Burke's Gamble

by William F. Brown

  “He told you he never got the money? That is not possible,” Martijn muttered, mostly to himself, as the accounting software opened and he leaned closer to the screen, working the mouse and the keyboard simultaneously with lightning-quick strokes. As he did, Carbonari appeared behind him, wearing a thick, white bathrobe. He put his hand on Martijn’s shoulder, but Martijn brushed it away. Rejected, the big Italian took a half-step backward. Finally, Martijn got through the numerous layers of software security that he had in part designed and reached the spreadsheet screens he wanted. Then, he froze. His eyes widened as he stared at the columns and rows in disbelief.

  “It shows you sent him the money, right?” Carbonari pressed him.

  “No, my 'Sicilian Adonis,' it shows we’ve been penetrated, but not in the way you like. The money is gone.”

  “You mean the money that was supposed to be sent to Roselli? The New York money, right? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Martijn slumped back in the chair. “All of it. The New York money, the bank money, our money, your money, all of it. It’s gone.

  “All the money?” Carbonari asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, someone cleaned us out, and I think I know who. It was that bastard Burke. I knew he was out to get us, to get you, but he is what…? some old infantry retread. I… I never thought the fellow was half this smart.”

  “But… how could he?” Carbonari asked as his brain raced ahead. “We... we’ve got to tell Roselli what happened, that it wasn’t us, that it was that guy Burke, and we got hacked.”

  Martijn looked up and laughed. “Do you really think that will help, Donatello? Do you think they will believe you? If you do, you are a bigger fool than I thought you were.”

  “But what are we going to do?”

  “Burke came in here on a big boat today, perhaps yesterday. It is docked at a marina across the harbor. I saw him and so did Theo and Benson. That’s where Benson is. I sent him and three of Theo’s men over there to find him. He’s the one who took our money, I know he did. I just don’t know how he did it. But I will. And if he values any of those friends of his, he’ll put it all back.”

  “But what if he won’t? What if he can’t?” Donatello asked in a panic.

  “Then we are dead men, all of us.”

  Chester raced down Maryland Avenue in the rental car. As he blew through the intersection with Absecon Boulevard, he passed two other cars headed in the opposite direction. They had tinted window glass and he couldn’t see inside even if he wanted to. He took a hard right on Melrose and soon reached the small marina across the harbor where the big Ferrenti yacht was parked. The rental car careened on two wheels as it skidded into the gravel parking lot, and he finally brought the car to a stop at the foot of the long wooden pier. The Batman was in the rear seat, continuing to hold a compression bandage on Lonzo’s leg.

  “How’s he doing?” Chester turned his head and asked.

  “Better,” The Batman quickly answered. “The bleeding is largely stopped.”

  “Good, let’s get them on board.” Chester opened the car door and paused for a second as he looked down the pier at The Enchantress. He was looking at the aft end of the big yacht. All of its interior and exterior lights were on. He could see the aft deck and into the main deck lounge beyond, and he didn’t like what he saw. There was no one on the aft deck. He saw no one inside the big boat, either, and that wasn’t right.

  Chester reached back inside and turned off the car’s interior dome light as The Batman got out his side. Chester opened the rear door and was helping The Batman pull Lonzo out of the back seat when he looked back at the big boat. “Wait one,” Chester told them as he pulled out his Beretta automatic and chambered a round. “Stay here with Lonzo until I check out the boat.”

  “Roger, but be careful. Looks deserted, doesn’t it?” The Batman replied as he jacked a round into his Beretta as well.

  Chester walked up the side of the parking lot to the pier, staying in the shadows as best he could, and then walked up the pier to the stern of The Enchantress. He looked up at the flying bridge, saw no one standing guard, pulled out his pistol, and went on full alert. He finally stepped aboard the big boat with a light, soft tread, walking forward until he could look down into the main lounge. That was when he saw Dorothy lying on the deck with Ronald and Sasha kneeling on each side of her holding a bloody compress on her abdomen.

  When Chester stepped inside the lounge, no one appeared happier to see him than Ronald. “She’s been shot,” he said as he moved aside to make room for Chester.

  “Where is everyone else?” Chester asked as he knelt next to her.

  “They took them. Four men with guns. They just drove away…” Chester looked under the towel. That was all it took. He keyed his tactical radio mic and said, “Ghost, Chester. I’m on the boat. The only ones here are Dorothy, Ronald, and the Russian. Everyone else is gone. Ronald says four armed men took them away. And Dorothy’s been shot.”

  “Copy. How bad?”

  “Bad enough. In the gut, and she’s bleeding. She needs a doc.”

  “Chester, this is Ace. I’m coming down. I’ll be there in Five.”

  “Ace, Ghost. Negative on that. I understand how you feel, but we already have two of our guys down there and one's medic qualified. Let me call our friends down south for a dust-off, ASAP. Meanwhile, I really need you and the Barrett up on that roof. Do you copy?”

  “Ace, Chester. Ghost is right. We’ll take care of her until the bird gets here. I’ll get the bag and start saline and meds.”

  There was a long pause at the other end until Ace finally replied, “10-4… for now.”

  “Roger,” Ghost answered. “You and Koz keep your scopes on that roof. In a couple of minutes, I’m gonna need you big time.”

  “Oh, no doubt about that,” Ace answered as they heard him chamber a round in the big Barrett. “By the way, we have two Gumbahs KIA up here. They got nosy.”

  “Chester, Ghost. Will the parking lot work as an LZ?”

  “Looks like it. When they’re two minutes out, I’ll illuminate with headlights and a green flare. Tell them they can pick up both packages. Copy?

  “Roger that.”

  “Ghost, Chester. Wait where you are. The Batman and I will join you at your location after pickup. No sense you and Bulldog taking them on alone.”

  “Chester, Ghost. You want in, you best hurry. We aren’t waiting.”

  “Chester, Ace. Don’t worry. We got two Barretts up here and clear fields of fire. They won’t be alone.”

  “Ghost, Chester. As I drove here, we passed two dark-colored sedans going fast up Maryland. That could be them.”

  “Copy. You copy, too, Ace?”

  “Roger. Two cars just pulled into the garage. Couldn’t tell.”

  “Just keep eyes on the roof while I make the call.”

  “Wilco,” Ace answered as he pressed his eye to the scope, focusing on the brightly lit windows of the penthouse.

  Bob already had Command Sergeant Major Patrick O’Connor’s cell phone number in his speed dial before they left Fort Bragg. At 10:00 p.m., most senior NCOs were already in bed unless they were drunk, partying, or otherwise raising hell. In O’Connor’s case, it was impossible to tell which over the phone. He always answered with the same flat, deadpan, wide-awake growl. This time, however, Bob heard the loud, rhythmic beat of a helicopter in the background.

  “O’Connor, sir,” the big sergeant major answered.

  “Ghost here, Command Sergeant Major,” he said, trying to hear him. “Are you up in in a chopper?”

  “Something like that.”

  “We have a problem. I need a dust-off for two in Atlantic City. GSW’s — one an ambulatory leg wound, the other a serious abdominal wound to a female Air Force officer. Think you can arrange that?”

  After a momentary pause, O’Connor quickly replied, “10-4, Ghost. I’ll reach out to Fort Dix and call you back with an ETA. I’ll tell them a coup
le of our key operators were mugged and we’ll throw a national security blanket over it.”

  “10-4.”

  “By the way, you can expect a couple of visitors shortly.”

  “I hear there’s nothing more dangerous than a second lieutenant with a map or a general with a helicopter.”

  “Couldn't agree more, Ghost. We’re giving a new tactical stealth bird a night test flight.”

  “You aren’t carrying the rockets and mini-gun, are you?”

  “You know old boys with new toys. What channel can we reach you on later?”

  “We’re using twenty-seven. ‘We’? Are you along for the ride, too?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Besides, someone has to keep him out of trouble.”

  “Roger that. What’s his call sign?”

  He heard O’Connor chuckle. “You’ll know it when you hear it.

  “10-4,” Bob sighed.

  As O’Connor hung up, Gramps Benson and his strange procession reached the Bimini Bay’s penthouse via the express elevator. Eric Smit led, with Ernie Travers and Linda Burke walking close behind. Patsy Evans was behind them, still helping a dazed and bleeding Jimmy Barker. Lucas Bakker followed, helping Klaus Reimer, while Gramps Benson took up the rear, with his Walther PPK hanging casually down his right pants leg. Reimer pressed his dislocated right arm and broken wrist tightly to his chest. He was sweating and pale, obviously in considerable pain and not handling it very well. From the expressions on Benson’s and Bakker’s faces, none of the other men had any sympathy for him. Gunshot wounds and broken bones were all-too-frequent occupational hazards for Special Ops troops in any army. One was expected to simply gnaw off the offending appendage and ignore the pain, but never ever let them see you sweat. Then again, Reimer was a German, which meant he got even less sympathy from the three Dutchmen.

  As they walked through the open door of Carbonari’s penthouse apartment, even Benson had to stop and gawk. Martijn Van Gries sat at the computer which rested on Donatello’s antique French provincial desk. Joost DeVries and Reggie MacGregor had posted themselves in opposite corners of the room, pistols out, waiting patiently for orders from Theo. The rest of the scene was bizzare. Sprawled on the floor in the bedroom doorway was a young, naked boy with three bullet holes in his back. Beyond him, Benson saw three more bodies lying at the foot of Carbonari’s massive bed. From their clothes, he immediately recognized them as three of the gunmen who had been sent down from Brooklyn to help with security.

  That was when a badly shaken Donatello Carbonari stumbled out of the bedroom, suit jacket in hand, buttoning his white shirt. He gave the boy’s body a wide berth as he continued on into the living room. When he looked up and saw Benson, his men, and the others standing in the middle of the living room, Carbonari stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something, but the whole thing appeared to be too much for him to comprehend at that moment as he turned away and continued on toward Martijn Van Gries.

  Interesting, Benson thought. The pot was beginning to boil.

  The northwest side of the penthouse had floor-to-ceiling glass, and the drapes hung wide open. Ace continued to stare through the powerful optical scope on the Barrett. It was as if he was standing in the room next to them, providing a ringside seat for the high drama now taking place inside.

  “Ghost, Ace, our missing parties just entered the penthouse — Linda, Patsy, Ernie, and Jimmy — and I see Carbonari, both Van Grieses, their five mercs, and our long-lost Exec, Gramps Benson. Copy? It's what you might call a ‘target-rich environment.’ I’m not sure who I want to hit first. Any suggestions?”

  “Wait ’til The Batman and I get up there. Four of our people are in there, so don’t fire unless things go bad.”

  “Roger, that. I’ll hold… for now.”

  For the next three minutes, Ace lay motionless on the rubber pad with his eye pressed against the aperture of the Barrett’s scope, looking at the Bimini Bay’s roof through the small drainage hole in the parapet wall. His field of vision was narrow, but that didn’t matter. The scope covered the entire rooftop and he saw all he needed to see. At a distance of a half mile, the rifle barrel barely moved as he zoomed in and tracked the sight back and forth across the penthouse windows, watching the show inside, licking his chops, and waiting for the order to fire.

  That was when he heard the helicopter. Anyone who served in the Army in combat in the past fifty years knew four distinct sounds — the crack of an AK-47, the crunching Crump! of artillery and mortar rounds, the deep rumble of a flight of B-52s passing overhead, and the rhythmic Thump! Thump! Thump! of a helicopter. When you spend enough time in war zones, as Ace had, those sounds became part of you like bone and muscle. Still, not all Thumps! are the same. Like many others, Ace could tell each helicopter model by its unique rotor blade sounds. From what Ace heard in the dark sky above him, it wasn’t a Blackhawk, SuperCobra, or Iroquois, as the old Huey warhorse was officially called. What he heard was a smaller bird, most likely the new Lakota light helicopter which the Army had begun buying for Medevac missions.

  He looked up and saw it coming at him, sweeping in from the northwest across the marsh and turning down the Absecon channel that ran between Atlantic City and Brigantine.

  “Ghost, Ace. I have the Lakota dust-off inbound from the northwest.” At 140 mph, the little sucker could really move, he thought, and God, was it nimble, and quiet.

  “Roger. Chester, light it up,” he heard Ghost say.

  The helicopter crossed directly over the Bimini Bay before it swung south toward the Gardner’s Basin boat marina. Ace got to his knees and looked south over the top of the parapet wall with his spotter scope. The Enchantress was about a mile away, and from this height he could clearly see the car headlights and the green glow of the flares Chester set off. He could also see the Lakota as it dropped in and landed in the parking lot in a cloud of dust. The engine roar quieted down. As he waited, a timer began ticking in his head — one, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand … When he reached twelve, the engines suddenly accelerated, there was a second cloud of dust, and the Lakota leaped into air. Its tail rose like an angry scorpion as it took off. It headed straight north over the Absecon Inlet and accelerated toward Fort Dix, some twenty minutes away.

  “Ghost, Chester. Dust-off’s airborne. Bulldog and I will be at the back door in Five.”

  “Roger that,” Ace heard Ghost reply. “Make it quick. We’re going up.

  With a grim, angry expression, Ace resumed his position on the rubber mat, locked the Barrett against his shoulder, and pressed his eye against the scope. “Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line,” he mumbled softly to himself. It was the mantra countless Army Rifle Range instructors drilled into recruits prior to the commencement of shooting.

  “What did I just hear?” he heard Koz ask from the other corner of the roof.

  “Nothing, just a little wishful thinking.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Halfway across the room, Donatello Carbonari suddenly stopped as the pieces fell into place. His expression turned from dazed and confused to cold and vindictive, as his head snapped around and he glared at Ernie Travers and Jimmy Barker. “Who are these people?” he demanded to know, looking at Martijn.

  The Dutchman, in turn, looked at Benson and shrugged.

  “The large one is a Chicago cop,” Benson answered. “A detective.”

  “A Chicago cop?” Carbonari stared at Benson in disbelief.

  “He’s Burke’s friend. And this one’s his wife.” Benson nudged Linda.

  “Where is he?” Carbonari turned on her. “He did this to me and I want him.”

  “Be careful what you ask for… Donnie,” she said with a thin smile.

  That drove Carbonari into a rage. He drew his right arm back, intending to backhand her across her face, but Ernie Travers stepped in and caught Carbonari’s arm in mid-swing.

  “Try someone your own size,” the big
cop told him, and released his wrist.

  Carbonari glared angrily at him but did not take him up on the offer. Instead, he looked down at her again. “Where is he? Tell me, or you’re dead, you’re all dead.”

  “If I had to guess, he’s probably headed this way.” Linda looked up at him and smiled. “In fact, you’re probably standing in his crosshairs right now.”

  Carbonari suddenly glanced around and eyed the surrounding wall of window glass, stepped behind the big Chicago cop, and asked Martijn. “What about the money? Did you find it?”

  Martijn shook his head. “It’s gone, all of it, and I don’t have a clue where it went. Perhaps, if I had a day or two…” he said absently, staring at the computer. “But whoever did it, did it very well.”

  Carbonari suddenly whipped around and stared at them. “You’re the ones who did this to me, you and that bastard Burke. Aren’t you?” No one answered, but slowly, Carbonari’s attention turned to Jimmy Barker. “And you! You’re that card counter. Your friends look too stupid to know how the machine works, but you…”

  Jimmy continued to stand there, chin up, bloodied and defiant, and said nothing. Carbonari turned toward Martijn and reached for the Dutchman’s automatic pistol. “I’m gonna kill them! I’m going to kill them all!” he screamed, but Martijn grabbed his wrist and wouldn’t let him have the Walther.

  “That would not be very prudent, Donatello,” Martijn told him. “If he is the mad genius who did it, and I am beginning to think that may well be the case, we shall need him. As for the others, it is not wise to kill policemen or to ‘pull on Superman’s cape’ as they say.”

  “But they took my money!” Carbonari continued trying to pull the automatic away from Van Gries, clearly becoming unhinged by everything that had happened to him in the past hour. “Make them put it back!”

  “Even if he could, we would be here all night, Donatello. Besides, what would it accomplish? Angelo Roselli already thinks it is all your fault, and that is nothing compared to what he will think when he learns Mazoulli and his other two gunmen just got whacked,” Martijn said as he pointed toward the bedroom.