Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2)
Page 28
Todd Simmons walked up, taking the spot Chief Wilcox vacated. Sydney half expected him to reprimand her too or to gloat or a series of “I told you so.” Instead, Todd Simmons sighed, looked past her at the Chief then looked at the ground, at the factory, anywhere but at her face. “Tough day.”
“Yeah.” Sydney didn’t know what else to say. They got the fucking Russian but they lost her hitman, lost Agent Conrad, lost Agent Briggs.
He looked at her finally; making eye contact that was rare for Todd unless it was the look of competitiveness he held a patent for. “I should have sent more men, Sydney. This isn’t all on you.”
“I made the call.” She appreciated Todd’s words but she knew exactly whose fault it was. The Director told her the call came from Briggs. She should have sidelined him.
“You brought a terrorist to justice.” Todd Simmons grabbed her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Listen, we’ve got your statement. We’ve got your team’s statement. Go home. Get some sleep. The press, the Bureau, they’re gonna start second guessing shit soon enough.” He dropped his hand. “You’ll need your rest.”
“Vaughn!” Chief Wilcox had turned away from his men. “Sergeant Zgoda is hanging outside your wife’s room at Buffalo General. Get your ass over there so he can go home.”
Vaughn nodded and came over to the two of them. “Sydney, I don’t have a car.”
“Take him Sydney. I’ve got the scene.” Todd pulled out his cell and answered it. “Simmons here.”
Sydney opened her mouth to protest but he covered the mouth piece and said, “That’s an order.”
She nodded her head and started walking towards the outside of the factory grounds. Alex Vaughn walked in step with her. He said nothing and she neither looked at him, nor away from him. Too many thoughts vied for space in her head.
My father, Agent Conrad, Briggs.
She almost choked but the words still came out. “So many funerals,” she said.
They walked in silence as they made their way to the SUV. She thought perhaps she had dreamed speaking the words out loud. As they settled into their seats and she rolled the ignition, Alex Vaughn muttered, “A lot of funerals for them too. Guess that’s what matters. Evening the score.”
She blinked. Then hit the gas.
They rode to Buffalo General in silence as well and she couldn’t decide if it was because they were so tired, or if she was in shock, or a bit of both, but the trip seemed to skip past her memory. The patients and the doctors and the white walls of the hospital seemed to roll past her and then she was outside the door to Charlotte’s room as Alex Vaughn knelt beside her and clasped her hand in knuckles turned to white.
The gentle rhythmic beep of the heart sensor rolled on and Sydney let out a long breath of relief. She leaned against the wall outside the room, giving them privacy and the continual beep-beep-beep of the machine lulled her into a dream-like trance as she waited for Alex Vaughn to come out.
My father, Agent Conrad, Briggs.
She leaned her head back against the cool wall and gazed into the white lights of the long fluorescent bulbs humming in the paneling above her. She didn’t know how long she rested like that, listening to the humming and the beeping, feeling her eyes burn into the light as if it were some sort of personal purgatory.
A commotion stirred in the hall and she almost missed it she was so entranced. Several nurses ran past her and a doctor ran by with his pager still in hand. Then she heard it as the hum of the lights faded away and she blinked the black spots from her eyes.
The long continuous beep of a missing heartbeat. It was followed, quiet at first, by the long continuous wail of a husband without a wife.
Sydney felt her back slide against the wall until her knees rested against her chest. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
My father, Agent Conrad, Briggs, Charlotte Vaughn.
Epilogue
Rafael Rontego gingerly pressed several fingers into the hole ripped through his abdomen, trying to stem the flow of blood. He glanced over at the man that had thrown him into the passenger seat of the squad car so unceremoniously a few moments ago. The man squinted as he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other clutching a silver pistol. If Rafael could have summoned any strength he would have lunged forward and yanked that pistol from the man's grasp and beat him senseless with it.
But he hadn't the strength.
The car bounced on the uneven ground as it sped along the perimeter of the Bethlehem Steel factory's grounds and Rafael's head rattled against the side window of the car with each divot the damned place had to offer. His stomach burned and he caught the faint smell of his charred flesh. A groan tried to creep up his throat but he refused to give the asshole cop the satisfaction. The guy was silent and all Rafael heard was the spinning of tires and the banging of dislodged items around the car on its up and down trajectory.
In fact, he was too silent.
Where were my Miranda Rights?
In fact, everything was too quiet.
Where are the sirens, the lights?
Any cop worth a shit would have called his capture in. Most cops were too chicken shit to capture anyone on their own let alone an assassin of his magnitude. They would have swarmed him by the dozens.
"Who the fuck are you?" he winced as speaking caused his diaphragm to move and it stretched his wound.
The man licked his lips and glanced at Rafael out of the corner of his eye as the car hurtled over the landscape and onto the smooth pavement that lead onto the main roadway exiting the premises.
"I'm the man that is going to deliver you to your enemies," he paused and pursed his lips. "Or I'm the man that you, er, might reach an arrangement with, assuming you live." He glanced down at Rafael's wound and the assassin swooned, his head reclined against the window.
"But my friends?” The man smiled. “They call me Elliot. Elliot Nash at your service."
Look out for the next Upstate New York Mafia Tale, coming soon.
About the Author
Nicholas Denmon studied English at the University of Florida. He started story telling from the moment he could talk and has spent a lifetime perfecting the art.
His life has been varied, giving him no shortage of material. Some of his unique experiences include growing up with a schizophrenic mother, having six brothers and sisters (of which he is the middle-younger child), a perfectionist father, an evil step-mother, a college life to rival Tucker Max, and working for politicians on the Presidential as well as local stage. He has been, at times, a devout Catholic, a closet atheist, and an honorary member of the Jewish tribe.
Nick’s joy of art knows little in the way of limitations, as he loves unique paintings, music, acting, film, and of course writing.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About
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