by Jon F. Merz
"You Golochek?"
Stahl turned in the direction of the voice. A burly balding man waved him down. Stahl took the steps quickly, eager to please.
"Hi."
The man's hand felt like a pile of dough when Stahl shook it.
"Jim McKenna. This your first night?"
"Yeah."
"Kinda name is Golochek anyway?"
"My folks came over from Czechoslovakia during the sixties."
"You a commie?"
Stahl grinned. "Nope. Just a guy trying to earn some extra green. My wife's pregnant with our fourth child."
McKenna nodded. "No wedding ring?"
He was sharp this one, thought Stahl. "Would you believe me if I told you I don't wear one for religious reasons?"
"No." McKenna grinned. "But I might believe you if you told me it was because you like the ladies a little too much."
Stahl laughed. "Damn, the religion thing usually works."
McKenna pointed. "You work in here tonight. Get the vacuum and run it in and out of the aisles. Get the place looking super neat. They're having some sort of big thing in here tomorrow."
"You want the carpeting on the stage vacuumed as well?"
McKenna nodded. "You bet. Pay special attention to the podium itself, too, okay?"
Stahl smiled. "Absolutely."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
For about thirty seconds, no one said anything.
Frank sat there motionless. In front of him, the barrel of the suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 looked ominously huge. Behind the gun, the man in black simply eyed him with no emotion in his eyes.
A killer, thought Frank. No doubt.
Finally, the man said. "Don't move."
Frank bit back a smile.
So, he'd gambled right. There was no way Bobby would give up the chance to plug Frank himself. Not after the ego-busting Frank had done to him back on the Revere hit.
No, Bobby boy had given them orders to bring Frank back to where Bobby could do the deed himself.
Chance favors me again, thought Frank.
Another three men appeared at the doorway. In hushed tones they spoke and finally the man with the gun on Frank turned and said simply. "Come with us. You fuck around, you die."
Frank nodded although he doubted that they would kill him. In fact, he was banking on the fact that they wouldn't.
He followed the lead man out and the others fell in behind him. They walked about eight feet behind Frank. Far enough away that making a move in the confines of the building would be tough. And they could shoot him before he'd be able to make much of an impact on any of them.
The leader escorted them past the dead bodies of five Federal agents. Frank saw the blood-streaked walls and empty brass casings from the weapons. He'd seen death many times before, but he never enjoyed looking at the aftermath.
That was something else Moe had taught him: not to relish the act, but simply remain detached from it.
Thank God Gia wasn't here.
The thought bounced through his skull before Frank even knew it had occurred. He frowned anyway. Why the hell did he care about her so much?
Because she's the only one who's ever gotten the best of you.
The answer hit him hard.
And he knew it was true.
Of all the women he'd ever had in his life, only Gia had been able to keep him dangling out on the end of her strings. Only Gia had given him the passion and then the icy touch of aloofness that drove him crazy. She'd never allowed herself to be possessed by Frank. And even though she'd told him it was all an act for the sake of her undercover work, part of him couldn't help but wonder if she'd maybe at least enjoyed herself.
At least at some point during the relationship.
He found it tough to believe she could have worked undercover for so long and not experienced some kind of empathy for him.
Or maybe he just hoped that was the case.
Scratch a cynic and you'll find a disappointed idealist, he remembered Moe saying once a long time ago.
They approached the entrance to the building and Frank could make out the blast marks from the explosive entry the team had made. Black grime encrusted the closest walls while twisted shards of the corrugated steel shutter that had been turned into shrapnel pockmarked the ceiling and back wall.
"You guys sure didn't take any chances with the explosives, huh?"
One of the voices behind him answered. "Better safe than sorry."
"Dead in this case," said Frank. "How much did you use?"
"Shut up and keep walking," came another voice.
So much for friendly conversation, thought Frank. They moved out into the darkness. Nearby, the sodium overhead lights cast a weird yellow tinge to the parking lot. Only a few cars sat close by. But a red van sat idling closer than the cars.
Damn.
Frank frowned. A car would have been easier to try and make a move in thanks to the close confines. A van presented several unique disadvantages that he'd have to try and get past if he hoped to live.
Chief among them was the fact that in the rear of the van, he could be covered by more than one individual at a time.
Frank sighed. He hated dealing with multiple attackers.
He thought back to when Moe had taught him hand-to-hand combat. Moe never really put much faith in the martial arts, but he was professional enough to borrow some of the various fighting systems he'd come across during his time in the Marines. His main tactic however, was simply to fight as hard and aggressively as possible.
"You put that fucker down faster than he can put you down. If you don't, you die. Do it and you live."
Frank had always found it tough arguing with such simple logic.
Multiple attackers, though, that had always left Moe a bit cold. "Truth is, you avoid those situations like the plague. A good fighter can only handle one opponent at a time. Sure, there are some great fighters who can do the multiple thing. I ain't one of Ôem. My advice: you find yourself in a situation like that, try and get them falling over each other. Make their numbers work against Ôem. Otherwise, you die."
Frank grinned, realizing Moe had ended a lot of his sentences like that.
A gun barrel prodded his spine. "Keep walking."
The team fanned out to cover Frank as he approached the side door of the van. Frank grasped the handle and slid the side door back on its rails. The interior had been stripped of anything except the steel frame.
"No chairs?"
"Get in!"
Frank climbed aboard and made a note of the driver who also wore a mask and kept his hands on the steering wheel, eyes peeled for police. He had the look of a good driver - a man who knew his only job was to drive, not be a hero and a combatant. Just drive.
Frank could admire the level of professionalism these guys had even if they were at odds in their missions. He at least appreciated the fact that Bobby hadn't trusted the assignment to any of the usual lowlife scumbags the Mafia employed.
When you care enough to kill with the very best, he thought.
Two men jumped in back of the van and slid the door shut. One of them leaned against the rear door, cattycorner to Frank. The other kept his back against the side door.
A third man jumped into the shotgun seat. The fourth had disappeared.
The guy in the shotgun seat checked the rearview mirror and then thumped the driver on his shoulder. "Clear. Let's roll."
The van slid into drive and rolled out of the parking lot. Frank noted the driver kept the speed right at the limit. No doubt the van had commercial license plates on it anyway, which always helped when dealing with the local cops.
Frank's mind raced. He didn't know enough about Bobby to have a clue as to where they'd be heading. It could have been as close by as the North End or it could have been out of town.
He couldn't take the chance, though. If they were going to the North End, he might have as much as fifteen minutes left to live.
And he still had
a lot of things to get done before he wanted to check out on a permanent basis. That meant he had to make his move soon.
He smiled at the man leaning against the rear door. He got no response, although it was tough to tell since the team was all wearing balaclavas on their faces. He noted the side panel door had a lock button in the inside of it. One of those touch release types that any infant could easily operate. That small fact cheered him.
The gun barrels aimed at him did not.
"So, you guys from Boston?"
"Out of town."
"Yeah, I'd heard there might be some outside talent coming in. Nice to know I rate so highly that they bring in the pros."
No one said anything so Frank continued. "They tell you anything about me at all?"
"Said you were an assassin," said the guy with his back to the rear of the van.
Frank looked at him. "Yeah. I am. Was, I guess. That might be the better word now, huh?"
"Maybe."
"That why there's four of you?"
"They hired four," said the shotgun man.
"I thought you were a team," said Frank.
"We are a team."
"I meant that you hired out as one complete unit."
"No."
Frank nodded. Another vital piece of information. If they weren't used to operating as a team, he might be able to exploit that. If they'd lived and worked together for years, they'd know how to respond to every eventuality. But otherwise they might be fragmented in their reaction to Frank's sudden bid for freedom.
And that might just enable him to make it.
Maybe.
The van turned onto the South Boston Access Road. Frank frowned. Another piece of bad luck. The sides of the road sloped up at a steep angle. The road was rarely traveled much at night.
So even if he did make it out, he'd have to deal with the four of them anyway or they'd simply hunt him down. If he tried to climb, they could easily shoot him.
Frank sighed and felt a big lump of disappointment work its way down his throat toward his stomach. There had to be something he could do, some way he could get out of this.
And then the inside of the van lit up.
And Frank saw his chance coming.
Chapter Forty
The twin beams of the approaching headlights exploded the inside of the van in brilliant light. Judging by the intensity, Frank guessed the vehicle was at least as large as the van he rode in now. Possibly larger even.
It had to be now.
When they'd least expect it.
Neither of the guards in back showed any interest in the approaching vehicle. Neither did the shotgun rider.
Perfect.
Frank started coughing.
The guard by the rear tailgate looked at him.
Frank continued coughing.
The guard by the side door frowned.
"Jesus, cover your mouth, would ya?"
Frank nodded and brought his hands up by his mouth.
Then he stuck his left index finger down his throat.
Gagged.
Retched.
Turned his head and vomited all over the driver.
"Oh shit!"
The driver jerked, twisted and groaned as the puke spilled down his back and oozed inside his collar. The remnants of Frank's spaghetti meal trickled down his face.
"Jesus Christ!"
The van swerved. The headlights cut again through the van.
Frank turned his head and retched again, spraying a little less vomit at the side panel guard.
"Fuck!"
"Grab the damned wheel!"
Panic.
He heard the horn now.
God help me, he thought. If he misjudged this one -
The impact slammed him forward. He kept his head tucked and balled up his legs to absorb as much of the impact force as possible. He could hear the grinding screech of metal twisting and bending - the groan of the engine compacting under the force of pressure.
The driver screamed.
The shotgun rider spidered the windshield with his forehead.
The van spun. They must have hit at an angle.
It whirled around - Frank could already smell fuel leaking from an exposed line.
The guard at the rear of the van had been thrown forward and then back hard against the van's rear door. He was unconscious.
Only the side panel guard had escaped relatively intact, but he was covered with Frank's vomit.
And as the van stopped moving finally, Frank shot out a kick right at the man's sternum. He felt his heel crash into the ballistic vest and go beyond it. He'd aimed the kick to try and shatter the man's xyphoid process - the small tip of bone that juts from the sternum down toward the stomach. If he could break it off and force it back in on itself, it might impale the man's heart.
The guard grunted, but even with the vomit caking him and the hard kick, he turned and tried to bring his gun up.
Frank grabbed the muzzle and swung it away, using the motion to get inside with his other hand and punch the guard hard in the face. His hand exploded in pain as he did so, but he kept punching despite it. He hit the guard three times, felt the man's nose break and smelled the copper tang of blood fill the van and mix with the fuel smell.
He had to get away!
He tore the gun away and in the close confines of the van, used the butt of it to ram the guard's head back again and again -
And again.
The final sickening crunch told him the skull had shattered at last. Frank shoved him out of the way and hit the panel release. The door slid open.
Fresh air spilled into the van.
Frank sucked in a lungful and then dove out of the van with the MP5.
He tucked and rolled as he hit the hard road. He came up in a semi-crouch, sucking in fresh air.
"Hey you!"
He turned. The truck driver. Shit, he'd scored a big one. Must have been at least an eighteen wheeler by the size.
Lucky we weren't crushed by that thing. But neither had been going especially fast.
Frank turned back to the van. He could see the drizzle of leaking fuel spilling out of the gas tank. He flipped the selector switch on the MP5 to single and squeezed off a round at the road underneath the van. The bullet splanged off the slick asphalt and instantly a yellow flame erupted - spreading and kissing its way up toward the van.
Take no chances, Moe's voice came to him in the night air.
The van exploded three seconds later.
Frank ducked and ran as bits of metal and human remains rained down on the surrounding area. A huge curtain of flame and black smoke enveloped the road.
Frank looked up and saw the grassy wall of the road leading up toward a chain link fence. He scrambled for the slope. His shoes bit into the muddy earth. The fact that snow had been falling didn't help matters. But he kept grabbing for handhold and footholds and gradually he made the top of the slope.
He tore off his jacket and tossed it over the barbed wire at the top, then slung the MP5 on his back. Then he grabbed the fence and heaved himself over the top.
On the other side, he slid the jacket back on. The MP5's stock collapsed and he put the sling on under his jacket so he could bring it out if he needed to.
Right now, he had to get back to his home.
Back to Moe's safe house.
And even though the Feds knew about it thanks to Gia, there wasn't any place else he could go right now.
Besides he needed a few things from his storeroom.
Time was ticking down.
And Frank still had an appointment with Stahl.
One he intended to make.
No matter what.
Chapter Forty-One
Stahl finished packing his bag and zippered it shut. He cast a final look around the hotel room and then nodded once to himself. This was it. The last day he'd be in Boston. In a few short hours, he'd be headed home on a plane.
Back to see his son.
He smiled
at the thought. All things considered, the operation had gone mostly smooth. Barring the appearance of the American, things had gone according to plan. And that pretty much amazed Stahl, considering how many years it had been since he'd been on operations.
He gave a silent thanks to whomever was listening and then sat down on the bed next to the nightstand. He checked his watch and saw he had three hours before the summit began. As long as he left within forty minutes, he'd have plenty of time to make a final check of his surroundings and get himself properly positioned.
There was time.
He lifted the phone and dialed the international number. Twenty seconds later it picked up.
Not Alois' voice.
A doctor?
Nurse?
"Who is this?"
"Herr Stahl?"
"That's right. Where the devil is my son?"
There was a pause. "Herr Stahl, your son was released into the custody of his uncle yesterday evening."
Uncle? There was no uncle! "Why on earth would you let the boy go considering what sort of condition he's in?"
"His uncle stated he had a donor waiting to grant the necessary transplant. It hardly seemed smart to keep him from it."
"This uncle - did he have a name?"
"He said it was Franz."
"Franz Stahl?"
"That's right. You know him I assume."
Not even remotely. Stahl wanted to scream. No, he wanted to reach through the telephone and shoot dead every member of the hospital staff. His son! Gone! Who had him? What had they done with him? In Alois condition, he wouldn't be able to fight back. My God!
"Herr Stahl?"
"What?"
"Is everything all right?"
No! But Stahl simply sighed. "Everything's fine."
"Good day then."
Stahl hung up the phone and leaned back into the wall. His heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest. Alois! Stahl's worst fears seemed to be coming true. But who would have taken him out of the hospital?
The only person he could think of was his employer. He glanced at his watch. Risky calling from his hotel room, but Stahl was far too annoyed to care about using an anonymous phone. He stabbed the number out on the keypad and waited for the ringing to stop.
