by Riley, Megyn
She huffs and pulls the straps of her dress back onto her shoulders. “Wow, you are committed.” Then a smug grin curls on her full lips. “It will wear off.”
“No. It won’t.”
“You know, one word to Dominic, and I could have your precious wife killed.”
“You don’t think he wants us dead already?”
Veronica frowns. “Maybe I’ll just tell your wife that we had a little thing just now in the elevator. I can be very convincing.”
I give her the evil eye. “Go ahead. I don’t think she’d believe you.”
“Please,” she huffs. “Don’t tell me you have a relationship built on trust?”
“You are the last person to judge my relationships.”
The elevator dings, and the door slides open to floor number two. I spring from the elevator as fast as I can.
“Fuck you, Ryker.”
“No thanks,” I say with a grin. Her face twists up as the door slides shut. I wipe the sweat from my brow. Not many situations make me uncomfortable, but that one did. What the hell is happening to me?
I’ve never been in a relationship before. Certainly not a committed one. And Lord knows, I’ve never turned down a gorgeous woman. I must say, it feels good to know that I can be faithful to Scarlett. The old me would’ve had my cock in Veronica’s mouth by the time the elevator doors slammed shut.
They say that your IQ drops when you fall in love. That you actually become dumber. I hope that’s not the case. Because I need to keep my wits about me if I’m going to make it through the next 24 hours alive.
I find the armory on the second floor. Tony the Ant is a small, snappy guy. He’s high strung. Smoking cigarette after cigarette and guzzling down coffee like he’s got a hole in his stomach. He probably does. It only adds to his mania. He’s the kind of guy who just keeps coming after you in a fight. Tear off his arm, and he’ll keep coming. Hence the name, The Ant.
The Armory is floor to ceiling with weapons. Everything imaginable. Knives, handguns, assault rifles, rocket launchers, grenades, plastic explosives… you name it. The room smells like steel and gun oil.
“What can I do for you?” the Ant says. He watches reruns of I Love Lucy on a small flat panel TV. I imagine that he sits in the armory night after night, doling out weapons as needed to Dominic’s thugs.
“I need a .300 Win Mag sniper rifle with a McMillan stock and suppressor. I want a Glock 17, suppressor, and extra magazines.”
“I can respect a man who knows what he wants.”
“I’ll take some C4 explosive, blasting caps, and a remote detonator. Throw in a few hand grenades as well.”
“Sounds like somebody’s having a party.”
“It would appear so.”
Tony the Ant shuffles off with a cigarette dangling between his thin lips. He combs through the rows of weapons and pulls down the sniper rifle. The .300 Winchester Magnum is a powerful and accurate weapon. It shoots 7.62mm rounds. It’s a common long-range weapon used by military and law enforcement. I can hit a fly from 1000 yards with one.
Tony sets the rifle on the counter before me. I grimace as I pick it up. The motion tugs at my stitches. A reminder that I’m at less than optimal performance. I look over the weapon. It’s clean and in perfect condition. If only I was in as good a shape as this rifle.
“That’s a nice weapon,” Tony says. “One of my favorites.” He puffs a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s sighted in with 180 grain, factory loads.”
“You maintain all these weapons yourself?”
“Everything you see here is ready to go. I can’t have guys in the field with a gun that jams, or with a sight off. Vic took care of his people. He made sure they had the best. And as long as I’m around, I’m going to continue that tradition.”
He ambles over to a display case and pulls out a Glock 17. He strolls back, checks the chamber and hands the weapon to me. It’s a reliable, accurate 9mm, with 17 round magazines. Something tells me I’m going to fire a lot of rounds on this job. I want the highest capacity magazines I can find.
“I’ll take 124 grain HST rounds.”
“Good choice.” Tony reaches under the counter and pulls out several boxes of ammunition.
“You mind if I load up in here?”
“This ain’t a gun shop. Do what you want. Nobody’s dumb enough to rob me,” Tony smiles. “We don’t even do background checks.” He strolls to another display case, grabs a few hand grenades, a couple bricks of C4, and some detonators.
I load the magazines and holster the Glock 17.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the Ant says as he sets the other items on the counter.
“Yeah, I need a tactical vest to carry all this shit.”
“Coming right up.” Tony ambles into the storeroom and returns with a vest.
I slip off my suit jacket. The shirt I borrowed from Sal is already stained with my blood that has seeped through the bandages.
“Looks like you’ve already seen some recent action,” Tony says.
I wince again as I put on the black tactical vest. It’s got pouches to hold magazines, as well as a grenade belt. I load it full, then slip my coat over it. I grab the sniper rifle from the counter. I wince again. I try to block out the pain. I’d take another pain pill, but I need to stay sharp.
“Perhaps I can interest you in an RPG?” Tony offers the weapon like it’s an after dinner dessert. “I’ve got some armor piercing anti-tank rounds. Perfect for taking out a bulletproof vehicle,” he teases.
I smile. “Sure, why not?”
He grabs the grenade launcher from the rack and hands it to me with glee. “I sure wish I could be there to see this thing go off.”
“You’re welcome to join me.”
“I’m too old for that shit. And too high strung.”
I chuckle. “Where do you get all this shit?”
“Fell off the back of a truck,” he grins.
“I like you, Tony. You’re not bad.”
“I like to take care of my customers,” he says, puffing up with pride. “Anything else?”
“I think that ought to do it. Put this on Dominic’s tab.”
“Everything here is free. It’s all for the common good of the family.” Tony looks me over again. “You’re Ryker Stone, ain’t ya?”
I nod.
“I’ve heard of you. Dominic said you’d be stopping by.” He pauses for a moment. “Just between you and me, I don’t think you killed Vic.”
“Why not?” I ask, curious.
“You got a reputation for always doing good business. Solid work. The hit on Vic was too sloppy. It didn’t add up.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“I ain’t the only one who thinks this way either. There’s more of us than you might think.”
“How many?”
“Lots.”
“Enough?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
I think about this for a moment. I get the distinct sense that Dominic doesn’t have as firm a grip on the family as he thinks. Or Tony could just be full of shit, trying to play me.
“Change can happen quickly in this business.”
“That it can.”
I look into Tony’s eyes. He’s got old gangster’s eyes. The kind of eyes that don’t give away anything he doesn’t want to give away. Eyes that can hold secrets. But I get the sense that his admiration for Vic was genuine.
“Good luck out there,” he says. He means it.
I thank Tony and take my gear. Then I march down to the lobby. I look like something out of a war movie. I push through the main lobby doors and into the street. There’s a black town car waiting at the curb for me.
The driver stands by the passenger door and pulls it open. He reminds me of a sumo wrestler. He’s twice my size, and I’m a big guy. But this guy is a giant. His fists are like bowling balls. I’d hate to get hit with one of those, they’d break bones.
I stow the gear on the back seat
and slide in.
“I’m Louis,” He says with a low, booming voice. “I’ll be your driver this evening. Where to, sir?”
23
Ryker
The American Mafia has been active since the early 20th century. Since that time, the Commission has met every year in an annual Summit. Never twice at the same location. In recent years they’ve held the Summit at numerous luxury hotels on the east and west side. Always in the penthouse suite.
It’s not hard for me to call every luxury hotel that hasn’t been used recently. There are maybe a dozen hotels that fit the criteria. Of those, the penthouse suite is booked in six hotels. I ask to be put through to Charles Luciano. Lucky Luciano was the founder of the American mob. In recent years, it’s the codename the Commission has been using to book the Summit under. It’s not a very smart thing to do, but sometimes mob guys go for the obvious.
After a few calls, the operator at the Hampson puts me through to Lucky’s room in the penthouse suite. A gruff voice answers, and I swear it sounds like Paulie the Nose. I can’t hang up, or he might get suspicious. So, I fake an accent and ask if they want extra towels brought up to the room.
“No. Nobody here asked for extra towels, you fucking moron,” Paulie growls.
I know I’ve reached the right place.
I apologize and hang up.
I know the mobs methods of operation. There will be guards in front of the hotel. There will be spotters in the lobby. There will be guards outside the door to the penthouse suite. There will be snipers on nearby rooftops.
There is no getting in or out of the building. There is no time to plant explosives within the suite. And even if I did have that luxury, the room would be swept before any of the bosses entered. This Summit isn’t their first rodeo. They’ve done this kind of thing before. They know how to keep mob bosses safe. The Commission has former Secret Service agents on their security detail. Knocking off a boss isn’t easy, and I’m still not exactly sure how Dominic pulled off the hit on Falco.
Then it dawns on me. I want to kick myself for not putting it together before. The blonde hair found in Falco’s bed—it had to be Veronica’s. He always had a thing for her. It makes perfect sense. She came on to him, got him alone in a room. He did what any guy would’ve done. Veronica is hard to resist. Then, when he’s nice and relaxed, and not suspecting it, she shoots him. With my gun, that she stole from my apartment. My fingerprints are all over the shell casings. It’s the only explanation. I’ve got hundreds of guns. I didn’t even know it was missing for weeks. I suspected she may have taken it. But I’ve had dozens of women in and out of my apartment. It could have been anyone of them. I didn’t sweat it—all of my guns are unregistered. There’s no way it could come back to me, or so I thought. It’s hard to get a gun in New York City. I don’t blame a pretty girl for wanting to carry one. Maybe that’s why I let it slide. Either way, I’m an idiot. She set me up.
I call ahead and book the penthouse suite at the Thackston Plaza on 5th Avenue under a fake name. It’s across the park from the Hampson. But it’s got a clear view of the penthouse suite. It’s 880 yards across the park—well within my kill zone using the Winchester Magnum.
We pull into the main drive of the Thackston. It’s crowded with cabs picking up, and dropping off, visitors. The trick is going to be getting these weapons up to the room. I can’t just walk through the lobby with a sniper rifle and an RPG.
A bell hop is helping a cabbie load luggage onto a gold stainless bellman’s cart, with a red carpeted base. The cabbie is just dumping bags in the drive. The bell hop scurries from the trunk to the cart. The couple has a ton of baggage. It’s probably just an overnight trip. The couple saunters into the lobby, leaving the two behind to struggle with the luggage. I hop out of the town car and snatch a Louis Vuitton garment bag from the rack while the bell hop is preoccupied.
I duck back into the town car and toss all the clothing from the garment bag on the floor. Then I stuff in the sniper rifle and the RPG, and zip the bag up. Problem solved.
The penthouse suite is on the 67th floor. The Hampson is on the 52nd. It gives me a nice elevated shot. I push through the room and step onto the terrace. The night air is crisp and breezy. The city lights dance and flicker. It really is a spectacular view. I unzip the garment bag and pull out the Winchester Magnum. I put on the quick-attach suppressor. This should give me the ability to squeeze off several rounds without attracting attention to myself. The neighbors won’t likely hear a thing.
The bullet, however, will break the sound barrier. And that’s where the loud crack comes from. But it will be hard to tell exactly where the bullet originated. With the speed of these bullets, my target will be hit before they hear the crack—as long as my aim is accurate.
I aim the rifle and peer through the scope.
I’ve got a perfect view of the main lobby doors of the Hampson, and a clear shot to the terrace of the penthouse suite on the 52nd floor. Two sliding glass doors open onto the terrace. I can see into the living area through the floor to ceiling windows. None of the bosses have arrived yet. A few members of their advance team mingle about. I’m going to have to wait until all four bosses are in the suite. I can’t pick them off at the front door, otherwise I’ll only get one shot.
I might be able to get off two rounds before anyone realizes what’s going on at the Summit. It will be chaos within the Hampson’s penthouse suite. And I’ll have mere seconds to drop two more mob bosses. That’s four perfect shots in less than 10 seconds at almost 1000 yards.
When Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK, he got off 3 rounds in less than 6 seconds with an old bolt action rifle—a 6.5 mm Carcano. Though the Warren commission disputes the ability of Oswald to have accurately fired 3 shots in that timeframe.
I’m not going to say four shots in 10 seconds is impossible. But it would be a miracle. And I’m not the kind of guy miracles happen for. This really isn’t the type of work that you can ask for divine assistance with. But then again, these are all bad men.
But so am I.
I scan rooftops near the Hampson and find two mob snipers. They are focused on the street in front of the main lobby. They haven’t even considered the possibility that someone across Central Park is going to be sniping at the Commission.
I finally get a call from Dominic telling me the location of the Summit. I assume he’s already been in contact with Louis. Dominic knows where I am. He reiterates the dire necessity of my mission and reminds me of the consequences of failure. Louis hovers over my shoulder, presumably to make sure I complete the task at hand. He’s an intimidating fellow.
After a few minutes, the bosses start arriving. The first is Big Nicky Capello. His entourage is like the presidential motorcade. A black Cadillac SUV leads the way, followed by Nick’s limousine. Another black Cadillac SUV brings up the rear. Armed bodyguards jump out like Secret Service agents and escort Nick into the lobby.
Big Nick is a tiny guy with a huge temper and a short fuse. To say he’s 5’4” would be stretching it. I’ve seen him beat the shit out of guys twice his size. Nick knows no fear. But he’s incredibly self-conscious about his height. Don’t ever joke about his size. Giovanni the Chin got into an argument with him one time, made a joke about which dwarf he was, sneezy or dopey? Needless to say, Nick wasn’t amused. And the Chin ended up with his own balls in his mouth. I’ve always gotten along with Nick. But he’d have me killed in a heartbeat to suit his needs.
Tommy Bones arrives next, in much the same fashion. He’s got a white limousine, guarded by two H2 Hummers. He got his nickname in the early days from a necklace he made out of the bones of pinky fingers that he had severed. His first job for the mob was collecting payments from deadbeats who were late on their loans. It didn’t take long before everybody was paying on time. I could never figure why guys would borrow money from the mob. At 20% a week, it doesn’t take long to rack up an unsurmountable debt. Usually someone gets themselves in a bind and borrows money from a loan sh
ark to pay the debt. Then they have to take out another loan from another loan shark to cover the first one. They may be able to buy themselves a couple of extra weeks of time, but these deadbeats all end up in the same place—at the bottom of the river, or on Tommy Bones’s necklace.
Benny the Butcher arrives next. To look at him, you’d never guess he was a cold-blooded killer. He has a round, affable face. At first glance, it seems like he’s the nicest guy in the world. He always has a smile, even when he comes to kill you. Back in the day, he was the guy everybody went to when they needed help disposing bodies. He runs a butcher shop, known for its fine cuts of meat. Today, it’s mostly a source for laundering money. When Benny says he’s going to turn you into a sirloin steak and eat you, he means it.
The last gangster to arrive is Meatball Sonny. He’s a big round guy, with a big round face that’s rough and scarred from acne. He looks like a giant meatball. He files into the Hampson with his entourage. A few moments later the suite is brimming with the most important members of the mob.
It’ showtime.
24
Ryker
Nobody is going to miss any of these scumbags. I’m doing the world a favor. But I still think four shots in 10 seconds is going to be tough. Even for me. I set down the Winchester Magnum. It’s not the right tool for the job. I pick up the rocket propelled grenade launcher—the RPG-37. It’s got a maximum range of 900 meters. The Hampson is just barely in range.
I sling the launcher over my shoulder and take aim through the optical site. This is going to make a helluva boom. The blast should take out everyone in the suite. Through the optical site, I take aim at the penthouse at the Hampson. The room is packed. I can see Big Nick, Meatball Sonny, Tommy Bones, and Benny the Butcher.
I never used to feel any kind of emotion when doing a job. But things are different now. I have someone to protect.
I squeeze the trigger. Propellant rockets the grenade from the launcher. It streaks across the park in a cloud of white smoke. It hisses and rips through the air, slamming into the penthouse suite. The explosion lights up the night sky—a brilliant flash of orange and red. The armor piercing, antitank round, incinerates the luxury suite. Windows shatter. Glass sprays from atop the building, trickling down to the street like flakes of glitter. Chunks of concrete and debris blast out in all directions. Every inch of the room is engulfed in flames.
