“I don’t know how you wouldn’t know. There was no way they could have been mistaken for cops. I could hear them talk, I could see their mannerisms, and how they handled their weapons. They were low-life, and up to no good.”
“Then you blew up their cars,” Bludd asked.
“No, I came up to see how y’all were doing first. The larger group of guys had moved behind the house. They left one guy at the front corner. I shot him, but he managed to get around back of the house. I stayed hidden behind a fancy sports car for a couple minutes then moved around to the barn behind the house. All hell broke loose; I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the mess they had going on. One guy came out of the house in a panic. He left in the sports car.”
“That would have been Pembroke,” I said.
“The guy I shot was yelling. The group sent him to the cars. It struck me funny, but the guy in the sports car wouldn’t give the injured guy a ride. He had a bad limp, and had to stop every couple steps to rest. He wouldn’t have lasted long; he was leaking too much blood. The group entered the back door. One guy went around the corner of the house. He’s the guy that broke the window and tossed the flash-bang in. He started for the front of the house. I shot him a couple times and dropped him. When the gun battle ended inside the house, I came up to the broken window, and heard y’all talking. I decided to go get the wounded guy. He’d almost reached the cars when I ran up on him. He might have thought I was one of his crew, or he didn’t care anymore; he didn’t sound an alarm. The guy at the car must have seen my Uzi’s muzzle flash. He cranked the engine, and I detonated the charges.
“Wow,” Bludd said, “Too bad you didn’t get Pembroke, he had the sports car.”
“He was the damned double-crossing lawyer Max had as a source.” I said.
Kuhl was himself a contrast. He had a warm smile and icy-blue slit-like eyes. His appearance was one of evil concealed beneath a thin veneer of human flesh. I liked him more by the minute. Kuhl said, “Are you familiar with vehicle tracking systems?”
Bludd beat him to the punch line, “I don’t have one of those either.”
“Are you talking about a Lojack?” I asked. I also didn’t have one.
Kuhl nodded and said, “I put a GPS tracker unit under the BMW’s front bumper.”
“Bludd asked, “When did you do that, mate?”
“Remember me telling y’all I stayed by the cars for a few minutes. Now y’all know why. These tracking units have become common with fleet services. I planted a unit made in Europe. The newest version manufactured this year, and it has had very good results in the New York region. We should be able to locate your man without much difficulty. I’ll set up my laptop and start monitoring for the car’s activity. We’ll be able to get a fix on places he goes before we take him. We’ll get the best bang for the buck that way.” Kuhl’s emotions were once again on the rise. I surmised it had something to do with the bang he referred to, and his hidden cache of pyrotechnics. I figured I’d let him have his fun, and enjoy the work. Will Rogers once said, “If you find the right job you’ll never have to work a day in your life.” Kuhl had found such a job.
“I’ve got a Quonset hut, with a little heated office that would work well for you.” I said.
“Sounds good. I’ll stay there with the equipment, if that’s okay?” Kuhl asked.
“That works; Bludd and I will be mobile. We’re moving out of here today. We don’t know if it’s safe anymore. We’ll check in daily. Let’s get you moved in over at the hut.” I said.
Over the course of the next couple hours, we loaded our gear and moved Kuhl into the hut. Bludd drove his Tahoe over to the hut, and I parked the Avenger out of the way. Pembroke had seen my car. It would be risky to drive. Kuhl called Max to provide an update while Bludd and I found a motel to work from. Bludd suggested we camp out at Musolino’s in Toronto or the Double Decker in South Rochester. Musolino’s was not a good choice. That was Pembroke’s territory. We didn’t want an accidental encounter to foul things up. We’d be better off to concentrate our efforts on the United States side of the border.
A block from the Double Decker lounge was a cluster of inexpensive motels. Big neon signs lit up the skies, each with a different name, but other than the color scheme, they looked about the same, and the price for a room was cheap and competitive. We had a wide choice of rooms, so we selected a second floor end unit which overlooked a portion of the Double Decker parking lot, ideal for our purposes.
Carl Mostarda was dead, but organized crime was big business, and the cash flow didn’t stop because of a small police raid, or a capo getting killed. Rizzi would continue his errand boy duties of moving money through Mostarda’s top lieutenant, Lucan “Spooky Luke” Russo. The Machine wouldn’t miss a beat when it came to the money.
The Mob had to be aware that assassins were hot on their trail to kill them. Pembroke knew, they all knew, but they still didn’t know why. I wanted to keep them in the dark. It was enough that they knew they were hunted prey. In fact, I liked it that way. Max had a different take on the situation. He believed we should send a message to Russo, and let him know the mortality rate for his crew would continue to climb unless they got out of the illegal immigration rackets. I only had one mandate, run or die. I hoped they didn’t run. They might lay low for a while, but they felt superior—they wouldn’t run.
Mob business was about dominance, and the crime family dominated through violence. It was the only language they spoke. If they cowered down to threats of violence, they might as well have packed their bags and moved out—they would do neither. To get the upper hand, and squash their sex slave business, we had to take their control away. That meant we had to overpower their hierarchy; and the only way they understood was with violence.
Mostarda was the first real step. The soldiers and associates I killed had knocked a few holes in the Mob’s muscle, but they were replaced overnight. The streets had an endless supply of wannabe mobsters. I thought we ought to send a message to the Bosses, in the language of vendetta and spoken in blood—their native tongue.
Two days passed. Two long days that I’d listened to tea pots whistle and ate fast food until I was blue in the face. I needed to kill. According to Kuhl, Pembroke’s car was at his personal residence. The police and news agencies had discovered the farmhouse crime scene and were exploiting the story for all they could get out of it. Dino Bianchi, the boy gangster, was in custody, in a hospital, in serious condition, and the only survivor. The gangland shootout had been attributed to organized crime. I assumed they made the determination from the players they found at the scene. It was cut and dried in the eyes of the police agencies because they didn’t know any different, not yet. Big crime scenes take time to process. I hoped it kept them busy for a long time.
I left Bludd at the front room window overlooking the lounge while I made a road trip to the shipyards. There was no reason to believe the drop had been compromised. I pulled into my previous spot between the old freight vans and waited. The day wore on, and I was antsy to check out Musolino’s. Maybe Joyce was there. It would be sort of nice to visit with her again. Before I pulled out on the road, though, Bludd called. “Mate, I think you might want to head this way. Cars are lining up alongside the lounge; it looks like a meeting. They have guards on the vehicles.”
“I’ll head that way.”
I cruised through the lounge parking lot and scoped out the vehicles. There appeared to be a security detachment keeping a watch on the area. Bludd was right; it must be a big wig meeting.
I called Bludd, “Come on down, let’s get a beer.”
Bludd and I walked to the Double Decker lounge. We chose a corner table near the rear of the main floor. That allowed our backs to be against the wall. Once the gunfighter syndrome took over, it was impossible for me to expose my back in a public place again. We had a good view over the entrance and bar, but we couldn’t see up the stairs. Two thugs had positioned themselves at the bottom of the staircase.
Traffic flow upstairs was by invitation only. A couple bar patrons wanted to shoot pool upstairs, but the thugs convinced them in no uncertain terms, they were not invited.
The bartender was new to us, which was a relief. The last guy had the customer service skills of a turnip. The waitress was polite and fetched us our libations. We were on our second round when Candy entered the lounge with her flawless, fluid stride. She didn’t miss a beat as she crossed the dance floor. Her hips rolled pleasingly from side to side. Heads turned, and men smiled. She stood near the curved end of the bar. She glanced sideways over her raised shoulder which highlighted her curves for all to see. She tilted her hip to one side as she leaned slightly forward under the bar lights; her platinum blonde hair shimmered from the neon accent. Candy was dressed to kill. Her one-piece, form-fitting, black mini dress drew attention; her long, lean tanned legs snuggly fitting into her black knee high leather boots.
She stopped and talked to a couple of guys along the way but clearly had our table as her destination.
“How you fellas doing tonight?”
Bludd was quick to answer, “Marvelously, sweetheart, and you’re looking fine as well.”
“Do you remember us from the other night?” I asked.
“I do,” She touched the top of Bludd’s forearm in a stroking manner, “Seymour, right?” Bludd smiled but kept his teeth to himself. Candy looked toward me, “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t remember your name.”
Bludd piped up, “That’s Walter.”
“Yes, that’s right, Walter.” She gave me a visual once over and asked. “So, what are you boys up to tonight?”
“It looked as if the bar was rocking, lots of cars outside, so we thought we’d stop in and check it out. Everyone must be upstairs. It must be a private party or something because I don’t think those guys there are letting anyone upstairs.” I gestured in the direction of the men at the foot of the stairs.
“Leave it alone,” Candy said as she took control of my gesturing hand and pulled it down to the table. She turned her attention to Bludd, “I feel like partying tonight,” her voice changed to a sultry tone as she spoke. Bludd bought her a glass of wine.
Bludd and I were stuck entertaining our table guest. We were there to see who came down from the second floor, and weren’t leaving until they did. Candy ran her hand up and down the stem of her wine glass in a cylindrical fashion. When she wasn’t fondling the glass, which wasn’t often, she talked about the success of her webcam business. I excused myself for the men’s room and left Bludd and Candy alone. I needed a break. She had a classy look, but she was damaged goods. She came off like a two-bit hooker. I didn’t care for being judgmental, it wasn’t my style. In general, I believed to each his own. However, if I found out these grease balls poisoned her mind and forced her into the sex business, I’d make sure they paid. When I came back to the table, Candy excused herself and slipped over to another table.
Bludd whispered, “Candy told me she was cheap tonight.”
“I’ll bet she’s cheap every night.”
“Two-hundred dollars mate, two-zero-zero.”
I was wrong about her; she was not a cheap two-bit whore, she carried a hefty price tag on her collar. She must have been the cream of Mostarda’s crop and trusted.
“C’mon, I’ll buy you another brew. By the way, what did you tell her?”
“None of your business, mate.”
Maybe it wasn’t, but I couldn’t pass up goading him a little with it, “I just wanted to know if you needed a loan?”
We had knocked off another beer before people started meandering down from the second level. The meeting was over. Thugs at the bottom of the stairs whisked a portly old man away as if they were secret service. They slipped behind the bar and out through a door. Where it led to, we didn’t know. A few minutes later one of the thugs escorted Candy through the same door. Maybe her business was picking up.
A couple mobsters came down and mixed with the few people still at the bar. We got eyeballed pretty hard, but they shrugged us off as a couple nobodies. I didn’t recognize most of the thugs only one or two looked familiar. While I watched the Machine mingle, I saw Frank Rizzi pull up a stool at the end of the bar. I nudged my partner and let him know it was Rizzi. We finished our drinks and checked out. I kept a watch from the edge of the parking lot while Bludd trotted over to the motel for his Tahoe. Without knowing how much time he’d have before Rizzi left the club, he quickly gathered up as much of our gear as he could handle, tossed it in the Tahoe, and swung by to pick me up.
We sat for the better part of an hour behind the lounge before Rizzi came out and climbed behind the wheel of a red Audi. That made news. As far as the Intel went on Rizzi, he was known never to travel alone. Evidently, that was not the case. He exited the lot; Bludd and I were on his heels. We hit Highway 390, ran north until we came up on the Latona Road exit, and followed him another block where he turned off to the right into a private driveway. At the end of the driveway sat a large two story home. We decided to catch a view from a distance and see what happened.
Early the next morning, cars started to arrive. We counted the vehicles, jotted down license numbers and descriptions of the cars. It was routine until the fifth car showed up around eleven. This visitor stayed longer than the others, and signaled a change in behavior. The older model white Ford four-door sedan we had waited on to leave finally drove past us; only now the car carried a passenger. I assumed it was Rizzi and had a hunch the drop was in play.
We tailed the sedan and followed it to a diner, where the driver and Rizzi exited the car and had lunch. We stayed in the Tahoe. Mobsters didn’t hide. They were exposed to conduct their business. We could have killed them any day of the week and wherever we wanted to hit’em. But for the risk we faced, we wanted maximum carnage and to take the drop. There was always that chance Carmine Bruno would show for the wad of dough these gangsters carried.
It was one-forty-five before Rizzi was back on the road. I felt good about the tail; we were heading in the direction of the shipyard. The white Ford sedan pulled up next to the cargo office gate while we tucked the Tahoe back between the cargo vans. As before, Rizzi stayed in the vehicle while his driver went into the office. Soon, an office goon appeared, walked to the sedan, and climbed in behind the driver’s wheel, but they weren’t going anywhere.
“Get ready,” I said. “If Bruno shows up it’ll be a perfect day.” I couldn’t tell from the set up what their plans were for the drop pick up, but it didn’t matter. I had a plan. I’d rob the Mob and turn out the lights on the cargo office Machine. Bludd prepped my Remington 870 for close quarter action, and I had strapped my .40-caliber on after we’d left the lounge. Time ticked away slowly as we waited.
Ten long minutes passed. The office goon opened the driver’s door, got out, and headed for the office carrying a canvas type bag with handles. We rolled out slowly. Bludd pulled the Tahoe in and blocked the Ford from backing out, although there was no one in the driver’s seat. I had bailed out before Bludd brought the vehicle to a stop. I started toward the office. Bludd jumped out with the shotgun in hand, stepped up to the Ford driver’s side window and blasted Rizzi once.
I heard the shotgun slide jack another round into the chamber, but Bludd didn’t take another shot. One Double-aught round was sufficient. The driver, a man I didn’t know, had cleared the office steps on his way back to his car when Bludd had opened up on Rizzi. The driver was slow to react to what unfolded in front of him. He reached under his jacket, but if he had a weapon, I never saw it. I peppered him, center of mass, with three shots in rapid succession with my Glock. His bloody bullet-ridden body plunged face down on the walkway as I quickly made my way to the cargo office door.
I stood behind the cinder block wall, and pushed the office door open slowly to reveal the foyer with no one in sight. There wasn’t a chance they hadn’t heard the gunfire, and little chance they weren’t on a cell phone calling for reinforcements or arming t
hemselves with weaponry they had stashed at the place. Bludd went to the rear corner and kept an eye on the back door.
I hollered, “Throw the money out and I’ll let you live,” but no one listened. Maybe it was because they thought they’d get the best of me. I didn’t know, and I’d likely never know. Their response told me everything I needed to comprehend. They unloaded their weapons aimed in my direction.
The office foyer had an eight-foot long clerk counter on the back wall to the left side in the room. There was a see-through docking station for a laptop that offered zero cover and concealment. To the right was an open area waiting room with high-back armchairs, coffee pot and a magazine rack. A four-drawer metal filing cabinet stood next to the entrance of a short hallway off the back of the foyer. There was a coffee mug and laptop on one desk, and a plastic water bottle on the clerk’s counter.
The office wasn’t the ideal place for a gunfight. I hadn’t thought this part through. If I hid behind the counter, which was the best cover and concealment, I wouldn’t be able to dislodge these cockroaches from the back office. They had to come out. If they did bum rush me, they’d expect to find me hidden behind the clerks counter. There would be no element of surprise.
I moved up to the left side of the hallway entrance near the counter. I was about fifteen feet from the doorway in the hall where the goons were held up. I fired off a rapid succession of rounds, they returned fire. These guys had the advantage; they knew the lay-out of their office. I had to make it into a disadvantage.
From the shots I’d fired, they would be able to tell I was on their right side if they entered the office from the hall. I fired two suppression rounds then quickly moved to the other side of the office, where I’d use the cover of the filing cabinet. My plan was to bring them to me.
Silently I ejected the magazine from my Glock and stripped the remaining two rounds out, then slipped it empty into my front pants pocket. I reloaded my weapon with another fifteen-rounds of opportunity. Ready to continue the action, I reached over the file cabinet, let two quick rounds fly toward the end of the hallway. They returned fire. I pulled the empty magazine from my pocket and dropped it on the tile floor. A tinny-twang echoed in the absence of gunfire. To further get their attention, I followed up with a couple cuss words. Maybe they thought I was in the middle of reloading when the magazine hit the floor. I’ll never know. Whatever they thought they acted on it and sealed their fate. Both thugs ran down the short hallway and into the office with weapons blazing. They turned toward the counter where they expected me to be hiding. It was a truly brave and bold move on their part. It was also very stupid. They were dead wrong. From behind the metal filing cabinet I shot them in the back. Some might consider my ambush to be a cowardly act. I’m an assassin. I was there to kill mobsters. Anyway I could.
Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues Page 21
