Fighting to Survive (The Casey Russo Chronicles Book 1)

by Rick Pine

  “On your knees,” yelled the voice again. “And hands behind your head.”

  Casey obliged, before speaking. “Don’t suppose I get a phone call, do I?”

  Chapter 22

  As Casey sat in a wooden chair with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of déjà vu.

  He’d certainly caught his captors off guard with his presence. They definitely hadn’t planned on interrogating anyone tonight.

  After they’d caught him and pointed guns at his head, they realized he’d already killed two of their men when radio checks had gone unanswered. They hadn’t even bothered to blindfold him on his way into this large room in one of the warehouses. Casey wouldn’t have minded, either way; he would be able to retrace his steps when he escaped in either case.

  He sensed they were in a rush. Everyone was on edge and scrambling. They’d clearly not done this before, nor had planned for such an occasion. As Casey was marched across the courtyard with his rope-bound hands, he was able to see the line of trucks getting shorter. They’d almost finished decanting the last of the gasoline from the tankers and wanted to get out of dodge. For all they knew, the whole army—Mafia-controlled—was about to descend on them.

  Casey sat patiently, not saying a word. The wooden chair was old, but felt stable enough to smash someone over the head with. He’d already loosened the rope binding his hands on the way over to the room. No-one had noticed. There were just two guards in the room with him at present, both carrying M4 carbine rifles with a trusty M203 under-slung grenade launcher, and both wearing the same urban camo patterned uniforms. One guarded the door while the other stood in front of Casey. It would be easy enough for him to escape right now, but they were waiting for someone. They wanted information from him, otherwise they’d have shot him already. And Casey wanted information, too, so he decided not to kill the guards and escape. Not yet.

  As Casey looked around the dimly lit space, he saw nothing but trash lying around. There was no furniture, windows, or anything of any kind of use. There was a terrible damp smell, too, but Casey forced himself to get accustomed to it.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The guard opened it, keeping his eyes on Casey and not the door. As the door opened Casey saw another guard standing the other side of the threshold. He’d worn the same dress to the ball as his coworkers. How embarrassing for the three of them.

  In walked another man, who was dressed in some kind of officer’s uniform, with a long, unbuttoned overcoat hanging from his slender frame. Casey saw the man’s sidearm holstered around his waist as his jacket swung open.

  He walked straight up to Casey, pulling his gun out and pressing it against Casey’s head before he’d even come to a complete stop.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger right now?” demanded the raging man.

  “I can give you a few, but you’ll have to take me to dinner first and show me a good time,” said Casey, winking at him.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Jinx! I was just about the ask you the same thing!”

  Casey could knew sarcasm and childish behavior was irking him more. But he wasn’t scared. He doubted if this scrawny fellow had even killed before. Especially as he’d forgotten to take the safety off when he drew his weapon to push into Casey’s skull. Amateur, Casey thought, and smiled.

  “I asked first, now tell me something I want to know before I end you!” demanded the man, now leaning over and invading Casey’s personal.

  “Jinx!” Casey said again as he projected a manic look on his face. But before the man could reply Casey had already freed his hands completely and head-butted him straight on the nose, while simultaneously stripping him of his gun. Casey flipped the gun around, and flicked off the safety and pushed his chair backward, sending it, and him, crashing to the floor.

  Oddly, the bloodied man stepped in front of the two guards, preventing them from firing straight away.

  As Casey hit the floor he fired a shot through the legs of the man, hitting the first guard in the leg. The guard dropped to the hard concrete floor as his leg gave out, and Casey pulled the trigger again, shooting him square in the chest.

  The guard from the door now had his rifle pointing at Casey, but the shot wasn’t clear. The guard yelled, “Lieutenant, get down!”

  As the Lieutenant dropped to his knees, Casey did a complete roll to the side just in time, as a burst of bullets splintered the wooden chair. Casey fired two more shots as he came to a stop on his back. Both hit their target.

  Casey stood up in time to see the door being kicked open. He ducked down and grabbed the Lieutenant’s long hair, pulling him up to a standing position.

  The door guard froze, unsure what to do.

  Casey returned the favor, and pushed the barrel of the gun into the side of the Lieutenant’s head. “Tell your friend over there to put his gun down and raise his hands,” said Casey, “before I end you.”

  The guard didn’t wait for the command from his superior and bent over to place his gun on the floor. As soon as the guard's finger was clear of the trigger, Casey turned the gun at the guard and shot him in the head.

  “And then there were two,” said Casey.

  “W-w-what do you want?” asked the Lieutenant, who was now crying.

  “Where are the trucks going? Wait… did you piss yourself?” Casey could smell it before he saw it. Still with a firm grasp on the man’s hair, he yanked backward, sending the Lieutenant tumbling into the wall and down on his ass, then loomed over him with the gun aimed at his face. “Are you going to tell me? Or should I make you shit yourself, too?”

  “I can’t. Captain Johnson will kill me.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Play hopscotch?” He wasn’t sure why he’d thought of the word hopscotch. His daughter used to love playing that game with him. Now he was thinking of his daughter. This is not the time to get sentimental, he told himself. Concentrate.

  “They’re going to lots of places. I don’t know them all. But Captain—”

  “That’s enough. Tell your Captain Johnson that Casey Russo will kick his ass if I ever see him.” Casey swung his leg, kicking the Lieutenant in the face, and squeezing his head between his foot and the concrete wall. His body went limp as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Casey headed for the door, picking up the door guard’s rifle. He quickly checked the fallen guard for anything else useful, taking a shell for the grenade launcher and loading it. He turned left as he exited, the opposite way he’d entered the room, and ran straight for the door at the far end of the corridor.

  He jumped and kicked the door as he reached it, slamming it open.

  Casey was now looking at freedom. The only thing in front of him was the long grass that surrounded the complex. Casey headed straight for it, knowing others would soon be searching for him. He kept low in the grass and circled back around to the front of the complex.

  There was now a riotous panic as the remaining men were running around frantically looking for him, while others hastily packed up the site, ready to leave the area. Casey was sure they’d discovered and removed the trackers, given that they’d caught him in the act. He paused for a second, contemplating an answer to the question: “Do I blow up the trucks, or head straight for the car and hightail it out of here?”

  He knew that Ciro wouldn’t be too pleased that all that gasoline would be lost in either case. But if it was in the IA’s hands, then there was no way he’d get Billy back. If he blew them up, maybe, just maybe, Ciro might see it as a small victory. Especially given the number of IA member’s he’d killed. And he had a name, too; Captain Johnson. Maybe that was enough to bargain for Billy’s life.

  Fuck it!

  Casey turned and headed closer to the courtyard full of men stopping just short of the fringe of the grass. The guards on the roof remained in place, searching for him. He had just one shot, then his position would no longer remain
secret.

  He aimed his rifle upwards, judging the best he could, and pulled the trigger, sending a grenade flying through the air with a loud whumph as it left the barrel. He immediately turned and ran, as the guards on top of the building opened fire.

  Casey didn’t stop to see if his shot was successful. Instead, he sprinted flat out towards the car he’d hoped was still parked where he left it.

  Even though he was out of range, Casey could hear the guns still firing into thin air, in the wild hope of hitting him.

  A few seconds later Casey felt an immense pressure against his back from a cascade of explosions as the line of gasoline filled trucks blew up, one by one.

  By the time he’d ran the mile back to his car, the complex was ablaze and smoke billowed crazily into the air. Casey jumped into the car, throwing his guns onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. Looking back at the complex in the rearview mirror, he smiled. He was almost proud of himself.

  Shoving the car into gear, he floored it and sped away as fast as he could.

  “Time to get Billy back.”

  Chapter 23

  Northern Territory

  The Pits, Cincinnati.

  Casey pulled down the side alley and parked the car in front of the entrance to the Pits. After deciding it best to hide the rifle on the passenger seat, he got out and walked to the black iron door for the last time.

  He knocked loudly on the door, and waited.

  After a moment, Ben opened the door, and without a word let him in.

  “Arms up,” Ben said as he closed the door behind Casey.

  He obliged.

  After the pat down Casey was walked to Ciro DeLuca’s usual table and place of business. On the walk over Casey had a sudden sinking feeling in his gut.

  There were three men at the table as he approached. Ciro, Nicolas, and Johny were deep in conversation, and by the looks of it, Ciro was in a foul mood.

  “Sir, Mr. Russo is here to see you,” announced Ben.

  Ciro looked up. His expression was a mix of anger and curiosity.

  “How the hell are you alive?” asked Nicolas.

  “I was about to ask the same thing,” replied Casey. He stared at Nicolas for a second. How was he here after so much radio silence?

  “So, where’s my tanker?” demanded Ciro.

  “They’re all gone. But I followed the trackers to an abandoned warehouse just outside of Warsaw.”

  “Alright, let’s go get them back,” said Ciro, pulling out his cell phone.

  “I’m afraid they’ll be gone now. It was a temporary facility. They’ve decanted the cargo into smaller U-Haul trucks with custom tanks fitted inside. There used to be dozens of them.”

  “Used to be?” asked Nicolas.

  “They caught me switching the trackers from the tankers to the trucks, and tried to interrogate me.”

  “But you didn’t tell them anything?” asked Ciro.

  “Of course not.”

  “So where are these U-Haul trucks now?”

  “Probably still burning at the warehouse.”

  “You blew them up?” interjected Nicolas.

  “It was either that or the IA would drive away with your shipment, just as they’d planned. I figured if you had to choose between the IA taking your cargo or it burning, then you’d choose the latter.”

  Ciro didn’t respond. His hand covered his face as he took a moment to think. Casey looked over to Johny and Nicolas. Johny looked bored, and Nicolas looked agitated. He wondered why.

  “How’d you escape alive, Nicolas?” Casey asked him.

  Before he could answer Ben reappeared. “Sir,” he said urgently. “Mr. Gotti has just pulled up.”

  “Fuck!” Ciro exclaimed. “Okay, thanks, Ben. Show him in, promptly, would you?”

  “Of course, sir.” Ben disappeared.

  Ciro asked more questions about the night's event while they waited for Mr. Gotti to arrive. “Casey, Nicolas tells me you chased a guy at the refinery.”

  “Yeah, he got away. He wasn’t alone though.” Casey rubbed the back of his leg, feeling the bruise the steel pipe had left. “They sped off in a truck. There were three of them in total, including the driver.”

  “Interesting,” replied Ciro.

  Ben reappeared with Mr. Gotti and his entourage behind him. This time Ben stayed.

  “Hello, Mr. Gotti. What a pleasant surprise,” said Ciro.

  “Skip the pleasantries, Ciro. Where’s the shipment?” he demanded.

  “Not in the IA’s hands, thankfully. But not here either.”

  “So you lost it? Again!”

  “Not exactly. But the IA did interfere and hijack the trucks. They knew when to strike. Casey was captured, but got away, thankfully.”

  Casey turned around to face Joseph, and both men made eye contact for the first time. Joseph raised his hand, pointing at Casey.

  “This! This is Casey?” yelled Joseph.

  Ciro looked confused. But Casey knew as soon as they made eye contact how the rest of the night was going to play out.

  They did know each other. Casey recognized the face, if not the name. Joseph Gotti wasn’t always part of the Gambino family. Ten years ago he had been a Caporegime for the Genovese family and was partly responsible for his father's death. They knew each other alright.

  “Yes, that’s Casey. Why? Do you know him?” asked Ciro.

  “Did you ID scan him? Or are you all just complete idiots here?”

  “I’m sure we—”

  “If you did, then you’d know this is not Casey,” interrupted Joseph, including the sarcastic air quote. “This is Francis Russo. A traitor, just like his father. There’s a price on his head that would make even Don DeLuca’s eyes spin.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ciro, now flush with embarrassment.

  “Don’t question me, boy!” snarled Joseph. “Check him,” he demanded of one of his entourage.

  The biggest of the bunch stepped forward, even towering above Casey. He grabbed his right arm. “He has a scar,” he declared. He scanned Casey’s arm with his portable ID scanner. “No chip,” he grunted.

  Ciro’s smile quickly faded.

  “Put a bullet in his head,” ordered Joseph.

  “Wait…” Ciro shouted. “You said the Genovese have a contract on him. Tensions are already strained between our families. Why not offer Casey—I mean Francis—as a gesture of goodwill. A peace offering, of sorts. Let them decide what to do with him.”

  Joseph remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then, “Do you have somewhere to hold him here?” he asked.

  Ciro nodded. “My cells downstairs are solid. He’ll be safe.”

  “Good. Make sure he doesn’t escape. I’ll make the call to the Genovese.”

  “Surely I should—”

  “What you continue to fail to understand, boy, is that no one likes you. Especially the Genovese.” He paused to let it sink in. “They know me, and I will make the call on behalf of the family.”

  Casey stood silent and listened to the conversation that was playing out in front of him. He’d contemplated running, but there were too many of them, and the odds were heavy against him. He was also unarmed, and they were not. If they put a gun to his head, then he’d go down fighting. He still had options, as long as they kept him alive. It would take the Genovese family ten to twelve hours, at least, to get here and collect him. He had time to escape and rescue Billy. He just needed to be smart.

  “Johny,” called Ciro, “take the traitor and lock him up downstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Johny smiled at Casey as he pulled out his handgun and shoved it into Casey’s back.

  “You’re screwed now. Let’s go, pretty boy,” said Johny with a chuckle.

  Chapter 24

  Casey was marched down the stairs with a handgun poking him in his back the whole way. At the bottom of the stairs he was confronted with a short, narrow hallway with a barred door. Casey could see an armed guard st
anding the other side. The guard unlocked the door using the hand-print scanner on the side of the door. Even from six feet away, Casey heard the mechanical clunk as it unlocked. The guard raised his rifle and pointed it at Casey’s head. Casey stopped in his tracks, not knowing if that was a sign to stop. He received a sharp jab in his back from Johny’s handgun.

  “Keep moving, traitor,” instructed Johny.

  Casey passed through the doorway and past the door guard. In front of him were rows of prison cells. A row on his right, and a row on his left, with each cell submerged into the wall. The main walkway in between opened up from the narrow hallway, much to Casey’s liking. The cells appeared to have two sections, unlike a regular prison cell. Each had a barred wall and door, as Casey would have expected, but also a walled area with a small barred window up high. The only thing visible through the bars was a cot bed, one in each cell.

  The first few cells they passed by were empty. Casey looked down the line; there must have been about a dozen cells each side in total. At the far end, a door had the word ‘GYM’ was painted above it.

  “Stop. This one,” said Johny, emphasizing his command with another harsh prod of his gun into Casey’s back. The door on Casey’s right opened up, and Casey turned to face it while feeling Johny’s gun pushing deeper into his flesh. He turned his head as far as he could to look at Johny without moving the rest of his body. The last thing he needed was to give him a reason to pull the trigger.

  “No goodbye kiss?” Casey joked.

  “Fuck you!” Johny snarled.

  Casey felt Johny’s overly shined shoe thud into his back with a vicious kick, sending him stumbling forwards into the cell.

  The door slid shut, locking with a distinctive loud clunk. Casey turned to watch both Johny and the guard walk away.