Mafia III

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “What? We don’t know who else is in here. You fire that thing, you could bring a whole mess of shit down on our heads. You can shoot him later, once we know the building’s clear, if you really want to. It’s not like he saw our faces or anything.”

  Giorgi glared for a moment longer, then shrugged, either unable or unwilling to refute Ellis’s argument. Danny appeared from around the van, having used Ellis’s tactic on the other guard.

  “Let’s get these guys tied up before they come to,” Giorgi said to Danny.

  “What’s he going to do?” Danny protested, pointing at Ellis.

  “I’m going to make sure there aren’t any other guards in the building,” Ellis answered. “So your skinny white ass doesn’t wind up in prison. Then I’ll bring back the other furs Jimmy’s buddy here already unloaded, so we can get the hell out of here.”

  Ellis gave a mock salute with the barrel of his gun and headed down the aisle the second guard had come from. He didn’t really expect there to be any other guards; he just hadn’t wanted Giorgi to kill the man for no reason. Vanessa was really starting to rub off on him. There were ways to get what you wanted that didn’t include violence or even the threat of it. There were ways to live that didn’t include crime, he was learning. Maybe not for him—he was who he was, after all, and that would never change. But Vanessa was having an effect on him that he hadn’t anticipated, making him look at the world in a different way.

  He rounded a corner to find one of the chain link sections open and the furs hanging inside, along with hundreds more. For a moment, he considered taking more than what had been in the shipment—it would give him seed money to start a new life with Vanessa—but he quickly discarded the idea. If she knew where the money had come from, she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him. Instead, he loaded the new furs in their clean plastic onto the empty cart sitting next to the rack and left the furs in the dusty plastic hang where they were. He was just placing the last of the furs on the cart when a voice called out from behind him.

  “Who the hell are you? Where’s Chuck?”

  Ellis spun, gun raised, to see a heavyset white man in a dark suit standing in the doorway to the partition. His complexion paled when he caught sight of Ellis’s weapon.

  “I’m the guy who’s robbing you. You’re the guy who’s going to come over here, kneel down, shut up, and stay out of my way, if he knows what’s good for him.”

  The man moved into the partition where Ellis motioned and knelt on the concrete floor.

  “Take your tie off.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Pretty sure I told you to shut up.”

  The man closed his mouth and took off his tie. Ellis moved over to him and grabbed the tie, intending to truss him up like a Christmas turkey.

  “I know you,” the man said suddenly, his eyes narrowing. Ellis felt his heart jump into his throat. “You were with that Marcano boy. I see him all the time at the yacht club, holding court with his slimeball of a father. Never thought I’d see him doing something decent at a civil rights rally. Now I know why he was there.”

  “Listen, you need to forget you ever saw him, or me, or anyone associated with the Marcanos at that rally,” Ellis warned. “Say you never got a good look at the robbers, collect your insurance money, and be done with it.”

  “Yeah? Why should I do that?”

  Just then, a shot rang out in the distance, followed by two others. Then there was an ominous silence.

  “Because that’s what the Marcanos do to people who recognize them when they don’t want to be recognized. That was Jimmy, and Chuck, and the driver of the van, and if you don’t want it to be you, too, you’d best do as I say.”

  Ellis knew he should just shoot the guy, but he couldn’t. Visions of Vanessa kept swimming in front of his eyes, an accusing and disappointed look on her face. What would she think of him if he did something like that? Killed a man in cold blood when he didn’t have to? When he could scare him into not talking?

  He heard footsteps approaching.

  “Look, I’m really sorry about this,” he said, then took the butt of his gun and slammed it into the man’s temple. The donor slid soundlessly to the floor. Ellis quickly tied him up, then searched him for keys.

  Giorgi and Danny rounded the corner. Giorgi’s gun was still in his hand, and Ellis figured he was the one who’d done the shooting.

  “Who’s that?” Giorgi asked.

  “The owner,” Ellis said, grabbing the cart and pulling it out of the partition. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Wait, what about all those?” Danny demanded.

  “No time. Owner said something about a second shipment. We need to get out of here before it arrives.”

  He padlocked the door, then went through the keys until he found the right one and locked the donor in with his furs. Then he turned and threw the key ring as far into the warehouse as he could.

  “All right, let’s blow this joint.”

  They hurried through the warehouse and loaded up the van with the rest of the furs, Ellis trying hard not to look at the three dead bodies lined up just inside the roll-up door as they did. Then Danny climbed behind the wheel of the van and took off, and Giorgi and Ellis closed the loading bay door, headed for Lincoln’s car, and did the same.

  “You done good tonight, Ellis.” Giorgi said, holding out his hand. “I don’t know how I could’ve done it without you.”

  “You couldn’t, Giorgi.”

  “We’re even, man. More than.”

  Ellis took his hand and shook it.

  No, Giorgi, he thought. We’re not even. Not even close. You’re my friend, and you’ll run the Marcano family someday, but you’ll always be a trigger-happy punk. I’m going to be someone who deserves to be with Vanessa.

  31

  * * *

  The next time Corbett came to Vang Khom, Donovan was with him. Corbett left the unloading to the Hmong and disappeared into Mai’s hut almost immediately. Donovan chatted with the Hmong for a while—they were still delighted to see their old friend—then took Lincoln aside. They strolled up to the well and stood by the windmill, which creaked in a breeze blowing in from the east. It had been a couple of days since the last rain, but clouds were piling up again.

  “You caused a hell of a stir at the Pathet base,” he said.

  Lincoln couldn’t tell from his casual tone how he felt about that. One of the problems of conversing with a trained spy, he thought—they kept their emotions close to the vest.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Killed the colonel and a bunch of other soldiers, too.”

  “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” Donovan said. “Killing the Pathet Lao is okay. But we need to have plausible deniability. If a bunch of rogue Hmong attack a Pathet base, that’s not a problem. Everybody knows they’re in Laos. They’re entitled to be. And if they have problems with the commies, nobody’s going to bat an eye.”

  “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?” Lincoln asked.

  “A big one. But, when someone assassinates a Pathet Lao colonel with his own sword, then kills nineteen more men escaping the scene like Steve McQueen or John Wayne or some goddamn thing . . . well, let’s just say that doesn’t come across as indigenous resistance.”

  “Nineteen?”

  “But who’s counting? Point is, the Pathet Lao complained.”

  “I thought this was a war,” Lincoln said.

  “It’s a war, but there are fucking rules. And we’re breaking them just by having you here. Calling attention to that fact is a problem.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause any problems, Donovan. I just wanted to kill that warlord motherfucker. And I did.”

  “That you did. If I wasn’t here to give you a hard time about it, I’d say well done. You really kicked some ass, and I just wish I could have gone in with you. But I have to give you a hard time, because the Laotian government gave Washingto
n a hard time and threatened to invoke the Geneva Accords, so Washington came down on me. The Laotians don’t believe one man caused all that chaos, and they want assurances that we don’t have ground troops in Laos.”

  “Which I’m sure Washington gave them, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Lincoln was proud to have been the source of so much consternation and surprised to be getting heat from Donovan over it. “Do we know what the fallout’s going to be? Are they abandoning the base?”

  “No such goddamn luck,” Donovan said. “They’re expanding it.”

  “Expanding?” Lincoln wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

  “You can’t just take out their head guy and expect them to fold their tents and go home, buddy. There are plenty of officers in the north who are champing at the bit to come south and prove their mettle. And the Plain is too important to them to walk away—just like it is for us. Since they suffered such an ass kicking, they’re going to put a bigger force down here—maybe double the size. The new man in charge is named Colonel Sun Youa. He’s an old war-horse, a real hard-ass.” Donovan reached into a side pocket of his blazer and pulled out an envelope. “Here are the latest aerial shots, showing the expansion.”

  Lincoln sank to the ground, sitting with his back against the windmill frame, and thumbed through the photographs. “Jesus,” he said. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

  “Lincoln, you killed Phan. You gave them a hell of a scare. If it was just me, I’d be clapping you on the back and pinning a fucking medal on you. I kind of thought I’d get here and you’d tell me it was you and ten other Green Berets. You’ve vastly exceeded my expectations.”

  Donovan paused while he took a cigarette from a pack and lit it, offering one to Lincoln at the same time. Lincoln declined with a shake of his head.

  “But it’s not just me,” Donovan said. “We have to take a big-picture view. That attack the Pentagon ordered didn’t do the trick, and your escapade made the situation worse, not better. Now we need to think strategically.”

  “Meaning what?” Lincoln asked.

  “Like I said, you can’t just take out the top guy. There’s always another one waiting in the wings. If you want to put an operation out of business permanently, you have to work from the bottom up. You go after the infrastructure that props up the top guy. You dismantle his operation piece by fucking piece. Then, when he’s got no support structure, no one to stand with him, you go after him. Do that, and the Pathet will decide it’s too much trouble to keep a post down here. At least, that’s the theory. I’m not big on theories, but killing a bunch of fucking reds sounds like a good idea anyway.”

  Lincoln shook his head. With my sixty men? he thought. Less than, now.

  But he didn’t say it. His mind was already racing ahead, trying to puzzle out how he could accomplish the task Donovan had set before him. He would need help, but he could get that.

  Suddenly, it didn’t all seem so hopeless after all.

  • • •

  When Corbett came out of Mai’s, he was wearing a broad smile. Donovan was off visiting with Kaus, and Lincoln was sitting in the shade outside his longhouse, looking at the new aerial photos and mentally plotting out his next moves. Corbett beckoned him with a twitch of his hand, and Lincoln tossed the pictures inside, then joined him for the walk back to his U-10.

  “Have a good time?” Lincoln asked.

  “She’s a great girl, man,” Corbett said. “I’m starting to see the appeal of Oriental chicks, after all. She said you and Sho have been going at it pretty hot and heavy, too.”

  “I’ve never known anyone like her,” Lincoln admitted. “She’s beautiful and sexy, but it’s way more than that. Deeper. It’s like she can see my soul, and it don’t turn her off. That’s something I’ve never experienced.”

  “I guess we’re both lucky guys, then. Thanks for introducing me to Mai.”

  He started for the plane, then stopped again, touched Lincoln’s arm. “You probably think I’m a hypocrite, being with her after all that racist shit I said before. I just want you to know I didn’t mean none of that. I say that crap when I’m flying, to distract my passengers, is all.”

  Lincoln just nodded.

  “We cool?” Corbett asked. He seemed like he genuinely wanted Lincoln’s affirmation.

  “Sure,” Lincoln said. “We’re cool.”

  At the plane, Corbett opened the copilot’s side door and removed a leather satchel from under the seat. He unbuckled it and took out two small bundles wrapped in brown paper bags and taped closed. “Here’s the payroll for your men,” he said, handing over the first one. The second was thicker, and he held on to it for a moment longer before putting it in Lincoln’s hands. “And here’s your cut of the product sales. It’s great stuff. Super strong, which is what the customers like.”

  “Isn’t that more dangerous to use?” Lincoln asked.

  “That’s not our concern, man. Junkies gonna use what they use. Important thing is we get our piece of the action.”

  “I guess.” Lincoln wasn’t opposed to drug use, but he couldn’t help wondering what Sammy’s reaction would be if he knew Lincoln was making money from the sale of heroin.

  “Pleasure doing business,” Corbett said. He looked around the airstrip. “You know where Donovan is?”

  “Last I saw, he was in with the chief. Want me to check?”

  “Yeah. We need to get going. Miles to go before we sleep, and all that.” He held out a meaty paw, and Lincoln shook it. “Catch you next time, brother.”

  32

  * * *

  After the plane had left, Lincoln called Koob into his longhouse. Together, they sat at Lincoln’s table and divided up the cash Corbett had brought. The payroll went to the men in equal increments, with a bonus to Koob for his leadership and translating effort. The poppy money went into a general village fund, managed by Koob and Kaus. Lincoln had already skimmed off his slice.

  “You’ve gotta send runners to all the nearby villages,” Lincoln said after the finances had been dealt with. “We need more men, and fast.”

  He spread the photographs Donovan had given him on the table. “The Pathet Lao are expanding their base and bringing in more soldiers. We need to take the place apart at the seams, and we need more people to do it. We have more guns on the way. Mortars, grenades, RPGs, all the supplies we need. Tell whoever you send to show some cash around, let the people in the other villages see that soldiers are well paid here.”

  “I’ll send them,” Koob promised. “Tomorrow, they’ll go.” He grinned. “Soon we will have too many soldiers!”

  “No such thing,” Lincoln said. “We’ll have to clear some more forest and get busy building new houses for them. Your village is about to get a lot bigger, Koob. And a lot richer, too.”

  • • •

  Koob was as good as his word. The next day, men from Vang Khom spread out to all the villages in the area, to bring the good word about opportunities to oppose the communists and earn some money. Those left behind started cutting down trees and burning brush to make room for the expected newcomers. The smoke roiled into the village, stinging Lincoln’s eyes. The smell was everywhere, inescapable. Lincoln knew it could be seen for miles and miles and wondered if it would attract the attention of the Pathet Lao. So far, his attacks against their outpost had not drawn retaliatory action against the village. But it was the nearest Hmong village to the camp, and he fully expected that they would show up sometime. If they did, it would be a slaughter. The village was barely defended, and its warriors were few. Now that they were bulking up their force—if indeed, people came from other villages to join their effort—maybe he would be able to improve Vang Khom’s defensive capabilities. Fences and land mines at the very least would be a good idea.

  Lincoln wasn’t sure what to expect of the Hmong men’s recruitment efforts. He braced himself for disappointment, and during the hours he spent alone, studying the Pathet Lao camp’s expansion and trying to formu
late a battle plan, he included in his calculations ways to attack effectively with no more men than he already had.

  So several days later, when the first man returned—accompanied by more than a dozen hardy males from another village—he was surprised. Another pair came back to Vang Khom leading a procession of thirty or more men, plus the women and children who had chosen to accompany them. When everyone Koob had sent away had arrived, Lincoln’s army had grown to almost two hundred. Over the next several days, more trickled in, having heard about the effort.

  He radioed Donovan a coded message with the news and added a plea for increased payroll. The response came almost immediately: a promise that Corbett would bring more cash on his next visit.

  Like it or not, Lincoln was forced back into the roles of trainer and drill sergeant. This time, he had more than a handful of men to instruct. But he had advantages he had lacked earlier, including a rudimentary knowledge of the Hmong language—which Sho was helping him with every night—and more Hmong who knew some English.

  As before, he instructed them in basic military discipline and standard hygiene, as well as in the arts of war. He drilled them mercilessly on the weapons available to them. He taught them hand-to-hand combat techniques and made them practice on one another until every one of them was bruised and bloody. He was less hesitant than he had been earlier about using live fire in his drills. He knew now that they would face enemy soldiers who would try to kill them and would succeed in some cases. They had to be prepared for a battle in which real bullets, and worse, would be coming at them.

  He identified some of the men who had a modicum of medical training, or what passed for it in remote mountain villages, and showed them what modern techniques he knew. He taught them what everything in his medical kits was for and how to use it. He would need more medics than just himself, with a force of this size.