn’t be able to take care of them.”

  “But why now? Why not after what we went through in Cambodia? I felt responsible for you and Admiral Bowie and Lt. Gehrke after the helicopter crash. Not to mention, the possibility of survivor’s guilt since four Marines died in that jungle.”

  “That was different. We all knew the risks of being in the military, and well, you and I weren’t really friends then. Not like now.”

  “But,” I said meekly, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Come on, L.T. I’m not saying you’re a mental train wreck or something. You obviously have a mild form. It doesn’t cripple you into inaction or anything. But something wiped out your little voice, and now you’re having trouble coping with the loss.”

  PTSD. I hated to admit it but Boyd made sense — the fatigue, the loss of my inner voice, the heightened feelings of frustration, the inability to see the big picture and formulate ideas.

  “Well, shit,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, big guy. You got over your depression after your father died. You will get past this. In the meantime, enjoy the increase in hypervigilance. No one will ever get the drop on you.”

  “Look at the silver lining, huh, Boyd?”

  “Exactly. That’s what I do. Take my ankle for example. It sucks. It hurts nearly every day. But no one ever expects me to run.”

  The visual image of Boyd running with his unique swagger brought a smile to my face.

  “Back to my original question. I realize you’re not a human lie detector anymore, but I still trust your gut feeling.”

  “Alright, Boyd. My gut tells me Deluca’s a businessman. A Mafia businessman, but still a businessman. As long as we don’t do anything to damage his reputation within the Outfit further, like make him look weak in any way, then we’ve seen the last of him.”

  “So 50-50 chance?”

  “Sure. I will say this — Shelley and Evan Baxter worry me more than Robert Deluca. Those two are crazy, and they seem to take things personal. They could have gotten away at any moment, but they wanted to see Mansfield dead.”

  Boyd smiled weakly and let the conversation drop.

  Early the next morning, Boyd knocked on the door of our hotel room while Jessica was in the shower.

  “I’m heading out, L.T. Before I go, I wanted you to know I’m leaving Alabama.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Texas. Mr. Rutherford has promised me a lot of work, and I mean a lot. Don’t look at me like that, L.T. It’s not like this is the end of an era or anything. I’ll still call you when I need help, or should I say, unlike last time, I promise I will call you when I need help. Plus, the way things are looking between your mother and Rutherford, you might be visiting Texas quite a bit in the future.”

  Boyd had a point about my mother and Rutherford. The two had been seeing a lot of each other in the last two months.

  “L.T., if you change your mind, say the word, and I’ll kill Deluca for you.”

  “I know, Boyd. I know, I love you like a brother, too. Enough to track you across half the United States. Almost enough to let you call me Legend. Then again, let’s not get carried away.”

  EPILOGUE

  Killing George Mansfield was never part of the original plan seven years ago. From the beginning, you planned to use him to advance your career. Maybe even divorce him for a cool million, the maximum allowed in the prenuptial agreement. Sleeping with such an unsatisfying lover for three years was worth that much, if not more.

  But George couldn’t handle your little extramarital activities. Screw him; you were discreet. And he didn’t own you. One lover on the side didn’t give George the right to do what he did. With his brother’s help, the asshole had you kidnapped. He had your finger cut off. If you hadn’t discovered the Mansfield brothers’ plan ahead of time, you would be dead. Seven years later, the two brothers tried again to kill you.

  Killing George might be the single-most satisfying event of your life.

  It has been two months since you killed your pathetic husband, and the FBI’s equally pathetic attempt at capturing you still brings a smile to your face. You and Evan drove right through one of the FBI checkpoints under two new identities you invented three years ago as part of your escape plan for you and your brother.

  In the end, even Legend McCain failed. Boyd had been wrong about McCain. He didn’t catch you. He didn’t save George. He was no superhero. Even though you still wonder how he seemed so unaffected by your attempt at stabbing him.

  The plan was always to escape to Europe. To tap into the millions of dollars you put into off-shore accounts. Evan wanted Australia, but your French and German are impeccable. You are also fluent in Spanish, even if the accent is not quite perfect. So, Europe always made the most sense, and Evan has already gotten over it. Evan finally got his wish. To have you as his own. And you realize it was always meant to be. He has always been the only one you can count on.

  All is good.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BRIAN CRAWFORD had a brief stint in the U.S. Navy before working as an optical scientist in Huntsville, Alabama designing fiber optic sensors used primarily in security and surveillance applications. He is particularly proud of one invention: a fiber optic microphone that is completely invisible to ALL electronic detection devices, much to the chagrin of the “undisclosed” government agency that witnessed it in action. For the last 19 years, he has gone by the title of Dr. Brian Crawford, a practicing chiropractor in Central Illinois, where he lives with his wife and children.