by Susan Fleet
She heard the bathroom door open. Bianca saw her hunched on the floor with her wrists bound together and shut the door.
“Bianca,” she called softly. “It's okay to come out. He's gone.”
After a moment the door opened again. Clutching a small first aid kit, Bianca ran across the room, sobbing as if her heart would break. “I'm sorry I got you in trouble, Laura. I didn't mean to.”
“I know you didn't. You miss your mama and you were upset.”
“I'm afraid of Owl.”
“So am I. He's a very bad man.”
“Your arm must hurt. Maybe I can make it better.” Bianca put the blue-plastic first aid kit on the bed nearest the window, opened it and held up a packet of band-aids. “Will this help?”
“Maybe. Show me what else is in it.”
Bianca brought it over and held it so she could see the contents. More band-aids, antiseptic wipes, a small tube of antibiotic ointment, sterile gauze pads, a roll of adhesive tape, and a small pair of scissors.
“Open the little tube and squeeze some ointment onto a gauze pad.”
Bianca took out the tube and unscrewed the cap. A blob of white ointment oozed onto her finger. She put her finger over the burn.
“No, don't do that. Open one of those little square packets and squeeze some ointment on the pad. Then put it over the burn.”
Frowning in concentration, Bianca tore open the packet, squeezed ointment onto the gauze pad, and pressed it against the quarter-sized burn. The pad was just large enough to cover it. “Perfect,” Natalie said. “But we have to get out of here before Orazio comes back.”
“Why don't you call your boyfriend? Maybe he can help us.” Bianca raised the front of her shirt.
The iPhone was tucked into the waistband of her jeans.
Stunned speechless, she stared at her lifeline to Pak Lam. And now, though she hated to admit it, to Frank Renzi.
“How did you find it?” she said.
“When I was in the bathroom, I looked in your makeup bag and saw it. Call the man who lives in that house with the little boy. The one who looks a little bit like Papa. He's a nice man.”
A nice man. Well, Frank could be nice when he wanted to be. Bianca didn't know he wanted to arrest her. But that didn't matter now. If they didn't get out of here, Orazio would kill them.
“Okay, push the long button on the top to turn it on.”
But Frank's number was in her Conti phone, she realized, not her iPhone contact list. The area code was easy. She remembered the next three digits, but the last four were hazy. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Was the last digit a three or an eight?
When the iPhone screen lit up, Bianca said, “What do I do now?”
“Press on the picture of the telephone.”
When the next screen opened, Natalie said, “Okay, do you know your numbers?”
Bianca smiled. “Yes! All the way up to twenty!”
“Good. I'll tell you three numbers and you punch them in, okay?”
“Okay,” Bianca said, her tiny finger poised over the buttons.
She recited the area code one digit at a time and watched to make sure Bianca hit the correct buttons. Then she gave her the next three digits.
Bianca happily poked the buttons.
She recited the next three numbers and stopped. She still wasn't sure about the last one.
“Hit three, push the green button and hold the phone to my ear.”
Bianca followed instructions and held the phone to her ear. She heard it ring. Once. Twice.
“Hello?” said a female voice. Her heart sank. Had she dialed the wrong number? Wait. Maybe it was Kelly.
“Hi, Kelly?” she said.
“There's no Kelly here.” A click and the line went dead.
She wanted to scream. Now she had to go through the whole process again. And the clock was ticking. Any minute Orazio might come back.
Frowning, Bianca said, “What's wrong? Did I make a mistake?”
“No. It's my fault. The last number I gave you was wrong.” She forced a smile. “Can you enter that many numbers again?”
Bianca looked like she'd just given her a Christmas present. “Yes! Tell me the numbers!”
_____
Frank stood at the open front door of the Hogan house, tensely peering out the storm door. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He felt like he was in a sauna, layered with clothes, his sweat-soaked T-shirt clammy against his skin, then an insulated Kevlar vest, which he'd concealed beneath his long-sleeved sweatshirt.
“What are they doing?” he said, speaking into his cellphone. David had just called to tell him the FBI Hummer with the SWAT team had parked on the side street north of the mob house where David and Orville were stationed.
“Nothing,” David said. “You want me to go talk to them?”
“No. Sit tight. Call me right away if they make a move.”
He shut his cellphone and yelled to Kelly, who was upstairs watching the mob house. “David says the Hummer is parked down the street from him. Ten to one, Conti is with them. I'm going to drive my car around the block and talk to him.”
“Okay,” Kelly called, “but be careful.”
“I will.” He'd be careful all right, careful he didn't kill Conti.
He ran down the hall to the kitchen. As he opened the door to the mudroom his cellphone rang. He checked the ID. Unknown Caller.
He punched on and said, “Renzi.”
“Frank! Orazio found my Conti cellphone and he's furious.”
Blown away, it took him a second to respond. “Natalie? Where's Bianca?”
“Here in the room with me. She dialed the number.”
“You've got another cellphone?”
A brief silence, then, “The man who guards the front door called Orazio downstairs. Before he left, he bound my wrists with a cord and tied the other end to the window fixture. He said if we tried to get away, he would … hurt us.”
Kill us, Frank thought. But Natalie didn't want to say that in front of Bianca.
“Hold on a second.” He charged down the hall to the front door and studied the mob house. “Which room? Which window?”
“The corner room on the second floor. The side window above the garage.”
“Can you and Bianca climb out the window?”
“No. I can't move!”
“Okay, listen carefully. Find a way to get free of the cord so you can climb out the window. Get Bianca to help you.” He decided not to mention the SWAT team. She was already terrified. Why make it worse? “Call me when you get free. I'll park my car in the driveway, stand beside the garage and help you and Bianca get off the roof.”
“Okay, Frank. I'll try.” But she didn't sound hopeful.
“You can do it.” Hoping she could, he ended the call.
He ran back to the kitchen, went out through the mudroom and jumped in his car. He backed out of the driveway, drove around the corner and paused beside the NOPD van. Tony Coppola lowered the window and said, “I saw the FBI SWAT team. That sucks. Mobsters are bad enough. Now we gotta deal with the fibbies?”
“Yes, thanks to Conti. Natalie and Bianca are trapped in a room on the second floor. If SWAT tries to enter the house, they're toast. Conti's probably with the SWAT team. I'm going there now.”
Tony grimaced. “Good luck with that. Keep me posted, but don't use your radio. Too many people listening. Cellphones are better.”
“Exactly,” Frank said, and sped off. He turned the next corner, zoomed down the street and rounded the next corner. A large rectangular Hummer H2 with a flat roof and dark-tinted windows was parked twenty yards away. Standing beside it, Conti was talking to a short stocky man with FBI stenciled on the back of his jacket.
The SWAT team, a dozen or so men in camo outfits, stood beside the Hummer. Two of them were smoking, gearing up for the action. Frank knew the feeling: grab a nicotine hit before the shooting starts. The others were checking their weapons: handguns and automatic rifles.
He parked beyond the Hummer and approached the FBI agent. Ignoring Conti, he flashed his ID and said, “Frank Renzi, NOPD. We've got a critical situation in the mob house.”
“Stay out of this, Renzi,” Conti said. “Everything is under control.”
“Like hell it is! Natalie and Bianca are prisoners in a second-floor bedroom. Make a move on the house, Orazio will kill them.”
The FBI agent, a chunky man with a bullet head, graying hair and steely eyes, scowled at him. “This isn't your jurisdiction,” he said in a gravelly voice. “The SAC already notified the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Department about possible police action in this area. I'm in charge of this operation. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ezra Wyner. What's your interest in the case?”
“I have arrest warrants for Natalie Brixton. Agent Conti persuaded her to infiltrate the Mafia gang, but he doesn't seem too worried about her welfare.”
“How do you know what's going on in the house?” Wyner said.
“I just talked to Natalie.”
“Talked to her?” Conti said. “How?”
“Listen, Conti, there are three women in that house, including a five-year-old girl. You want to arrest the mafiosos? Show me how brave you are. Go on up to the front door and ring the bell.”
Conti's cheeks flamed red. He shut his mouth and said nothing.
Frank turned to Wyner and said, “You want this to turn into another Ruby Ridge? Waco?” Deliberately citing two cases that had sullied the Bureau's reputation—one in 1992, the other in 1993—when several women and children died during armed sieges by FBI and ATF agents.
Judging by the pained look on Wyner's face, he didn't.
“Call the SAC,” Frank said. “Ask him if it's worth endangering the lives of innocent women and children to arrest these mobsters.”
“Okay,” Wyner said. “But you need to understand who's in charge of this operation.”
“And you need to understand that the lives of innocent people are at stake,” he said. “If something happens to them, don't say I didn't warn you.”
CHAPTER 39
Steeling himself, Orazio strode to his bedroom window and studied the street. No Hummer. No SWAT team with assault rifles. He circled the king-sized bed, went to the side window and studied the adjacent yard beyond the six-foot fence. In the fading light, holiday lights decorating the exterior of the house blinked off and on, no lights inside. And no FBI agents lurking near the fence, about to climb over it.
No telling how many there were. Plenty of firepower in the room downstairs, but he had only two soldiers. Silvano had said he would send reinforcements, but that might take a while.
He picked up one of the Uzis that lay on his bed. His gang in Venice used them. It was a fine weapon. He thought of it as an extension6 of himself. He controlled the Uzi; his reflexes and judgment told him when to shoot. Others might question his orders, might even fail him in the end. His weapon never did. But if an Uzi wasn't cleaned regularly, it tended to jam. Not what he wanted if a SWAT team attacked the house.
Due to its open-bolt mechanism the Uzi was easily disassembled. Quickly and efficiently, he field-stripped it and laid the components out on the bed, each precision-made part designed to fit another. He was pleased to find them clean and well-oiled. Reassured, he reassembled the Uzi. The magazine held the standard 32-rounds, this one 9mm Parabellum cartridges. A pity. Such rounds would not penetrate body armor, but now that he knew this he would aim accordingly.
He slammed the magazine into the Uzi. Where the hell was Tommy? All this activity—the guard calling him, footsteps running up and downstairs—and Tommy remained in his room, oblivious. Agitated, he took a cigar off the top of his dresser, unwrapped it and held it beneath his nose. The robust aroma calmed him. He could almost feel Father's presence. In every mafia family there were those who envied the leader, men like Tommy. They saw only the money and power that came with the position, not the burdensome responsibilities.
Where would the FBI agents attack first? The back of the house? The front? Or would it be the doomsday scenario? If they split up into teams and swarmed all sides of the house at once, he and Tommy and Catarina and Rocco would die. His reputation as a strong leader would be ruined. Forever after, everyone would know Orazio had failed to protect the Antonetti Family, bringing shame upon him. This he could not allow.
He took a final sniff of the cigar and put it in his shirt pocket. The obstacles he faced were difficult, but not insurmountable. The house was well-protected. A six-foot fence guarded three sides. Position was the key to defense. He had to think like a general and position his troops carefully. Unfortunately Rocco and Tomasso were his only soldiers.
He stood at the front window and brought the Uzi to his shoulder in the firing position. He was a fine marksman, but he was surrounded by many enemies. Last Saturday when Silvano showed him around this house, he had marveled at how spacious it was.
Now it felt claustrophobic. He was trapped.
Dire images crept into his mind: men wearing body armor and helmets, wielding assault weapons, attacking the house.
But which part of the house? He couldn't be everywhere at once.
Wait. The surveillance cameras! The only time they were turned on was when Tick-Tock came here to conduct important business or screw the whores he didn't want his wife to know about.
He bolted from the room and ran downstairs. Rocco had put his Uzi on the dining room table and was dragging one of the sideboards into the foyer to barricade the front door. “Rocco, do you know how to turn on the surveillance cameras?”
“Yes, sir. The switch is in the movie room off the kitchen.”
“Where are the monitors?”
“In the utility room at the top of the stairs opposite your bedroom.” Rocco smiled. “The Boss don't want nobody in the movie room while he's in there with his girlfriends.”
“Excellent idea, blocking the door,” Orazio said, a good general keeping his soldier happy. “Go turn on the cameras. Then come upstairs to the utility room.”
Rocco ran down the hall toward the kitchen. Orazio mounted the stairs two at a time. The utility room was beside the staircase, directly above the room with the weapons. He opened the door, flicked a light switch and stepped inside. Like many homes in New Orleans, essential equipment—electricity, heating and cooling—had been installed on the second floor to guard against destructive flooding from torrential rains or the hurricanes that often threatened the area.
The right half of the room held the utility equipment, but along the left-hand wall, five closed circuit TV monitors sat on a wide metal shelf. All the screens were blank. And then they weren't. He studied the black-and-white images.
One monitor showed the backyard and the fence behind the house. Another displayed the narrow area between the north side of the house and the fence. A third showed the front of the house, including the front door. A fourth showed the narrow strip of land between the fence and the garage. The fifth monitor displayed the garage, the side door and the driveway.
Perfect. He would have Catarina watch the monitors and alert him when the FBI agents attacked the house.
Rocco rushed into the room, out of breath, clutching his Uzi.
“Wait here,” Orazio said. “I will send Catarina to watch the monitors. Show her how to operate the controls. Then go downstairs and guard the front of the house.”
He went across the hall to his room, grabbed the two Uzis and hurried down the hall. At the far end, he put his ear to the door of the nanny's room. He heard nothing. Should he check to make sure she was behaving? No. First he had to get Tommy into position.
He rapped on the door across the hall and stepped inside. A blast of sound greeted him, a soccer match on television. Standing beside the double bed, Catarina saw the Uzis in his hands and looked at him fearfully. Several outfits were laid out on her side of the bed. Jesus! How could she think about clothes now? On Tommy's side of the bed, two pillows were propped against the
headboard.
He shut off the television set. “Where is Tommy?”
Catarina nervously licked her lips. “In the bathroom.”
He strode to the bathroom door. “Tommy, come out here!”
In the silence, he heard water running. Moments later, the door opened and Tommy came out, drying his hands on a towel. He saw the Uzis and said, “What is wrong?”
Fury rose inside him like an oil gusher. In the midst of this crisis, Tommy had been lying in bed watching a soccer match on TV.
“There are FBI agents outside the house. A SWAT team in a Hummer.”
Catarina gasped. Tommy just stared at him.
He thrust the spare Uzi at Tommy. “Stand at your window and guard the back fence. If anyone climbs over it, shoot them.”
Tommy took the Uzi. “What do we do if they get in the house?”
“Make sure they don't. Shoot to kill. Our lives depend on it. Rocco turned on the surveillance cameras. Catarina will watch the monitors.”
He took her to the utility room, returned to his bedroom and stood at the window with the Uzi.
All quiet in the room next door. No shopping for the girl and the deceitful Vietnamese spy tonight, not with a Hummer full of FBI agents outside. He would have to kill them here.
_____
Natalie watched helplessly as Bianca tried to cut the clothesline with the tiny scissors. The muscles in her hands just weren't strong enough. Whenever she managed to get the blades around one strand of the cord and tried to cut it, the scissors turned sideways and jammed. Each time it happened, Bianca grew more frustrated. She'd been happy punching numbers into the iPhone, thrilled when the call to Frank went through.
Now the girl was close to tears. So was she.
She was a prisoner, as trapped here as she would be in a jail cell. Except that in a jail cell, Orazio couldn't walk in and kill her.
“Stop and rest, Bianca. You're tired.”
Bianca stuck out her lower lip. “Why can't I go down to the kitchen and get a sharp knife?”
“It's too dangerous.” If you try to leave the room, I will kill you both.
