There was a crack and a puff of smoke, he stumbled but there wasn’t any pain.
“The Pope, he sends his regards.” Another crack. This time there was pain. A lot of it. His left lung felt like someone was inside his chest squeezing with an iron grip. He glanced at his abdomen as his knees hit the ground and saw twin trails of torn flesh issuing rivers of blood through his clothing. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, still clutching the picture of Kira and fell to his side. He tried to breathe but blood backed up into his throat, filling his mouth with the taste of iron. Blood also trailed along his arm though he couldn’t remember if he had clutched at his wound or not, but his hands were red and the slow crawl of the rivulet’s of blood along his fingers seeped their way along the picture of his daughter. He tried to wipe the blood off of the picture, but he only managed to smear it.
“Where is he, your friend?” The Italian lazily pointed his gun at Ivan again. He looked over his back shoulder as if expecting someone to show up at any minute.
Ivan grunted and, still clutching the picture, pressed his palm to the ground. He couldn’t breathe for shit but with dirt and blood caking his hand he pressed with what strength he had and stood up. He faced the Italian who flashed him a quizzical look with those beady black eyes of his and cautiously took a step backwards.
“Fuck you,” Ivan spat. Blood flowed freely into his mouth with the effort and he knew that there was little time left to him. He took a wobbly step forward, then another and his momentum carried him straight up to the Italian who didn’t shuffle out of the way fast enough. Ivan clutched the barrel of the gun in a desperate hope to pull it from the man and shove it up his ass, but all he got instead was another crack and a puff of smoke. This time he was so close that he could smell his flesh burning from the powder discharge and then suddenly he was on his back and the world was spinning in circles above him.
“Ivan,” he heard her. “Ivan, come home.”
He felt a boot press on his wrist and the Italian yanked the picture out of his hand. His small black eyes narrowed and he looked down on Ivan, but Ivan had no strength to reach up and strangle the man.
Again he heard her voice, his darling wife. “Ivan. Ivan come home.”
Not yet.
He wanted to shout it. But he gurgled and coughed more blood instead.
Eleven years, three months seventeen days on the inside.
His eyes drifted to the side.
He felt the man place the picture back in his hand and close his fingers around it. “Antonio Benedici,” the man said. “Un soldato del destino.”
He stood over Ivan and pointed the gun at his temple.
One day. One on the outside.
He tried to breathe again, knowing he couldn’t. Old habits die hard. His chest constricted and seized on the blood filling his lungs.
I’m coming my love.
Crack.
Chapter 27
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The Pope tilted his head to the side and watched his cell dance across the nightstand like a Mexican jumping bean. He reached out to grab it and felt the burning pinch of the IV sticking out of the top of his hand. His arm felt like someone had attached a ten-pound weight to it, but he grabbed the phone anyway.
Blocked number.
His eyes felt dry and sticky and his nose felt raw every time he took a breath inward. With his free hand he touched the tip of his nose and felt the breathing apparatus attached to it. The small tubes ran outward into some sort of metal tank. He scanned the room as he answered the phone. The first time he said hello, his voice caught on his throat, but the second time he managed to rasp out the syllables.
“Tell me.”
A hushed voice crackled through on the other line. “The Soviet fell. The Italian lost gallons of blood but the polizia picked him up. I’m trying to escape, but it doesn’t look good.”
The Pope closed his eyes and felt the air roll through his lungs like razor blades. “Get out of there. Wipe any weapons and ditch em. If they pick you up, keep your mouth shut and remember, it’s not what you know. It’s what you can prove.”
He heard the wind crackle through the reception during a long pause. “Sì.”
Click.
He pressed the “End” button and dropped the phone on his chest, too tired to worry about placing it back on the nightstand.
Besides what if someone else calls?
He heard someone singing a song down the hall.
“La donna è mobile
Qual piuma al vento”
He smiled and his eyes rolled over the tiny room that sported seven shades of light blue and white, creating the illusion of a hospital with impeccable sterilization. It reminded him of any city street in America or any old house with a rotten foundation and slick coat of new paint.
Bullshit any way you choose to cook it and eat it.
Still the singing continued.
“Muta d'accento — e di pensiero.
Sempre un amabile”
The source for the unhealthy racket rounded the corner carrying a small tray with a metal covering. The Don stopped his singing when he entered the room but continued humming the soft tune of the “La donna e mobile” as he pulled a small chair over to the side of the bed.
With a flourish he pulled the lid of the tray away, revealing the world’s smallest cup of Jell-O, a glass of water, and a worn sterling silver spoon that reflected Don Ciancetta’s grin in elongated fashion.
The Pope smiled despite himself and he struggled into a sitting up position and pulled the breathing tube out of his nose with a snort. “Gotta wonder how good that thing really works.”
He realized the skin on his chest hurt but he refused to look down at it with his friend sitting across from him with a rare expression of concern.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Doctors said your throat would be sore.” He placed the tray on The Pope’s lap and leaned back in the chair, letting a long exhalation blow through his lips. “You dramatic fuck you. You could have just taken a nap. Doctors say that cuz of your,” he looked at the ceiling, “your weakened state, that your body just sort of gave up for a second.”
The Pope poked the Jell-O with the spoon. “Ah. Well, I’m not so tired as to eat this old-man cup of Jell-O.” He looked at his friend again. “I could go for a fucking steak.”
He tried to stand up and pulled the IV from his hand. The Don watched him like he was the leading member of a circus freak show. “What the hell are you doing?”
His wobbling legs managed to hold him up and he blushed realizing that the back of his gown let half his ass hang out the back. He saw his clothes resting on a chair in the corner and his body seemed to sense the urgency of the moment, not fighting with him as he rushed over the few feet left and began to pull up his underwear and sat down on the chair to pull up his pants.
Don Ciancetta came over and put a large maw on his shoulder when he tried to stand up to complete the covering of his stark white ass, forcing him back to the chair.
“The doctors say you need rest, Chris.” His green eyes flinched when The Pope tried to stand again, but his hand felt like iron.
His cheeks grew warm but his body was too drained to fight back. He went with the only option left to him. “I am going to have the rest of eternity to sleep. Don’t make me stop going just because some doctor says so.” The heavy brow of the Don let him know he was chiseling away at the man’s will to confine his pal to a hospital room. “A bed, a prison, might as well be dead. You need me. We have to see this thing through.”
The Don’s hand dropped off of his shoulder.
“I’ll take it easy. I’ll even let you drive. We have work to do.” He stood up and finished dressing. He steadied himself against the edge of the seat. “The cops picked up Rafael Rontego and I need to use every resource at my disposal to make sure that man never makes it to a jail cell…alive.”
*
The two gunshots shredded the night air and Kira f
linched, shaking some of the water off of her body as she did so. The smell of stale water assaulted her nostrils and she felt a small gag reflex threaten in the pit of her throat.
Keep going. Don’t look back.
She stumbled through the grey world around her, shifting underneath shadows cast by dark and ominous clouds above. She ran to where the road that ran along the abandoned lot awaited. Beyond that road was a small neighborhood, and beyond that lay the Root 5 Bar. After that, a life on the run, but a life nonetheless.
If they make it.
She considered it a real possibility that the assassin would never make it. He was bleeding all over himself. And Ivan, well, somebody had to make it out of the two of those men. He survived prison and Rafael Rontego survived just about everything else. But then there was a cop car chasing them down. She shook her head. They were both better than her. They had to make it.
Crack.
Another gunshot cut through the night. She didn’t know why but she stopped in her tracks and looked into the distance behind her. She scanned the horizon where the dark earth met the grey sky and blinked. Something felt different about that one. Neither of the other two men would have stuck around long enough to keep on shooting. They were in full flight. A sense of dread descended on her like a falling piano, but she turned and willed her feet to continue onward. She ran and stumbled and fell to the dirt. She picked herself up and ran some more. She hopped a fence and ran along a road for longer than she could seem to remember. She ran until she fell again and scraped her palms along the rough pavement. She got up. She continued. Her lungs felt like they would burst at any moment when she came into view of the Root 5 Bar. She had once snuck in with Bobby, underage of course, and managed to drink the night away. She remembered it looking more inviting in the evening with the soft yellow walls that invited patrons inside. Wood ran along the bar and nice wooden seating lined the floor, making it feel like a cozy cabin. She remembered looking out over Lake Erie and with a clear evening seeing the shoreline of Canada in the distance underneath a setting sun that exploded in shades of pink and orange sliced with wisps of purple and a slow leak of gold across a perfect blue sky.
For the second time in under an hour she did something then that she didn’t understand. She ran to the pay phone and hit 0. An automated operator came on informing her of the collect call she was about to make. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked down at her bleeding palms, waiting for the prompt to dial. When she finally hit the buttons she did it so fast she messed up and had to hang up and start over. Her reflection loomed out at her from the sterling silver plate above the change dispenser. Her bruised face seemed to contort and lunge out at her from the metal.
She didn’t realize that she had dialed and she certainly didn’t realize that the phone rang or that it had been accepted.
“Hello?” said a male voice heavy with the breath of sleep.
“Bobby. It’s Kira.” Her voice sounded like an eternity away and she felt weak. Her hands shook and she shoved one into her pocket trying to calm it.
“I know. You said your name on the collect call. Are you okay? You sound funny.”
“I…” she didn’t know what to say. “I need you. I need you to come pick me up. I’m at Root 5. I was in an accident.” The lie echoed into the phone as if waiting for Bobby grab onto it.
“Okay. You know I don’t have a car. I can ask my mom to get you.” Bobby yawned. He sounded irritated.
“It can’t be your mom. It has to be you.” She thought of the best way forward.
To lie or to tell the truth?
She decided on a compromise. “I was doing something illegal and I can’t have your parents find out.”
She heard the covers ruffle on his bed and heard what sounded like a belt clanging. When Bobby spoke next he whispered into the phone, “What did you do?” He sounded more awake as well.
“I can’t tell you on the phone but when you get me, I’ll fill you in.” She didn’t know if she would tell him anything more, but the important thing was getting him to steal his mom’s car and to get his ass to Root 5 Bar.
“Okay. I have the keys and I’m outside.” She heard a car door open on the other end of the line. “I bet your ass was drinking. Like we did that one time. A blow job if I’m right.” The car started. “I’ll be there in ten.”
Kira leaned against the phone booth. “Thank you.”
“Whatever.”
Click.
Kira let go of the phone and let it dangle in the air next to her hip. She pulled her hands out of her pocket and looked at them, watching them tremble like erratic dog tails. The cuts along her face stung as her tears meandered along her cheekbones and she slid against the side of the phone booth until she rested on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest. The reality seeped into her consciousness at that moment.
They’re not coming.
*
Briggs finally turned around as Sydney and Alex Vaughn raced across the field, guns in hand. He whirled, revealing his own side arm, and yanked Dr. Tolbert into his chest as if conducting an advanced dance twirl. He caught her mid turn and she gasped as the barrel of his gun pressed against her temple.
Sydney almost fell over stopping her momentum and held a hand to her side, biding Alex Vaughn to do the same. He obliged but moved further to her left, keeping distance between the two of them and circled around to create multiple angles for the turncoat to watch.
She couldn’t help it when her eyes started watering. The pain in her gut reached through her stomach and slapped her across the face. “Why Briggs? Why did you do it?”
His eyes twitched to his right to follow Alex Vaughn but they shot back over to Sydney almost immediately. “I didn’t kill them. I wouldn’t Sydney!” He pointed his gun at Alex and shouted, “Stop moving! You think I’m an idiot?”
“Remains to be seen,” Alex Vaughn said in a low rumble. His eyes caught the gleam of the gun and they flashed with what Sydney had come to recognize as a telltale sign of impending danger.
Moreland’s voice cut through her earpiece. “Sydney, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you say the word and I’ll take him out. I’ve got his forehead lined up.”
She must have given away that she was listening to someone on the other line because Briggs shifted his weight and covered most of his face with the back of Dr. Tolbert’s head. “Tell Moreland I want him to come out of the fucking shadows or I’m gonna send a bit of Dr. Tolbert across your shoes.”
Sydney’s heart raced but she hit the microphone, “Moreland, come over here and join our chat please.”
“You sure, Syd?” His voice dripped with incredulousness.
“Just get over here.” She kept her gun pointed at Briggs who held her eyes for an extra moment before flicking his gaze back at Alex Vaughn.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said again.
“We know you didn’t, but you gave that Russian asshole a key to his cuffs,” Alex Vaughn snapped.
Briggs took his gun away from Dr. Tolbert’s temple for a moment and pointed it at Alex Vaughn. “Shut up! Shut up! I’m not talking to you.” He snapped the gun back on Dr. Tolbert who tried to squirm away. She stopped as soon as she felt the steel against her head once again.
“Getting more stupid every second,” Alex Vaughn said, taking another step to the side.
“Why Briggs? Money? Was it money?” Sydney didn’t have to hide the hurt in her voice.
“Because he told me to. I didn’t know he was going to kill Conrad. Jesus Sydney, I didn’t know!” His eyes were bloodshot now and beads of sweat lined up on the crease of his forehead.
“Cut the shit Briggs! What was your price?” Sydney brought the gun up again, steeling her eyes. She blinked the tears of pain away and replaced them with tears of rage.
Briggs knew the look, she was certain. It dubbed him the enemy. He slouched and his arm fell down a small way from Dr. Tolbert. “My price? Sydney? My price?” A small sad chuckle
left his lips. “My price was you. Agent Sydney Price. He had pictures of you sleeping. He had pictures of you visiting your old man in the hospital. He knew our safe house location. He knew, Sydney.”
Sydney sucked in extra air. The whole world seemed devoid of oxygen. “Who knew Briggs? Who goddamnit!”
Her eyes floated past Briggs to the line of flashing lights descending on the abandoned factory. At least a dozen black SUVs and a dozen more black and whites, courtesy of the BPD, escorted them in a long line of government power. The horizon seemed to be one long line of blue and red and white flashing orbs.
Briggs followed her gaze and his whole body went limp. Dr. Tolbert sensed his weakened posture and yanked free of his grasp, running towards Alex Vaughn. At the same moment Moreland came cautiously out of the shadows behind him. His footsteps rustled the grass and Briggs turned, pointing his gun alternately at Moreland, the fleeing Dr. Tolbert and Alex Vaughn.
“Put the gun down!” Alex Vaughn yelled. Almost simultaneously as Moreland yelled, “On the ground, Briggs!”
Sydney lowered her own weapon and held out an empty hand as if trying to soothe a scared horse. “Easy Briggs. Put the gun down.
He focused his eyes on Sydney and his gun hand fell to his side. “It was always you Syd. Always.” Then with one motion he flung the gun under his chin.
“No!” All three of them seemed to shout in unison.
Crack.
His head snapped back and a few pieces of the back of his skull rained over Agent Moreland. The body of Briggs collapsed in a heap on the dusty and almost forgotten grounds of Bethlehem Steel.
The three remaining agents and Alex Vaughn stayed in frozen poses for a second that seemed like an eternity. Moreland’s face and clothing were streaked in blood and brain matter and Dr. Tolbert openly wept.
Sydney couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t blink. She heard Alex Vaughn’s voice echo from somewhere amongst the shadows. “Idiot.”
The line of emergency vehicles closed in like a funeral procession. They drew the net tighter around the grounds, all but several holding positions along the perimeter. She knew that one of the three black SUV’s approaching would contain Todd Simmons and a whirlwind of repercussions for how the night played out. She glanced at the crumpled form of Briggs a few feet from her and almost laughed for all the pain in her heart.
Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2) Page 26
