Linda got back up anyway and glared at him. “I’m helping her whether you like it or not!” she said as she knelt on the floor next to Dorothy. “Get me some towels from the kitchen and the first-aid kit!” she ordered Benson.
In frustration, Benson looked at Bakker, who was closest, and nodded. Bakker turned, grabbed three dishtowels off the rack and the big first-aid kit which was sitting on the kitchen counter, and handed them to Linda.
“You’re going to regret this,” Ernie warned, looking at Benson.
“Who the hell is she?” Benson angrily demanded to know.
“Ace Randall’s girlfriend.” Linda looked up at him, her eyes burning with rage.
“Like I said, you’re going to regret this,” Ernie repeated.
Benson said nothing but the expression on his face told the story. The Chicago cop was absolutely right. There were two men in this world who Gramps Benson never wanted to cross. One was Bob Burke, and the other was Ace Randall. Only the Devil knew which one was the more lethal when provoked.
“Watch them,” he told Baker, and then turned on Patsy Evans. “Come here.” He glared at her, grabbed her harshly by the arm, and dragged her down the narrow corridor into the master bedroom. Out of earshot from the others in the lounge, he slammed her up against the bulkhead and held the gold medallion in front of her eyes.
“Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded to know.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the gold from Baghdad, where this piece came from, so don’t get cute with me, little girl. I was Vinnie’s partner when we took it. So were those other guys.” He nodded toward the lounge. “All we want is our share, but Vinnie wouldn’t give it to us.”
“I… I don’t…”
“Oh, yes, you do! I tore that little cracker box house of yours in Fayetteville apart, and I couldn’t find it. But you know where it is,” he hissed as he dangled the medallion in front of her. She looked up at him, terrified, but didn’t say anything. His eyes flared angrily as he tightened his grip on her arm and threw her on the bed. “Have it your way. I’m going to enjoy this a lot more than you will, and after I’m finished, I’ll turn the others loose on you. I’m a gentleman, but they aren’t, so sooner or later, you’re gonna tell me what our old partner Vinnie did with the rest of it.”
He grabbed the waistband of her shorts. She struggled and tried to get away, but his grip was like a vice. “All right, all right, I’ll tell you.” She finally gave up. “It’s in the garage. He hid it in the garage.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I looked there,” Benson shot back, but he stopped his assault. “I looked everywhere. Now where is it!”
“Up in the ceiling, in the back corner above a loose piece of plywood.”
“If you’re lying to me…” He glared down at her and tugged at the waistband again.
“I’m not! That’s where I got that,” she said as she pointed to the medallion in his hand.
He looked deep into her eyes for another long minute. He saw fear and anger, a lot of that, but he didn’t see any duplicity. “All right. But for your sake that had better be the truth. And one other little thing. If you don’t want them to come visit you, this stays between the two of us. Understand?”
Benson pulled her off the bed and dragged her back up the corridor to the main lounge, where he shoved her back in her chair.
Linda pointed at Dorothy. “She needs to go to the hospital,” Linda told him. “She needs to go now. Let me take her. I won’t say anything.”
“Oh, no, you’re coming with me. I know who you are and you’re my ‘Bob Burke Get Out of Jail Free Card.’ ”
“Not if Dorothy dies.” Linda looked up at him with hard, angry eyes. “Then, there’ll be nothing that will save you. Or any of you,” she added as she looked around at the others.
Benson looked down at the woman lying on the floor and knew Linda was right. “My answer is still no. However, I’ll leave the two card counters here with her. They can call the paramedics as soon as we leave, but you, the big Chicago cop, and Vinnie’s squeeze Patsy are coming with us. I know Ace and the Ghost. They’d take a shot at me with a Barrett without a second’s hesitation, but they wouldn’t dare with you in the way.”
Benson turned and looked at the three Geeks. “All right, which one of you is the smart guy who hacked into the casino’s computers?”
Both Ronald and Sasha immediately raised their hands. “Me, I did it!” they said, almost in unison. “I was the one who hacked into them.”
On the other hand, Jimmy sat with his head in his hands and blood running down his forehead, staring daggers through Benson.
“That’s what I thought,” Benson quickly answered. “You,” he pointed at Jimmy. “Get your laptop. You’re coming with us.”
“With Patsy?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, her too,” Benson told him with an amused smile as he looked at Reimer and shook his head. “Him and her? Man, I never saw that one coming. Let’s get out of here.”
As soon as Bob was able to get Lonzo into the back seat of Chester’s car, he told The Batman to go with them and told Bulldog to stay with him at the casino.
“I hate to disagree with you, Ghost, but you need me here,” The Batman told him.
“Since when did you start debating an order?” Bob asked.
“Since you became a civilian.”
“The men come first with me, and they always have. You know that.”
“No, the mission did,” The Batman corrected him.
“Look, I’m not arguing with you. Go with them and help Chester get Lonzo on the boat. I’ll call ahead so they’ll be waiting, then you can come back here. Meanwhile, Bulldog and I will reconnoiter and meet you at the back door in ten. Good enough?”
“Good enough,” The Batman said as he jumped in the rear seat with Lonzo. Chester floored it, taking most of the downhill exit road on two wheels.
Bob keyed the mic on his headset. “Ernie, this is Ghost,” he said, and waited for Ernie to reply. “Ernie, Ghost, come in,” he called again, but all he heard was silence. Technical problems? Or something else, he wondered. But there was no time to find out.
Bob keyed the mic again. “Ace, Ghost. We’ve had a few problems back here,” he quickly told him, “You and Koz will have to work without spotters.”
“Roger that, no problem. What’s with the boat?”
“I don’t know. Chester will be there soon. Then I’ll know.”
“Roger that. So what’s Plan B?”
“You and Koz go to the Tuscany Towers roof, both of you, opposite corners. I’ll try to get some people up there with you but we’re running a tad short on help at the moment, so stay frosty and keep me advised.”
“Roger that. Did you copy, Koz?”
“Copy. The loading dock in Two.”
Ace found a parking space near the emergency stairs and grabbed his backpack and guitar case from the trunk. Inside, the guitar case was lined with hard foam and had a series of sculpted indentations to hold the major pieces of his M-107 Barrett semi-automatic .50-caliber sniper rifle. It was Ace’s favorite. At four times the weight of an M-16, it was solid, very accurate, and packed enough punch to stop a charging elephant. Its bullets produced over 11,500 foot-pounds of pressure, which could punch a hole through a half-inch of plate steel; or, he figured, through three Gumbahs standing in line. He had it broken down into the upper and lower receiver assembly, the barrel, a bipod support, a Leupold Mark IV scope, its BORS scope computer, and an AN/PVS Night Vision Scope, and could have it assembled and ready to fire in thirty seconds or less.
He also carried a backpack which contained a combat medic first aid kit, three ten-round magazines for the Barrett, six more magazines for his pistol, a prying iron, a hammer, several screwdrivers, pliers, and a spotter scope. Thirty rounds from a Barrett was more than enough to send their uncles and cousins running out of Little Italy like rats leaving a sinking ship. Finall
y, he carried his favorite Beretta automatic with a silencer in a shoulder holster under his left arm and a six-inch tactical knife in a sheath on his belt. Bring the bastards on, he thought. Tonight, payback was going to be a bitch.
Koz arrived at the loading dock seconds after he did, carrying much the same gear. Using one of Chester’s master key cards on the rear entry door, they were inside, with no guards, no alarms, no muss, no fuss… except for a security camera located fifty feet down the hallway and pointed directly at them. The emergency stairwell door was on their immediate left, and it also had a key card reader. The two men kept their faces turned away from the camera and were through the door in seconds. With everything else going on at the Bimini Bay tonight, Ace doubted anyone would be watching the camera feeds too closely. Even if they were, all they’d see was two guitar players in the band arriving early.
He and Koz jogged up the seven flights of stairs to the rooftop. This time, the fire door had a hefty Master padlock and a thick hasp, not a magnetic key card lock. Ace gave it a quick look, reached in his backpack, and pulled out his pry bar. He jammed it in behind the hasp and stopped to looked at Koz. “A little help?” Ace grinned at him.
“A big guy like you? I thought you’d be too embarrassed to ask,” Koz smiled back as the two men took firm grips on the pry bar.
“One, two, now,” Ace said as they dropped all their weight on it. With a splintering “Crrraaack!” the metal hasp ripped free of the metal door and hung loose down the door frame. “Piece of cake, Staff Sergeant.”
Koz pushed the door open. “After you. Now let’s punch some holes in those bastards.”
“For Vinnie.”
“For Vinnie. You set up in the left corner of the roof and I’ll set up in the right, then I’ll check in with the boss.”
A three-foot high parapet wall ran around the perimeter of the Tuscany Towers roof. With all the bright lights and signs attached to the outside of the building, the low wall cast the roof in deep shadow, screening it from the ground and from the roof of the Bimini Bay. Ace sat in one corner and began assembling his rifle. Looking around, he saw a twelve-inch drain hole in the base of the parapet wall, which would provide a ready-made firing hole. With the M-107 assembled and a magazine loaded in its receiver, Ace assumed a prone position and took aim on the penthouse. He glanced over and saw that Koz was doing the same thing in the opposite corner. Using the BORS digital computer on the rifle’s scope, he calibrated the yardage to the penthouse at 922 meters, slightly over half a mile. Carbonari’s helicopter was a shade closer at 912 meters. Piece of cake, he thought, and right at the optimum distance of the rifle.
He pulled out the spotter scope and pointed it at the penthouse. The lights were on inside and he saw activity. Carbonari and three other men were having what appeared to be a heated discussion. Looking closer, one of them had a pistol pointed at the Don. Interesting, Ace thought, wondering if he could get a clearer view through the scope on the tripod-mounted rifle. As he set the sniper scope down and reached for the Barrett, he heard a loud voice call out behind him from the emergency stairwell door.
“Ey! Who’s up here? What the hell’s goin’ on?”
Ace rolled onto his side, looked back at the doorway. He saw a big man backlit by the light from the stairwell below. From the loud sports coat and the big revolver he held in his hand, it had to be one of the Gumbahs from New York. The man stepped out on the roof and Ace a saw a second gunman coming up behind him.
“Look at dis, Nardo, somebody broke the freakin’ lock off,” he heard the second man say. As Ace watched, the second man pulled a large revolver out of his shoulder holster.
“I can’t see a goddamn ting up here, Fabio,” the first man answered as he crouched down, waving his pistol back and forth. “You see anything?”
Ace was lying in the deep shadow behind the parapet wall where it would be impossible for either man to see him or Koz before their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Unfortunately for them, Ace wasn’t going to allow that to happen. He drew his silenced Beretta. In a sweeping motion, he aimed at the body mass of the second Gumbah and put three rounds into his chest. The man staggered backward and then sat down in the doorway. The one in front already had his pistol out, but that was as far as he got before Koz took him out with a single shot from his Barrett — louder, but much more effective. As Ace expected, the .50-caliber slug blew a large hole in the big Italian. He did a cartwheel and landed in a heap on the gravel roof, several feet away.
“Two down,” Koz said.
“And half ’a freakin’ Sicily to go,” Ace answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
If it was easy for Cheech Mazoulli, Eddie Costa, and Pete Moretti to bust their way into Carbonari’s penthouse on the top floor of the Bimini Bay, it was that much easier for Martijn and Theo Van Gries, Joost DeVries, and Reggie MacGregor to follow them inside. Donatello’s prized front doors stood wide open. The decorative hinges were bent and pieces of the ornate locks lay all over the entryway carpet. That was warning enough, so the four men drew their pistols and stepped cautiously into the foyer. They immediately heard loud, angry voices coming from the master bedroom to the right and as they continued on through the great room to the bedroom doors. They too were standing wide open. When they looked around the doorframe, what they saw was utterly bizarre, even by Atlantic City standards.
Donatello Carbonari was lying near the headboard of his huge, circular bed, obviously naked, with the top sheet pulled up to his chin and his left hand raised, whimpering and begging. Standing around the bed were three of Angelo Roselli’s henchmen from Brooklyn with their guns pointed down at him. Their boss, Cheech Mazoulli, had a large .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver in his hand pointed directly at Carbonari’s head as he screamed, “You freakin’ piece ’a crap! You freakin’ coward!” And from the angry expression on Mazoulli’s face, it was obvious to Martijn that he intended to shoot. It was equally obvious that the three New York hoods were so busy terrifying Carbonari that they were completely unaware that the Van Grieses and their three mercs had stepped into the bedroom behind them.
Without any further thought, Martijn raised his new Walther PPK and shot Cheech Mazoulli twice in the head. He wasn’t concerned about attaching the silencer, or about any resulting noise the gunshot would create. After all, this was his hotel. He was standing in Carbonari’s own bedroom, and he could shoot anyone he damned well pleased! Martijn finally looked down at the whimpering figure of his boss with total disdain. He gave serious thought to emptying the remainder of the magazine into the debonair “Don,” but chose not to, at least for the moment. Despite Donatello’s stupidity and faults, until they got their hands on rest of his money, Carbonari could still be of some use to the Van Grieses.
Theo and Joost carried their usual Royal Dutch Marine Corps service pistols, the much more powerful semi-automatic 9-millimeter Glock 17-Ms, while MacGregor had the equally deadly SAS issue Sig Sauer P226. After Martijn fired, the three mercs promptly dispatched Mazoulli’s two companions, Eddie Costa and Pete Moretti, in a hail of gunfire before Cheech Mazoulli’s body even hit the carpet. All three New York gunmen now lay at the foot of Carbonari’s big bed, bleeding all over his plush white carpet, and very much dead.
“Cleanup in Aisle 6,” MacGregor quipped as he scanned the room to the left.
“In his line of work, the man should rethink the white carpet,” Joost DeVries added, as he swept the room to the left. “Those stains will never come out.”
The loud volley of gunshots did have one other consequence. It spooked the boy hiding in the bathroom. Suddenly, a skinny, naked fifteen-year-old burst through the bathroom door and dashed across the bedroom. He almost knocked Martijn down as he headed for the great room. Martijn turned and glared down at Carbonari. “You old queen!” he said as he raised his Walther, turned on the young boy, and shot him three times in the back before he reached the doorway.
At this point, Donatello completely freaked out. His legs b
egan moving, faster and faster, as if he was pedaling backwards on a bicycle, his heels digging into the mattress, as he tried to get away. Martijn stepped over to the edge of the bed as Carbonari looked up at him, wide-eyed, terrified. The Dutchman looked down and slowly shook his head. “Donnie, Donnie, what have you been up to?” he asked him as he waved the Walther at the body. “Teenage boys, now? Look at what you made me do.” Carbonari was still in a panic, and when that didn’t work, Martijn took a step closer and gave the big Italian a hard, backhanded slap across his face. “Get a grip on yourself!”
Carbonari sat up and looked down around the edge of the bed, barely able to see the dead bodies of the New York gunmen. “But… but those were Angelo Roselli’s men. Mazoulli is a ‘made man,’ you can’t just kill guys like that.”
Martijn laughed and turned toward Theo and Joost. “Actually, it was rather easy. Besides, I had no choice, and neither did you. In case you did not notice, Mazoulli had that very large cannon pointed at your head and was about to splatter what few brains you have all over your headboard. I am no longer certain how much that would have bothered me, but it certainly would have bothered you.”
“But it’s all a mistake,” Carbonari tried to explain as he began to calm down. “You did send Roselli the money, the eight and a quarter million this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“Why? Did he say I didn’t?” Martijn scoffed.
“Yes! He said the money never got there. Worse, he says all of their Atlantic City accounts are empty.”
“What?” Martijn asked as he looked down at him in disgust. “Get dressed,” he told Carbonari, none too politely. As he did, he exchanged a quick, questioning look with Theo, and then marched past his brother into the great room. He went directly to Carbonari’s corner desk and turned on his desktop computer. It was obvious to Martijn that there was a role reversal about to take place here. It was a long time coming, and would probably be terminal, but until Martijn understood what was going on, Donatello still had his uses.
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