by L. T. Ryan
Perhaps the other two captains, Endrizzi and Milano, had plans to let him go. Why else keep him alive so long? Their soft chatter filtered from the front seat. They said nothing important since leaving Charles's office eight hours ago. They hadn't been driving the entire time. First, the men took him to Milano's house. They tied Paolo up with cord and duct tape and left him in the sweltering garage. Temperatures that had to reach the mid one-twenties left him drenched in sweat. The pain from his broken nose and split forehead had caused him to black out and lose track of time. He'd only managed to catch a glimpse at Endrizzi's Omega moments before they placed the hood over his head, then brought him inside the house. The air conditioning coated his soaked body. But it didn't last long. A minute later, one of them dragged him back into the garage. Only this time, he walked through a thick cloud of exhaust toward the purring engine of the BMW.
The threat of execution was made, and Paolo went into the backseat where he fought through pain and dizziness and nausea in an effort to keep track of every second that passed.
For only time remained. How much, though, was the question.
"This looks good," Milano said. Or perhaps it had been Endrizzi. Everything sounded as though Paolo had gone underwater and the fluid never drained from his ears after he surfaced.
The vehicle decelerated and pulled to the right. The motion brought a swirl of bile up Paolo's throat. Unwilling to have his bloody vomit splash against the hood and pelt him in the face, he swallowed hard against the rising tide.
Windows rolled down and wind rush overtook the silence. The warm, humid air full of the songs of crickets and cicadas felt warm against Paolo's frigid skin. For a moment, at least. The sensation faded against the welling fear that they were close to the drop off spot. At least, he hoped it would be a drop off spot, and not a place of execution.
Solid asphalt gave way to a bumpy, gravely ride, further confirming Paolo's fears. Crushed rock parted underneath the weight of the vehicle and sounded like waves breaking. The BMW slowed to an eventual stop. The men in the front seats remained in place. A Zippo wheel turned. Smoke from a freshly lit cigarette filtered through Paolo's hood.
"You can sit up now," Milano said.
Paolo, with his hands tied behind his back, used his shoulder and legs to move into an upright position. As one of the men ripped the hood away, his head spun.
"Steady there, Paolo," Endrizzi said. He extended the cigarette. "Smoke?"
Paolo nodded. Endrizzi flipped the cigarette around so the butt faced Paolo. The palm of the man's hand glowed orange. He then stuck the butt between Paolo's parched lips. Paolo inhaled like he was sucking down his last breath. The cherry burned bright, illuminating Endrizzi's face. The man looked away as Paolo made eye contact.
"How 'bout a drink?" Paolo asked.
Milano reached for the center console and retrieved a silver-coated flask. It looked like one side had a coat of arms and the other something written in Italian.
"My grandfather had these made," Milano said. "In his later years, he did a lot of research on the family. This specific coat of arms belonged to some Italian king I'm a direct descendant of. You believe that shit? I'm like royalty or something."
Paolo said, "Just give me a damn drink."
Milano handed the flask to Endrizzi, who pressed it to Paolo's mouth and turned it upward. After Paolo had taken a pull, Milano pulled the flask back and shook it up and down and back and forth, emptying the contents on Paolo's open wounds.
Paolo yelled and kicked from the backseat. The two men in the front exited to avoid an errant boot connecting with the side of their head. One of them, likely Milano since he'd been in the driver's seat, kicked the rear driver's side door. Take a hundred thousand dollar BMW and treat it like shit. That's the way these guys treated their vehicles. They didn't care. The organization paid for the captain's cars.
The door whipped open and a hand fell upon Paolo's head. Milano, he presumed, dragged him off the leather seat by his hair. With his arms tied and unable to slow the momentum down, he tried to wedge a foot between the front seats. Didn't happen. Temporarily suspended in mid-air, his hips slipped off the seat. He crashed to the ground. The impact sent a jolt of pain that traveled up his spine and down through his pelvis and legs.
"Get up, you bitch," Milano shouted.
Paolo rolled to his side and planted his forehead into the gravel. Jagged rocks stabbed the exposed flesh of the wounds on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. He gritted his teeth against the pain and drew his knees forward. Before he could lift his head off the ground, a leather-clad foot collided with his midsection. The air rushed out of his lungs. The impact sent him rolling to the side. A moment passed. His oxygen-starved lungs screamed. Four hands wrapped around his arms, grabbed his shirt, pulled him to his feet. Still winded, he stumbled backward into the BMW's rear fender.
"Don't get your fucking blood all over my ride." Milano grabbed the back of Paolo's shirt and yanked downward.
Paolo stumbled, then steadied his footing. Endrizzi launched another attack. Paolo arched back, avoiding the man's right fist. Endrizzi, the least fit of all of them, stumbled forward, lost his balance, and fell to the ground.
Milano pulled his pistol and stepped back toward the spot where Endrizzi scrambled to get to his feet. He gestured with the firearm toward a narrowing path that led east. There was enough light left to follow the path to a point where it curved to the north. Beyond that, it was anybody's guess. They might have a barn back there. Or shovels waiting. Maybe a hole had been dug in advance for this kind of situation.
"Start moving."
Paolo refused to budge.
Both men approached, stopping a few feet short. Endrizzi had pulled his .22. Lethal, if he got close enough. After missing with the punch, he wouldn't even try.
"Let's go," Milano said again.
"Do it here," Paolo said.
Milano glanced around. "That the way you want it?"
Paolo said nothing.
"Then kneel."
Paolo didn't. He knew that they were too close to the road for either man to consider firing off a round. If he kneeled, it would put him in a position of weakness. They'd bludgeon him. And without his hands, he couldn't do anything to stop them from doing so. Standing, he could dodge, strike with a kick, and perhaps use one of the guys' momentum against them.
"Kiss my ass." Paolo launched a spray of bloody saliva toward the men.
A crack of thunder and flash of lightning and searing pain hit all at once. His ears rang with a chorus of angels all hitting a high C. A warm, fresh stream ran down his left arm. He grimaced and looked away from the searing wound in his shoulder.
"What the hell are you doing?" Milano shouted at Endrizzi. "God dammit." Panicked, he raised his firearm and aimed it at Paolo.
Paolo refused to go down like this, hands bound, in the woods. No way would he allow them to drag him deeper into the woods and bury him in a grave shallow enough for the scavengers to feast on his remains. That wouldn't happen. Not today. Not without a fight.
He shuffled his feet, dropped down a few inches into a running stance, prepared to bolt forward and drive his shoulder or head into any part of Milano. Didn't matter where. As long as he at least knocked the man off balance. Any damage he managed was a bonus. Maybe Milano would get a shot off. Perhaps Endrizzi would squeeze off another .22 round. Best case, both men would go down, affording Paolo a running start.
The evening went still. The crickets stopped singing. The cicadas shrill calls faded. Or maybe the ringing in Paolo's ear was so great he no longer heard them.
No, the distant sound of tires rubbing asphalt proved he could still hear.
Paolo lunged forward, cutting left, then right, like a running back dancing between three hundred pound linemen. Milano's eyes widened as he hurried to line up his shot. Endrizzi stutter-stepped backward and raised his arm.
A single shot was fired.
Chapter 7
Washin
gton, D.C.
"WELL LOOK WHO'S back and ready to work."
Clarissa locked her computer screen and spun to the right in her chair. The building was never empty, but she was surprised to see Beck standing in her doorway. He smiled and offered a single nod.
"Most people," Beck said, "would've gone home after their last day of training."
"You should know by now that I'm not most people."
"How'd you find it?"
"Different than the last one I went through."
"Well, different agencies and agendas and such."
"What are you doing here so late?" she asked.
Beck extended his arm toward an empty chair opposite Clarissa. "May I?"
She nodded.
He sat down, took a moment to get comfortable, then said, "Was hoping you'd show up."
"Want to take me out for a celebratory dinner?"
As much as Clarissa denied it, she had thought of Beck frequently while away. Though the offer he'd extended to her had been professional in nature, there was additional motive behind it. Beck hadn't admitted it. Probably wouldn't unless she went first. Something she wasn't opposed to doing.
"Afraid we can't do that tonight. We've got to start working on our first case together."
"Already?" She knew that they'd have an assignment soon, but had figured upon returning she would help Beck close out his caseload before they started something new.
He nodded and set a USB drive on her desk. "The information you need is on that drive."
She reached for the device. His gaze never left hers. She shuffled the USB drive from her right hand to her left. Aligned it with a slot on her laptop.
"Stop."
She pulled her hand back and glanced up at Beck. "What?" she said, making no attempt to hide her annoyance.
"Don't they teach you anything in that training?"
"Like…?"
"Like the fact that these little drives are one of the top ways we track people these days. Fools carry them everywhere, transmitting their location, the information they put on them, even recording audio in some cases."
She stared blankly at him. "So, you're telling me that you bugged the thumb drive you just gave me?"
Beck folded his arms and sighed. "Open your middle drawer."
Clarissa did.
"In there is a device. Unassuming in looks, it will be your electronic forensics lifesaver. Flip it on and hold it over the drive. Look for red or green."
She needed no further instruction. The device flashed red then green before turning green permanently.
"Easy, right?"
She nodded as she inserted the drive into her laptop.
"Keep that one in your desk. Use it every day in here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out another. Set it on her desk. "Keep this one on you. Check your car, your apartment, the booth you sit down at when you go out to eat. Everything. Everywhere."
"OK. I got it." She rolled her eyes at him, then glanced to her screen as she navigated with her mouse to the new drive on her computer. "What's this case about, anyway?"
"Known crime boss that the locals and FBI can't make a single charge stick to. He's actually new as a leader. Had been a number two for a few solid years. His boss wound up on the wrong end of a sniper's bullet last year. He's since taken over and managed to survive a number of attempts from within his own organization."
"So what are we going to bring him up on? Tax evasion?"
"Surprisingly, he's strong there. But there is a counterfeiting operation that we can tie him to. The hope is we can bring him down on that, then let the FBI and police go after his underlings on some murder charges and get them to flip."
"Does this count as special assignment?" she asked. "Wasn't that the reason you stayed on? This new position?"
Beck frowned as he glanced up at the ceiling. "This does not qualify. They want me to get you up to speed first. That'll involve us taking on a few of these cases first. Then we'll get into the real ops."
"Which will be what? Taking down a shady business owner?" She smiled.
He shook his head. "Joke now. You'll be wishing that was the case when we're on assignment."
"We'll see, Beck. We'll see."
He leaned forward, rose and stepped back to the door. "Anyway, I'm heading home. Take a look through that file and take note of any questions you have. We'll get to work in the morning."
Clarissa waited for a few minutes, then exited her office. She closed and locked the door before heading to the break room for a cup of coffee. The machine brewed one cup at a time, so it was always fresh. She added cream and then returned to her office.
Seated at her desk, she pulled up the drive and scanned the first few folders. There wasn't much of note there. A lot of names, businesses, and locations and the connections between them. She noted some restaurants she recalled from Manhattan. Her earlier joke now seemed half premonition. When she reached a folder with pictures in it, Clarissa was surprised at how many of the men she recognized from her stints at various bars and clubs in the city.
She closed the folder and opened another. The first face she saw sent a shiver through her. She froze for a moment, staring at the scar, the dark soulless eyes. The menacing grin.
Charles DeCosta.
The man who had tried to kill her a year before. Had it not been for Sinclair, Charles would have snapped her neck or split her skull in half. At first, he hated her mostly because of her connection with Jack. But in time, she won him over on her own. She was sure Charles would kill her on her own merit now.
What to tell Beck? Clarissa was concerned she had too much emotional baggage invested to handle this case properly.
Maybe Beck knew that. Perhaps his bosses knew too. Hell, that's the reason he made her wait. The reason he left before she opened the folder. She wasn't done with training. Taking down Charles would be the final test.
And she couldn't fail.
She enlarged the picture of Charles until his ugly face filled her monitor.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered as anger filled her veins. He'd beaten her. He'd shot her. But he'd failed to end her life.
And for that, he'd pay.
Chapter 8
Upstate, New York.
ONE OF THE BMW's windows shattered. A thousand pieces of glass smashed against one another, like a waterfall of ice chips.
Paolo left his feet. His bloodied head met Milano's, and both tumbled to the ground.
Endrizzi fired wildly, missing Paolo and hitting Milano at least once. The bullet slammed into the guy's flesh like a meat tenderizer pounding a sirloin.
Paolo whipped his head back and drove it forward, multiple times, each strike smashing Milano's forehead, nose, mouth, eyes. After the sixth head butt, the man stopped responding.
Endrizzi's pistol emitted a clicking sound when he tried to fire it. He threw it at Paolo. "I'm gonna rip your nuts off."
Paolo rolled to his right several times. He felt Milano's pistol under his midsection at one point. As he hopped from his knees to his feet, Endrizzi charged. Paolo held his position until the last possible second, then sidestepped left while bringing his right knee up. It connected with Endrizzi's soft mid-section and the guy stumbled to the ground, doubled over on his knees. Paolo glanced around, then ran up to Endrizzi and used the only weapon available to him. His feet. He kicked and stomped on Endrizzi's head, neck and chest.
Milano rolled over and got to his hands and knees. His right hand swept the ground, presumably in an attempt to locate his missing firearm. Perhaps giving up, he reached into his pants pocket. A moment later, a knife blade glinted in what little light penetrated the thick cover. Before Paolo could cover the distance, Milano was on his feet. Unsteady, but upright nonetheless.
The pistol remained on the ground between them.
Milano moved toward it, slowly, cautiously, each step deliberate, knife extended.
Behind Paolo, Endrizzi choked on his own blood. Maybe a couple teeth.
Milano dove forward, slicing right to left with the knife. The blade caught Paolo's left calf. He lurched to his right, out of reach from a second strike. The missed opportunity left Milano unbalanced and sent him to his torso, like a base runner sliding into home while trying to avoid a collision with the catcher. Paolo struck with a right foot to Milano's side. The pain of using his left leg to support him was too much, and the leg buckled. As he was going down, Paolo shifted his weight and dropped his knee into the middle of the other man's back. Milano grunted as the air left his lungs, and a rib or two cracked.
The dislodged knife fell and bounced inches past Milano's outstretched arm.
Paolo rose up and dropped his knee into Milano's back again. Then a third and fourth time. The man stopped reaching for the knife. Paolo rolled off Milano and fell to his side, the knife behind him. He scooted until it was within reach. His hands, numb from being bound for several hours, gripped the weapon and secured it. He then rolled into a sitting position. He brought his hand down to his calf and felt the wound. It wasn't as bad as he thought. Superficial. No real damage.
Milano managed to put his hands under his shoulders and pushed off the ground.
Paolo drove the heel of his boot into the guy's face, further dislodging his broken nose. With Milano face down in the dirt and gravel again, Paolo focused on cutting the cord that bound him.
Idiots.
He'd have used thick rubber handcuffs to secure one of them. No way out of those. But rope. Simple. Using hands that felt nothing, the blade sawed through the cord like a spoon through a frozen stick of butter. It took a bit of work, but every movement meant progress. Finally, he sliced through and brought his hands around. He cut the remaining rope off, then massaged his aching wrists to restore blood flow to his fingers.
