I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  As he was about to push open the door, he heard a frightened voice inside. “Please don’t shoot. We’re not armed.”

  “Come out with your hands high. One wrong move and you’re dead.” He stood back against the wall as a short man in a butler’s tuxedo stepped out, trembling. “Please don’t shoot,” he quavered. “We’re only the servants.”

  “Get the rest out.”

  Six people came from the room, two of them women. Dominic inspected inside. All were out. He placed the muzzle of the shotgun to the butler’s head. “Where is Bonazzi?”

  The butler was too terrified to speak. Dominic jammed the muzzle more tightly against him. “I don’t know, sir,” he finally got out in a strangled voice. “This is the servant’s area. He’s on the other side.”

  Dominic lowered the gun. “How can I get to the third floor? Not by the staircase.”

  The butler pointed to a window at the rear of the hall. “There’s a roof over the pantry door downstairs. If you had a ladder, you could climb up to the third floor.”

  “Do you have a ladder up here?” The butler shook his head.

  Dominic shoved the servants into one of the empty bedrooms and locked the door, then led his men to the rear of the hall. Opening the window, he looked out. As the butler said, an overhang extended about four feet from the wall. He started stepping out, then caught himself. Unhooking the walkie-talkie, he radioed the two teams surrounding the mansion that he was coming out that window. Once they acknowledged, he stepped out and peered up, spying a window about eight feet overhead. Straining, he slowly pulled himself up until he could sit on the narrow sill. The window was locked. Gently, he broke a pane, unlocked the window, and slid inside, his shotgun at the ready. It was empty. He reached down to bring up the men below. In short order, his three men were up. Easing open the door, Dominic saw that this wing of the mansion contained six or seven rooms. The sounds of gunfire from below were muffled up here. He switched on his walkie-talkie and called Paul. “What is happening down there?”

  “We can’t get up the staircases. We tried ladders outside, without success. I even had a cherry picker come in to help, but it was destroyed. A third of my men are casualties. Where are you?”

  “On the third floor, above the servant’s wing.”

  “Well done. There’s a staircase leading down to the main part of the house.”

  “I know. We’ll start down now.”

  “I’m calling in your teams around the building to help. Also the scopemen and drivers. This has got to go within ten minutes or we must pull out.”

  “I understand.”

  Hooking his radio to his belt, he started down the staircase. The door below was locked. It was too solid to break by body. He fired at the lock with the silenced pistol, them rammed his shoulder against it. It gave under the assault. He exited onto a long corridor. A door opened directly across from him. A face, flushed with battle, peered out. The man’s jaw dropped with disbelief at the sight of Dominic. Dominic fired point blank. The man’s a face turned to gore and he fell from view.

  Halfway down the corridor was an intersecting hallway leading to the staircases Paul was fighting for. Hugging the walls, Dominic and his men moved forward. Suddenly a machine gun opened fire from behind them. In the confines of the narrow corridor, it was deadly. One of Dominic’s men screamed as bullets tore into him. Desperately, Dominic lunged for an open door to a bedroom and dived inside. He felt a bullet tug at his clothes as he passed out of sight.

  He was in the sitting room of a suite. A noise from across the hall caught his ear. It was his two remaining men. They had also leaped through the nearest opening to avoid the murderous gunfire. Dominic called out to them.

  “I’m going back out there,” he said. “When I do, shoot as fast as possible at the muzzle of the chopper, then get out of the way when I start back in.” He drew out a grenade, pulled the pin, and shouted, “Shoot!”

  The moment his man opened fire, he crawled out into the hallway, rolled the grenade sharply along the floor, then dove back into the room. A terrific explosion sounded. Immediately, Dominic was back into the corridor and down the hallway to the gunman’s door. It was blown almost off its hinges. He kicked it open and stepped inside. The gunman was lying on his back, still alive, his chest torn open, his eyes beginning to glaze. He coughed, then he was dead.

  Dominic slung his shotgun and picked up the submachine gun. It was fully loaded and undamaged. His two remaining men came out of their room. He led them cautiously to the intersecting hallway.

  Dominic signaled to his men with a grenade. At his shout “go”, he tossed his bomb down one side of the intersecting hallway while each of the men threw grenades down the opposite side. The noise of the explosions was deafening. At once, Dominic and his men jumped out. At both ends barricades had been erected to defend the staircases. Two gunmen were in each. The two men on Dominic’s side were stretched out on the floor, apparently dead or unconscious. He whirled towards the other side. His two men were firing at a shocked defender still alive. He went down without a fight.

  Bullets came from a darkened doorway at the far end of the corridor, one nicking Dominic’s arm. He tried a door on that side. It was locked. Firing the submachine gun from the hip, he broke it open and sprang inside an unlighted room. Shots struck the wall behind him. He rolled to one side and behind a chair. Flashes from two guns sparkled, one behind a sofa, the other from under a low table. Dominic crawled to the other side of his chair and let off a short burst. The man under the table grunted loudly as bullets thudded into him. A moment later harsh rasps sounded. They became gurgles, then ceased.

  Dominic turned his attention to the remaining gunman. Light from the hallway filtered into the room, shaping the furniture standing about. Dominic got off short bursts into the sofa, trying to drive him out. The man did not panic. Dominic crawled from behind his chair to another heavily upholstered one eight or nine feet away. Slugs from a large caliber pistol kicked pieces of wood and cloth into his face as he scurried behind it. He fired back, forcing his opponent under cover again.

  Outside, in the intersecting hallway, heavy firing broke out. Dominic cursed quietly to himself. Time was running short and he was being held up by a man with a handgun. Unslinging the shotgun, he laid it next to him, then rose and opened rapid fire at the sofa. The submachine gun abruptly fell silent. He flung it at the sofa, then grabbed up his shotgun and charged across the room. It worked perfectly. The gunman, hearing the submachine gun go silent and then having it thrown at him, stood up to make the kill. His form stood out clearly against the window. Dominic fired! The man spun as if hit by a train! Dominic stepped closer and aimed his shotgun for another blast. Suddenly he stopped as the man fell. His breath caught in his throat.

  Carlo Bonazzi lay there! His arm and shoulder were mangled by the shotgun slugs. Dominic grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to a lamp. He switched it on and looked into the white, pinched face of his enemy.

  “Do you know me?” he demanded.

  Bonazzi’s lips curled in hatred. His eyes stared up boldly. “I know you, son of a bastard.”

  “I gave your son the gun he put in his mouth to blow out his insane brains. Think of that in hell.” He raised his shotgun and fired directly into Bonazzi’s face at a distance of one foot. The features disappeared into a mass of pulp.

  Dominic sat down on a chair, suddenly very tired, very drained. He lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt.

  “Number Six,” he called.

  It took a few seconds for Paul to respond. “Number Six here. How are you?”

  “I’m in the room near the intersecting corridor. I just killed Bon -”

  The door to a connecting room behind him unexpectedly opened. He dropped the radio and started off the chair. Huge, powerful arms wrapped around his body. Immediately he leaned forward to throw his assailant over his shoulder. It was like pulling on a mountain. Tighter the arms grew, shutting off the breath in his ches
t. Violently he thrashed about, kicking backward with his foot. The arms squeezed more excruciatingly. Black flashes stabbed through Dominic’s brain. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but no sound came. The blood pounded in his brain. It became so intense that he felt it bursting from his ears.

  A figure suddenly appeared at the open doorway. Paul stood there, unmasked, blood trickling down his arm. He reacted instantly to the sight of Mickey crushing Dominic to death. He began rushing across the room. Mickey’s snarling face broke into a grimace of malignity as he abruptly released Dominic. His hands flashed to Dominic’s jaws. With a sudden, enormously powerful twist, he broke Dominic’s neck directly in front of his brother!

  Grasping the dead man like a rag doll, he flung the corpse at Paul charging towards him. Horrified to the core, Paul turned only at the last moment to deflect the body. His face grew red with naked fury. His shotgun flashed up, but Mickey was already on him. He tore the shotgun from Paul’s hands and tossed it aside.

  Paul stepped in and drove a left and right against the giant’s head. Mickey swayed back from the blows, then he struck twice at Paul’s face. Paul rolled with the punches, but they hurt. He leaned in and sank a fist with all his strength into Mickey’s stomach. The huge man grunted. He reached out to grab Paul. Paul stepped back, fighting furiously with heavy rights and lefts to head and body, unable to believe that any man could remain so unaffected by his blows, and chillingly aware of what would happen if Mickey got his hands on him. In desperation, he jumped over the sofa and whipped out his silenced pistol. Before he could shoot, it was torn from his grasp. A fist struck his temple and knocked him to the floor.

  He rolled to his feet, grabbed up a table lamp and crashed it on Mickey’s head. The big man just shook off the blow and came in. He was not only huge and powerful, but he was also fast. Paul went over to judo, chopping a stiffened hand at the throat, thrusting fingers at his eyes. Mickey warded them off with the barrel of the pistol.

  Suddenly, as if he had enough of it, he fired point blank! The bullet slammed into Paul’s abdomen. All the fighting heat in his body turned ice cold. Nausea reached up to stifle him. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he stepped in and kicked Mickey in the groin. The big man had not expected an assault. He grunted at the pain, then swung a fist at Paul, knocking him to the floor. Without warning, he fired again. The bullet blasted the center of Paul’s chest apart. He fell back, all power drained from his body.

  An ear splitting yell came from the doorway. Mickey whirled. Anthony stood there, his eyes staring in horror. Mickey deliberately fired straight at him.

  The priest gasped as the bullet bored into his chest. Another shout tore from his throat and he sprang upon the huge man. He grabbed the pistol and pulled it away. It fell to the floor. Mickey’s face gleamed with pleasure as his hands sped up and closed around Anthony’s neck. He felt the agreeable pull of shoulder muscles as he exerted pressure.

  Anthony’s hands rose and grasped Mickey’s wrists. The big man’s lips drew back with savage joy as he tightened his grip. Face to face, they stood locked in silent, mortal combat. Then Mickey’s eyes widened as he felt his hands slowly being pulled apart. Unbelieving, he put forth all his power. Anthony, eyes bulging from lack of oxygen and the vast effort, increased his pressure. They swayed back and forth. Suddenly, with a last, titanic surge of strength, Anthony gave a sharp twist and broke the stranglehold. Air rushed into his lungs.

  Mickey began to draw away. A fierce snarl came from Anthony’s tortured throat. He grasped the huge man between the legs and by the front of his jacket. Lifting him high overhead, he flung him against the wall with a demented fury. The huge man’s scalp split open. Anthony staggered over, pulled him up by the hair, and smashed his head against the edge of the door. Recovering quickly, Mickey started fighting back. He beat his fists viciously into Anthony’s face. Anthony ignored them. Again and again he pounded Mickey’s head against the edge of the door. He kept pounding even after the skull broke open and Mickey went into shock. Finally he stopped. He lifted the dying man and carried him to a window. He threw him outside. Mickey turned over once in mid-air before falling on top of a patio railing. The force severed his neck almost completely through.

  Anthony stumbled over to Dominic. He leaned down and a moan came to his lips as he looked into sightless eyes. Turning, he walked crablike to Paul and sat down heavily by his brother.

  Paul looked up, his mouth open, fighting for air. “Tony,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Paul,” he said, tears coursing down his face.

  “Good Tony. Good, wonderful Tony. I love you, Tony.”

  “I love you, too, Paul.”

  “Pray, Tony. Pray for Dom.”

  Anthony fumbled under his shirt for his crucifix. He brought it to his lips. Then suddenly, blood gushed out in a violent stream, mingling with that of Paul’s. Anthony gave a small sigh and fell dead across the body of his brother.

  Paul lay there quietly. The shooting had stopped. Sounds of men moving in the hallway could be heard. Sirens wailed in the night. He lay there feeling an ice cold hand slide into his chest. The dark of the night turned to purple.

  Someone raised his head and placed a velvet cushion under it. Clean, fresh air entered his lungs. His eyes opened wide. There was no one in the room. Then he smiled, because he knew he had just died.

  CHAPTER 21

  Three long, gleaming limousines drew up in front of Ettore’s house. Boranski, his left arm in a sling, stepped out of the first car and walked to the one directly behind. He opened the door to help Rose, Carol and Kristine climb out. From the third limousine came Bonny, Ingrid and Eleanor.

  All the women were dressed in black. Slowly they walked up the path to the house. The guards were gone, the world was at peace. For this, they had just buried Paul and Anthony and Dominic. No gathering at the house was to be observed. The six women had sat stiffly during the mass and stood erect at the cemetery for the time necessary to inter the three DiStephanos, then they had walked towards their cars, dry eyed, too stunned to show the emotions cleaving apart their battered hearts. But the word had been passed. All was to end here. No food nor drinks nor assembly at the house afterwards. The mourning would be naked, without distraction.

  Rose led the way through the door opened by Mario and let him take her coat, then the coats of the others. They went into the living room and sank into Ettore’s deep, silk chairs. Boranski stood quietly to one side.

  “Cy,” Rose finally said, sitting up and turning her head to look at him. “Please sit down.” He took a chair facing her. “How are the men?”

  “Eleven are dead, Mrs. Donini, and fourteen wounded. Three quite seriously.”

  “I want the families of the dead to be amply provided for. And every injured man to receive the best attention and properly rewarded.”

  “That’s already being taken care of. Mr. Barrington has been more than generous.”

  “What will be the reaction with the police?”

  The pudgy man sighed. “It will be nasty, of course. Most of us will be imprisoned. But our attorneys are convinced that the sentences will not be too heavy. We’ve put all the blame on the General. It won’t bother him now. After all, the family died to defend its own.”

  “Thank you, Cy. I want you to know that I will take charge of everything here - until all of you are free.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Donini. I knew you would.” He stood up. “I’m terribly sorry for all of you.” He turned and walked out of the house.

  Rose got out of her chair and crossed to Ettore’s liquor cabinet. Opening the door, she took out a bottle of his favorite red table wine. She filled six glasses and passed them about, the other women rising to take their drinks.

  Holding up her glass, tears running down her cheeks, she said, “To the DiStephano men and Vito, God bless every last one of them.” Choking off her tears, she drained her glass, then threw it against the stone fireplace that Ettore had so laboriously built over half a cent
ury ago.

  One by one, the others followed suit, their eyes blinded by the grief that had been kept in check until now.

  They sat down, empty, the world as they knew it suddenly and irrevocably void, a pall of loneliness spreading over them all.

  “All gone,” moaned Rose, broken-hearted. In her mind’s eye, she saw again the family plot in the cemetery. There was Mama, waiting all these years, and in six months joined by Maria, Junior, Michael, Vincent, Vito, Bob, Bert, Papa, Paul, Anthony and Dominic. “All of them gone. No more DiStephano men. All of them in their cold, dark holes.” She fell back and closed her eyes. “Oh, God, dear God. The end of the family.”

  “Rose.” She opened her eyes. Bonny was standing in front of her.

  “Yes, Bonny.”

  Bonny’s hands were on her abdomen. “I’m pregnant. I’m carrying Dom’s child.”

  With a cry of surprise, Rose jumped up and grasped Bonny in her arms. “Oh, Bonny, how wonderful.” She hugged her and kissed her cheeks. “Dear, sweet Bonny.” Then her eyes gleamed with sudden hope. “Thank You, God, thank You,” she whispered.

  She turned to the others, still holding tightly to the slim, brown haired woman.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it’s not the end.”

  And the others closed in around them.

  End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lester Taube was born of Russian and Lithuanian immigrants in Trenton, New Jersey. He began soldiering in his teens in a National Guard horse artillery regiment, where in four years he rose in grade from private to the exalted rank of private first class. In World War II, he became an infantry officer. His first operation was on the Bismarck Archipelago, where his most dangerous opponents were malaria and sand fleas. His regiment was next attached to the 3rd Marine Division for the Iwo Jima operation, then he and 18 other soft headed volunteers fought on Okinawa, the last battle of the war. Recuperating from wounds and malaria, he left the army to run a 400 employee electronic company in California, a 450 employee paper stock company in Pennsylvania, then moved to Canada to open a logging and pulpwood cutting operation. Recalled to service during the Korean police action, he served as an advisor to the Turkish army, then as an intelligence officer and company commander in Korea.