Vigilante Assassin

by Mark Nolan

  There was another reward for killing whoever had taken Sarah. Those kidnappers had a contract out on them. Anselmo invoked the dangerous word vendetta—the ancient Italian word for vengeance and a blood feud.

  This could start a war against another organization, but he was willing to wipe them off the map if need be.

  All across San Francisco, Italian men answered their phones and then packed their briefcases with weapons. They kissed their wives and girlfriends goodbye and drove through the city, searching for someone who was now under the protection of the Family.

  A number of women answered the call as well. They had an advantage because many people were clueless that they might be “connected,” and be incredibly dangerous individuals.

  One of the women was tall, with a toned body from working out at the gym. She was nicknamed “Razor,” because she’d once posed as a barber and had slit the throat of a targeted man while giving him a shave. She’d killed nineteen enemies of the Family so far and was hoping to make it an even twenty soon.

  The word was soon out on the street. Cash money was being paid to waiters, taxi drivers, doormen and security guards to keep watch for anything suspicious and to report it immediately.

  The secret orders were that you were to bring this woman back alive and kill anybody who stood in your way. You would be rewarded and protected. If you died in the line of duty, your loved ones would be taken care of. Failure was not an option. This was a matter of honor.

  As the sun was setting, phone calls started coming in to unlisted numbers. A taxi driver had seen something suspicious. A hotel maid had heard a woman yelling in a room. A security guard had noticed a questionable van driving into his building’s garage.

  A tip was privately reported to a policewoman named Tammi Martinelli, who secretly belonged to the Family. She parked her SFPD black-and-white in front of a run-down apartment building and went inside on an unofficial visit. The sight of a uniformed police officer caused several loiterers to scatter. Tammi walked along a hallway and heard a woman cry out. There was a loud noise, as if something had hit a wall, and then silence.

  She put on nitrile gloves and knocked on a door.

  A man answered, wearing a wife-beater t-shirt and an angry scowl. “Get out of here. You hassle me and you’ll be sorry.” He slammed the door.

  The door hit Martinelli’s black boot and stopped. She then shoved the door as hard as she could and sent the drunken man sprawling backwards onto the floor.

  Martinelli entered the apartment, closed the door behind her, and drew her pistol. “You assaulted a police officer. Stay on the floor, lie facedown, and put your hands behind your head. You’re under arrest.”

  The man sneered at her and got to his feet. “Thanks for coming inside. Now I can destroy your face, and it’s all legal.” He pulled a heavy leather glove out of his back pocket and put it on his right hand.

  Martinelli recognized that instrument of pain. It was an illegal sap glove, filled with tiny metal beads. When it hit you, it felt like a lead weight. She glanced at the woman and saw a face that had been beaten by this glove many times. The woman’s nose looked like it had been broken more than once. Martinelli felt her heartburn beginning to churn. She spoke to the wife.

  “Does this man physically abuse you? Tell the truth, and I’ll protect you. This is your one and only chance to put a stop to it. Be brave. Stand up for yourself.”

  The wife wrung her hands, finding the courage to speak. “Yes, and he said if I tell anyone, he’ll kill my children.” She began to cry, feeling something she hadn’t felt in years—hope.

  Martinelli raised her chin, looked down her nose at the man, and purposely baited him. “Bring it, dirtbag. Try to punch me with your special girl-hitting glove. Show me what you’ve got, loser.”

  The man’s eyes sparkled with violent hatred. He flexed his muscles. “Holster your pistol, unless you’re afraid of me.”

  Martinelli holstered her pistol and held her hands out by her sides as she egged him on. “You’re a loser, a punk, and a bully who likes to abuse people. Go ahead; I dare you to try taking on someone your own size. I’ll kick your ass down the street and back.”

  He gave her an evil smile, licked his lips, and came at her like a bull charging a matador. He swung his gloved fist at her head and put his entire body weight into it.

  Martinelli waited until he was totally committed, then stepped aside and kicked him hard in the shin.

  He flew headlong and smacked his face into the hardwood floor.

  Standing on the balls of her feet, Martinelli motioned for him to come at her again.

  He got to his knees, shook his head, and turned on her with an animal-like snarl.

  The wife put her hand over her mouth and moaned in fear. She’d seen this look on his face so many painful times before.

  He grabbed a ballpoint pen off a coffee table, and said to Martinelli, “I’m going to shove this into your heart.” He ran at her with the pen protruding between the two middle fingers of his gloved fist.

  Martinelli drew a small untraceable pistol from inside her coat and shot him three times in the chest. He staggered on his feet but somehow kept on coming at her. She then shot him in the thigh. He dropped to the floor and screamed profanity as he began bleeding to death.

  Martinelli asked the wife, “Should we call an ambulance? Are you heartbroken, or thankful that he’s dying?”

  The woman began crying and crossed herself. “I thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for answering my prayers. Please shoot him in the head to make sure he’s dead.”

  “You have to shoot him,” Martinelli said. She put the small pistol into the woman’s trembling hands, and helped her aim and squeeze the trigger.

  The wife sobbed as she shot her abusive husband. The look on her face was of both shock and relief.

  Martinelli took the pistol away from her and dropped it on the carpet. “Your statement will be that you had to shoot him in self-defense—with his own pistol that you found in his sock drawer. I witnessed you do it.”

  “Oh my God. I’m not good at lying.”

  “I’ll be the one who takes your statement, and I’ll act as your witness. But you can never speak of what really happened here. Understood?”

  “I overheard two young men say that your organization was searching for a missing woman named Sarah. You thought I might be her, didn’t you?”

  Martinelli looked her in the eye. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

  “Yes, and I’m in your debt. Thank you. If I can ever repay the Family, just tell me what to do.”

  Martinelli gave the woman some cash and called an unlisted number. “This is Razor. I had a situation. It wasn’t the package we’re looking for. I need another cop to corroborate my report.” She recited the address.

  An Italian woman said, “We only have one other police asset in San Francisco—the SFPD is nearly impossible to infiltrate, but he’s in your area, and I’ll send him to your location. ETA five minutes.”

  Chapter 49

  Sarah’s wrists hurt from the plasticuffs cutting into her skin. She ignored the pain and continued to quietly rock the bed until the headboard finally came loose. The metal bed frame collapsed with her weight on top of it. She was relieved that it landed with a quiet thud onto unseen items that were stored under the bed.

  Her heart was beating fast as she got off the mattress and carried the headboard with her and squatted down to search the dead man. She found a knife in his pocket and used it to cut the ropes off her wrists, then set the headboard aside, closed the knife, and put it in her pocket.

  She continued her search of the body and found a pistol in a small-of-the-back holster. The dead man had a wad of bills in his left front pants pocket. She took that too. There was a card in his wallet with some phone numbers jotted on the back. She put that in her pocket with the cash. Next, she searched his jacket and found his phone. She dialed 911, and when the operator answered, she whispered, “This is
Sarah Chance. Send the police—murder—kidnapping.” She left the call open, put the speaker on mute, and shoved it into her back pocket.

  She checked the pistol to be sure it was loaded, and took a deep breath. Now she was ready to attempt an escape, but she had no idea what she might be up against on her way out. She walked to the door with pistol in hand, turned off the light switch, quietly opened the door, and peeked out into the hallway.

  A tall, muscular man with broad shoulders was standing in the hall at the top of a stairway. His shaved head slowly turned in her direction.

  Sarah was faced with a fight-or-flight decision. There was a window to her right at the end of the hall. It was dark outside but she could see a tree close to the house. Maybe she could climb down the tree. But if she ran for the window her odds of being shot in the back were high, unless she took out the guard first.

  She sprinted down the hallway toward the guard. Alerted by her footsteps, he reached for his pistol. Sarah leapt in the air and kicked him in the throat, silencing any cry of alarm.

  The man grunted in pain. Sarah then kicked him hard on his right knee, hyperextending it sideways and causing a sickening crunch sound. The man started to scream, but Sarah kicked him in the throat again, with all of her body weight behind it. He crumpled and fell down the stairs, noisily rolling head over heels and landing at the corner of the stairway.

  There was commotion from below and someone called out in another language. Sarah lay down on the carpet at the top of the stairs, aimed her pistol, and listened to the footsteps coming across the hardwood floor below. Feet thumped on the stairs, and moments later a man came striding around the corner. Sarah shot him in the chest and the head.

  She jumped to her feet, ran and opened the window, ripped through the screen and climbed onto the windowsill.

  More footsteps pounded up the stairs. She took a deep breath and jumped out the window into the night air.

  A shot rang out in the hallway. Window glass shattered behind her, but the round missed; she was already flying down and forward toward the tree. She landed on a bushy branch and desperately grabbed onto it with her arms and legs.

  The branch bent but held her weight and she crawled along it toward the tree trunk. Hidden behind the leaves, she shimmied down. Another round zinged from the window and thunked into the tree trunk a few feet above her. She guessed the shooter would work his way down, so she scrambled around to the backside of the tree.

  Rounds chewed up the bark in the spot where she’d been just moments before. One came so close it tugged at the hem of her pant leg. She kept going down the tree as fast as she could, desperately trying to keep her grip and avoid falling.

  Below her, a door of the house opened and closed with a slam. Somebody was running and cursing in what sounded like Russian. Sarah got the pistol out of her pocket and stuck it into her front waistband. When she reached the bottom branches of the tree, she held on with both hands, lowered her legs, and then dropped the last few feet to the grass.

  A man came running toward her. She stepped behind the tree trunk and drew her pistol, then peeked out from the side. When the man got close, she fired three rounds at him. One found its target, and he spun sideways from the impact to his shoulder, causing him to trip and fall.

  Sarah made a dash toward a stone wall. Shouts came from several directions and she was suddenly surrounded by half a dozen armed men.

  One of them aimed a rifle at her face. “Drop the gun.”

  Sarah tossed the pistol onto the lawn.

  The man called out, “Idi syuda, Elena!”

  A woman approached, with a Taser in her hand. “Hello, Sarah. That was an impressive escape attempt.”

  “So, your name is Elena. Was that man speaking Russian?”

  “You’re a clever girl, and he’s an idiot. Now, lie down and put your hands behind your back, or I’ll have to stun you again.” Elena aimed the Taser at Sarah.

  Sarah crossed her arms. “If you stun me, it means you’re a weak coward who can’t fight a woman.”

  Elena sneered at Sarah and yelled, “Take her!”

  Four large men pounced on Sarah and held her down. She was pinned by over eight hundred pounds of solid muscle and one of the men held a knife to her throat. “Which body part do you want me to cut off first?”

  Police sirens sounded, causing a flurry of movement.

  “Evacuate and meet at the rendezvous,” Elena said.

  Someone put a black bag over Sarah’s head, and handcuffed her hands and feet. A man picked her up and carried her over his shoulders, jogging to a car and tossing her in the backseat like a bag of potatoes.

  One of the men’s voices sounded different from the rest. He spoke with a British accent. “I was favorably impressed by your display of violence, Sarah. But if you try anything like that again, I’ll wring your neck like a chicken meant for the soup pot. Is that understood, my dear?”

  Chapter 50

  Jake arrived at the Amborgetti’s restaurant and was met by Vito. They went down a hallway to Anselmo’s office in the back.

  A powerfully built man guarding the door gave Jake an assessing once-over, but when he saw Cody snarling at him, he dialed it back.

  Vito sent a text message, and Anselmo called out in Italian from inside the office. The guard opened the door with a look of relief and Jake and Cody stepped inside. Vito followed them in and closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Jake,” Anselmo said, gesturing at a chair. “We’re about to get a visitor who claims to know something useful.”

  Moments later, a man was escorted into the office. He got down on one knee and put his right fist over his heart. “Don Amborgetti, it’s an honor to serve you.”

  “Thank you for your respect,” Anselmo said. “Take a seat and tell me what you know.”

  The man sat up straight in a leather-upholstered chair. “Recently the boss of a Russian gang asked me to work as a truck driver. I would take deliveries to and from a warehouse for high pay in cash, but if I ever spoke of it, I’d be dead by sundown. I inquired about the cargo, but he refused to tell me. I asked him to promise me it would not be hard drugs or human trafficking, but he wouldn’t promise, so I turned him down.”

  “You did the right thing. Who is this man? Where can we find him?”

  “His name is Pavel. He owns a dance club in SoMa.” He recited the address, and texted a photo of Pavel to Anselmo’s phone. “I asked around and heard rumors he’s dealing in heroin and has a new partner in crime, a woman named Elena.”

  “Thank you,” Anselmo said. “I owe you a favor now. I’ll be in touch.”

  The man nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Anselmo texted the photo to Jake.

  Getting up from his chair, Jake studied the photo. “I’ll go have a talk with Pavel.”

  “Take Vito with you,” Anselmo said.

  “No, Cody and I will handle Pavel alone.”

  Anselmo noted the look on Jake’s face. “Understood, everyone else will steer clear of Pavel. How can I be of assistance?”

  “I could use an untraceable pistol, with a suppressor.”

  Anselmo got up and went to a file cabinet, unlocked a drawer, removed a shoe box, and handed it to Jake. “That’s a nine with a silencer and two extra mags, no registration.”

  “After I deal with Pavel, I’ll need help with the warehouse.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I’ll need a large flatbed truck loaded with a twenty-foot shipping container. Plus half a dozen steel road plates that are one inch thick, four feet wide and eight feet long. And a metal fabrication shop that can start welding the plates immediately.” Jake drew a rough sketch on a piece of paper.

  Anselmo looked at the drawing and nodded. “I’ll get people working on it right now. Anything else?”

  “Once I deal with Pavel, and the truck is ready, I could use a dozen of your best soldiers, armed with assault rifles. You’ll all be handsomely rewarded, in
cash, if you don’t get killed.”

  Anselmo looked skeptical. “Did you fall into a pile of Benjamins, or do you have a reason to believe there might be money at the warehouse?”

  “I have a strong hunch about a large amount of money and where to find it. If you help me, we can split it fifty-fifty. Are you in? I can do this alone, but I’d be forever grateful if you’d help me wipe out this drug ring.”

  “I’m in. My people will assist you in any way they can. On one condition—you have to take the omertà.”

  “The oath of secrecy? If I have to, I will,” Jake said. For years he’d carefully avoided getting too deeply involved with the Family, but now he felt he had no choice.

  “It’s non-negotiable if you want the Family’s help with what you have in mind.”

  “Fair enough. If I’m right about my hunch, you’ll be a far richer man after tonight.” Jake described how he wanted the welding done and explained the plan of attack on the warehouse.

  Anselmo nodded. “That might actually work, but I never thought I’d see you planning a heist.”

  “My plan is to stop the heroin dealers, take their money, give their drug supply to the cops, and make sure the gang members are all arrested or…”

  “Arrested, or put out of business permanently.”

  Jake nodded. “Have you bailed out any Russian criminals lately who skipped?”

  “Yes, I have one guy,” Anselmo said.

  “Assign me as your designated bail recovery agent for him. That way I have legal jurisdiction to investigate any Russian in town, and I can do the breaking and entering and all that quasi-legal bounty hunter stuff.”

  Anselmo tapped on his computer keyboard and pointed at the display. “I sent this to your phone. Sign it.”