by Mel Odom
DiVarco cursed, something he wouldn’t have done in front of the old don in previous years. “I’ve been fighting those old men all my life. I had to carve out every piece of territory I have from the black gangs and the Asians, people those old men were too terrified to take on. I bled for what I have. They won’t take it away from me, or get me to be satisfied with anything less than what I want.”
“And will you fight me too?”
DiVarco tried to read the older man but couldn’t. He answered honestly. “I would never raise a hand to you, Don Magaddino. Nor to your family.”
The old man nodded.
“They are keeping up with you more these days,” Magaddino said. “An hour after the jackal network in Atlanta was busted by the FBI, people knew about it.”
DiVarco turned his palms up. “That’s nothing. It’ll never be traced back to me. Steps have already been taken to prevent that.”
“This man Wilson who is the SAC of Omega Blue is known as a fighter. He plays just as rough as his opponents do.”
“He’s never come up against someone like me. If he does, I’ll have him buried under one of the wharves. When they count noses later, they’ll come up one FBI guy short.”
Magaddino looked at DiVarco. “There is another thing I must ask you.”
“What?”
“Rumor has it that you are working with foreigners. A group of Asians, and that they have helped you in your rise. This has never been our way.”
“I’ve learned to do things my way.”
“Sebastian, you should know you can’t trust these people. Only blood can truly trust blood.”
“My blood turned away from me. I was Drago DiVarco’ s only son. But you, friend of my father, did not turn from me. He was the man so many of you turned to in times of trouble. When Don Accardo’s daughter ran away with that Iranian and pretended to be kidnapped to blackmail her father for money for them, who did they call? When the Rizzuto family was killed by those three black hijackers in the restaurant they’d managed for years for Don Vendemini, who did they call? My father. He died for them.”
“And they respected him for that.”
“Respect didn’t put bread and meat on the table for my mother and me. She took in laundry and made her own way, became an old woman overnight.”
“Your mother, God rest her soul, was a proud woman. She never approved of your father’s trade. She refused offers from the families to help her out. Still, we did what we could.”
“They ignored me when I became a man.”
“You were headstrong, irresponsible. There were many things the families felt you still had to learn.”
Anger made DiVarco’ s voice tight. “I’ve learned those things now. And I’ve learned that I no longer need the families. Let them hang onto whatever they can for as long as they can. Perhaps I’ll feel generous.”
“Sebastian, you may be writing your own death warrant.”
“That was written the day I was born.” DiVarco pressed the intercom button. “Carmichael, stop the car.”
The limo slid to a stop at the corner of Richmond Street and North Street.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” DiVarco said. “I have business to attend to.”
The old man allowed one of his bodyguards to assist him in getting out of the car. He didn’t turn around to say good-bye, just squared his shoulders and walked to his waiting car.
The limo moved back into the line of traffic.
*
Jimmy Gioia’s crack house was as much a part of the waterfront district as the stink of fish, diesel engines, and the throb of forklifts trundling around on the wooden and concrete wharves.
Four stories tall, it hunkered between the taller warehouses like a glass-and-mortar dwarf. The cracked facade hid the steel armor underneath, and a steel mesh hurricane fence ran around the outer perimeter, providing a small parking lot in front. The lot was empty. Even though the security lights weren’t working, DiVarco knew he was being observed. He could feel the eyes on him, and he was aware that Gioia maintained infrared security cameras.
Business was conducted strictly on a cash-and-carry basis from the north and south sides. Gioia’s cover was thin. A video rental club occupied the north side of the lower floor, and a beep-and-buy convenience store operated on the south side. Transactions were made through the windows, and both businesses were always open. During the day they had only a trickle of customers, but at night, between the hours of one A.M. and five A.M., those businesses flourished.
DiVarco had assigned accountants and information brokers to Gioia’s enterprise after finding that his own drug suppliers were undergoing stiff competition. Little Jimmy Gioia, the thick slab of muscle whose only claim to fame as a teenager had been the ability to slam his big-knuckled fists through door panels without injury, had become very shrewd in his drug dealings. The crack house netted three million dollars during a decent month. The only drawback that DiVarco had discovered was Gioia’s love for his own product.
He checked his watchband and made sure the transmitter was on. “Everybody out there ready to rock and roll?”
The watch pulsed against the underside of his wrist.
“All right,” he said as he keyed the door open, “it’s show time.” He got out of the car in the middle of the parking lot with his hands spread to his sides. A glance at the north and south streets showed business booming as buyers moved through in cars, on bicycles and skateboards, and on their own two feet.
Armed men were visible at different points along the fire escape and windows. Two vans, their tires bulging under the weight of the armor plating, occupied key positions along the street.
“Okay, Carmichael, show them the lights.”
The limo’s lights flashed on and off three times in quick succession. In response, four men came from a side door and approached DiVarco. Two of them held Mossberg riot guns.
“Mr. DiVarco?” one of the men said. He was young and hard, and had a Snoopy tattoo, on the side of his neck that drew even more attention than the old knife scar showing there.
DiVarco nodded.
“Mr. Gioia said to bring you on up.”
“Let’s do it.”
“I got to take your piece.”
“Go for it.” DiVarco raised his hands and put them on his head.
The bodyguard reached under the leather jacket and took the Detonics Scoremaster away. “Anything else?”
“No.” DiVarco followed the man into the crack house. Steel doors slammed shut behind him. They took a flight of stairs up to the second floor and were checked through by a group of security techs manning state-of-the-art equipment.
The head bodyguard laid his hands on panels on either side of the door. There was a hum, then a click, and the door slid away.
The room DiVarco was led into was eighty feet square. A conference table took up over a third of the space at the far end. A pool table complete with swag lamps took up the middle half, along with a wet bar sporting operational pull taps against other wall. A neon light declaring BAR’S OPEN hung over the mirror behind the bar. The leftover space in the nearest comer had been used for a built-in recreation center. A large-screen television was surrounded by a stereo and two other televisions. Two pit groups with matching color schemes in indigo and violet were arranged in front of the entertainment wall.
Jimmy Gioia lounged on the pit group facing the entrance. He wore a red satin smoking jacket that hung awkwardly on his barrel chest. Light sparkled from the diamond chip earrings that ran up his left ear from lobe to tip. His blond hair was trimmed close, with razor-styled hash marks at his temples. Another ten pounds and he’d have been well on his way to going to seed.
“Sebastian, come into the house, my man.” He got up off the plush furnishings with more effort than would have been required less than two years ago.
“Jimmy G. ,” DiVarco said with a smile. “I see you haven’t let success go to your head.”
“You were alway
s the one who understood elegant. Me, I prefer something that I can live with and be comfortable.” Gioia picked the remote control up from an end table and muted the baseball game on the big screen. “Hey, Vincenzo, get my pal a brewski.”
One of the bodyguards crossed the room to the bar. The one with the Snoopy tattoo stayed put with his hands clasped at waist level.
DiVarco surveyed the head bodyguard again and saw emptiness in the man’s eyes. It was a good trait for a guy in his position to have.
“Don’t mind him.” Gioia dismissed the bodyguard with a wave. “That’s Myron, my head guy. He has nerves of steel but worries like my grandma. C’mere and let me show you this.”
DiVarco followed the drug lord to the bar.
Gioia touched the brass-plated spigots while Vincenzo took down two mugs. “Reminds you of old man Piromalli, don’t it? Well, that’s where I got ‘em. When he went bust a few years back his old lady put ‘em in storage. I found out about it and bought ‘em. Helps me remember all those good times we used to have hanging out there and figuring out where we were going to steal our next dollar.” His eyes glittered. “I remember those times like they was yesterday. You planning stuff and me covering your back while we pulled it off. We never should have split up, you know.”
“I know.” DiVarco glanced at his watch. Three minutes remained.
“I understand why you ditched me.” Gioia shook his head. “Gotta admit, I spent some years cussing you out and griping about it, but I understand. Not many guys can handle the drugs I do and still handle their business too.”
“That’s true.”
“But I showed ‘em. I showed ‘em all. Made it to the top of one of the toughest rackets in the city. Had to chase out the Japs and the blacks and the Rastafarians to do it, but I got it done. And I’m enlarging the operation. It’ll be doubled by this time next year.” Gioia reached out and tapped DiVarco on the chest. “But look at you. God, you come in here looking like a million bucks. Tan. Bet you ain’t put on five pounds.”
“Jimmy G., this isn’t all a social call,” DiVarco reminded the bigger man.
Gioia waved him back to the pit groups. “I want you to know I was really sorry about that action in Haymarket Square. I didn’t know that was you.”
“I didn’t advertise.”
Gioia sat. “I knew you had the exec action sewed up in the financial district, but I didn’t know you’d moved into Haymarket Square. When I sent my boys in there to rough up the movers and the shakers, I had no idea they belonged to you.”
“It’s okay. That’s old business. We’re here to talk about new business.”
“Sure, sure. I’m willing to give you a fair price for the area, but you’re gonna have to work out payments with me.”
“We can work it out.” DiVarco watched the security cameras scanning the video and convenience stores. If the police department could have tapped into the electronic feed lines, they could have made the biggest bust the city had ever known in a single night. Whether by luck or design, Gioia had turned the drug action into one of the biggest cash cows in Boston. And it was all in liquid assets that only needed a little laundering before they could be invested in something else.
“You don’t want the dope action anyway,” Gioia said. “A guy like you, starting to move in the socially elite part of this city, you don’t need to get your hands dirty with something like this.”
DiVarco nodded.
“The day my guys busted up your action in Haymarket Square, I was doing you a favor.”
DiVarco’ s watch pulsed against his wrist. He smiled broadly. “Yeah. A favor.”
“Want to watch the ball game for a while? The Tokyo Tigers are wailing the hell out of the Seahawks. Only the bottom of the third, and-” Gioia sat bolt upright and stared at the security monitors. “What’s going on?”
On-screen, black-clad Asian men worked behind the scenes taking out the armed guards in the video rental and convenience stores. Silenced pistols bucked in black-gloved fists as they moved through in precision order. The buyers still weren’t allowed to view the carnage; a maze of walls shutting the businesses off from one another was used as cover. Men stripped uniforms from dead bodies and took the places of the clerks working the windows. Before the original clerks could say or do anything, they were taken out of the rooms at gunpoint and executed.
“You!” Gioia roared. “You set me up!” He surged to a standing position, his body swaying dangerously. “You’re working with the gooks!”
“Sit down, Jimmy G.,” DiVarco s id. “And maybe you’ll live.”
“You’re a dead man. I don’t listen to corpses.” Gioia glanced at his bodyguards. The action on the security monitors was slowing down. “Myron, waste this guy.”
Calmly, Myron reached under his jacket and pulled a Glock-17. He spun with the pistol in his hand and shot the other two guards before they had a chance to defend themselves.
“Myron,” DiVarco said coolly, “doesn’t work for you anymore.” He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on.
With a roar of rage, fueled by the cocaine coursing through him, Gioia lowered his head and threw himself at DiVarco.
Not bothering to get up from the pit group, DiVarco reached out and grabbed a handful of Gioia’s hair. He slid to one side on the couch and controlled the bigger man’s headlong plunge.
Gioia smacked into the pit group bellowing like a wounded bull. The furniture went over in a flurry of throw pillows.
Coming to his feet with lithe grace, DiVarco waved at Myron to put his gun away. The bodyguard did, stepping back from the immediate area.
“You’d be better off having him kill me!” Gioia screamed. “I’m going to break you in half!”
DiVarco flashed the man a tight-lipped grin. He felt good about what was coming as he watched Gioia push himself to his feet and prepare for another lunge.
“I kicked your ass when we were kids,” Gioia said, stripping away his smoking jacket and shirt. “Then I spent years making sure nobody else did it.”
“That was a long time ago, Jimmy G. Ain’t nobody kicked my ass in years. And you aren’t man enough to do the job anymore.”
Gioia threw himself forward.
DiVarco blocked the big man’s arms with a forearm sweep, then brought up a roundhouse kick that caught Gioia on the side of his face. Amazingly, the big man didn’t go down. Blood seeped from a cut over his eye, then trickled down past his nose and bleeding mouth. Evading Gioia’s grab, DiVarco planted a flurry of punches into the big man’s midsection that took Gioia’s breath away. As Gioia started to sag, DiVarco caught his arm, spun and set a hip, and pulled the big man over it. DiVarco kept hold of his wrist until bone snapped.
Gioia went down and landed hard on his back. Looking down at him, DiVarco adjusted his leather jacket. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Times change, Jimmy G. I think your ass-kicking days are over. You should have come in with me like I asked.”
“The way Bonnelli and Tracana did? Screw you, Sebastian. You didn’t leave those guys nothin’. They busted their asses for what they had, and you took it from them by selling out to those gooks.”
“I didn’t sell out. It was just business.”
“Once they have everything they want, they’ll shell you like a peanut.”
“We’ll see.” DiVarco motioned to the silent bodyguard. Myron tossed him the Detonics Janus Scoremaster. Catching the pistol one-handed, DiVarco flicked the safety off and pointed it at Gioia’s head. “Good-bye, Jimmy G.”
“I’ll see you in hell, you bas-”
The gunshot cut off his words, and the heavy round slammed his head back against the floor. His eyes rolled up, as if contemplating the hole that had suddenly appeared in his forehead.
DiVarco sheathed the .45 and turned to Myron.
“When my people get here, have them take this garbage out and dump it. I want a team in here tearing this pimp’s paradise down, and I want an office that I can liv
e with standing in this spot by tomorrow night.”
“Sure thing, Mr. DiVarco.”
“Tell the accountants I want a meeting with them concerning the books on this operation at two P.M. tomorrow.”
Myron nodded.
DiVarco headed for the door. His own security people were waiting in the hallway to escort him to his car. He moved confidently across the parking lot, breathing in the night air. He thought about his next project. With the destruction of the jackal network in Atlanta, DiVarco was no longer willing to take interference from Omega Blue lightly. His partners were going to have to pony up to help put Wilson and his group out of the way. Otherwise, DiVarco intended to handle that job himself.
7
Slade Wilson was pouring himself a coffee refill when he heard the door open and close behind him. He put the coffeepot away and turned to face the man he knew would be standing there. “Quinn Valentine.”
“Yes, sir.” Valentine was five ten and maybe one seventy. His hair was dark and curly and hung in ringlets down the back of his neck, offsetting his olive complexion. He was dressed in navy sweatpants and a V-necked watermelon-colored sleeveless sweatshirt that hung loosely on him and showed sweat stains. His feet were bare. A short gold chain glinted at his neck.
“Have a seat.” Wilson waved to one of the chairs around the oval table in the center of the room. They’d taken a free office from the behavioral science section on one of the underground floors of the Academy in Quantico. The Omega Blue unit didn’t have set quarters. That was one of the rules Wilson had introduced when they formed the strike team. No headquarters meant no files to be rifled or destroyed or tampered with.
Not many regular agents hung around the behavioral science section. The monster hunters lurked there, the people responsible for tracking down serial killers and rapists, who preyed on the helpless, young, and infirm. The rooms were littered with the grisly remains of investigations, photographs of countless victims. No one walked away untouched.
Valentine sat, his eyes never leaving Wilson’s. Wilson was sure, though, that the young man had taken in the presence of the other members of the unit with his peripheral vision. “I assume you didn’t have time to dress before this meeting, or was it that you figured you didn’t need to?”
