by Henry Hack
“No, Number Three failed his final test. You will be his replacement – if you pass your final test.” He passed a folded piece of paper over to Pop and said, “You’ll meet with the apostle and the rest of us disciples at this address in Brooklyn this Saturday night at eight p.m. Be prompt. I’ll see you there.”
“Thank you, Number Five.”
“Congratulations, once again, Sam. My name is Jason, but we try to stay with the numbers, especially on the phone and the computer.”
“I understand that. See you Saturday…um, the bathroom?”
“That won’t be necessary this time. You can leave now.”
Pop ambled past Nick and mumbled, “On the third floor.”
This time, the surveillance team at a side entrance spotted Number Five as he exited the building four minutes later. He jogged to the nearest subway entrance and disappeared in the crowd. By the time Joe Ramos and Spider got to the bottom of the staircase he was gone.
On May 3, two days before the Romens announced they would begin phase three, the entire police department went on twelve hour tours. The extra manpower was put on the street on foot patrol and directed to periodically visit, and keep a close eye on, all the tobacco vendors on their assigned beats. The meeting Pop had with the Romens the previous Saturday evening was a monumental disappointment. He had been introduced to the Apostle Mark and the other disciples and he was subjected to questions about his background and dedication. After about an hour he was dismissed and the others remained to receive their assignments for the following week. Pop was assured by Mark he would be contacted soon with the details of his final test – but this would be after phase three had begun.
10
At ten a.m., in the largest wholesale outlet on Interstate 95 in the heart of North Carolina, Donny Ray Williams, who owned the store and personally ran the tobacco concession, was not a happy businessman. He chewed on his cigar and re-lit it with the latest blowtorch lighter on display on the counter. He hadn’t sold more than a dozen cartons of smokes since he had opened an hour ago and there were now only two people in the huge humidified cigar store. Those Romens may have everybody else scared, but Donny Ray was not afraid at all. He had his trusty Remington 870 pump shotgun primed and ready to go. If those wacko motherfuckers dared show up in his store he would shred their asses with double-aught buckshot. His four clerks who worked the long counter with him were similarly armed with shotguns or handguns which were never out of reach.
Donny came out from behind the counter and strolled through the front door of the huge outlet center. He walked a hundred yards to get a better look at traffic on the interstate. It was still there all right – cars and trucks zipping by, if anything, a mite heavier than usual. But none of them were pulling off the goddamned exit ramp that led right into his parking lot. He strode back into the store under the huge “DRW Outlet” sign and headed back behind the counter. Before he could move near the cash register someone stuck a pistol into the side of his head.
The someone was joined by seven others who had seemed to materialize out of thin air. All eight wore dark ski masks and gloves and dark non-descript clothing. Without a word they opened fire killing the four clerks, but spared Donny Ray. Two of the shooters ran into the cigar store and shot the two clerks in there. They motioned the two customers outside. Two other shooters ran back toward the front door and three others began rounding up the few customers who were shopping in other areas of the outlet. The remaining shooter forced Donny Ray to his knees and handcuffed him behind his back.
The whole operation had taken less than three minutes and the eight shoppers and two checkout clerks were now sitting with their backs to the long cigarette counter with six guns trained on them. One of the shooters said, “A Romen wants to know which of you smoke?”
The customer from the cigar area, who had four huge stogies sticking out of the pocket of his shirt, knew he couldn’t lie, so he weakly raised his hand.
“Anyone else?” asked the shooter. When none raised a hand he motioned to two of the other shooters who then ordered everyone to empty their pockets and purses. Both checkout clerks, women in their early twenties, had cigarettes in the pocket of their smocks and four of the eight shoppers – two men and two women – also had packs of cigarettes on their persons. Again two different Romens wasted no time shooting all seven smokers with the now familiar two shots into the face. Then the shooter who had forced Donny Ray to his knees shot that good ‘ol boy in the same way, saying, as he shook his head, “You goddamn death dealers just didn’t listen.” He then turned to the four remaining living customers – non-smokers – who were crying and shaking and asked, “Can you believe these people? We warned them a week ago.”
The shooter walked a short distance down the aisle behind him and withdrew a large brown paper bag and handed it to one of the surviving nonsmokers, an elderly man. “Would you be so kind, sir, to hang these signs on these people? Here, these are for the seven smokers and this one is for our death dealer – ‘ol Donny Ray himself.”
After the terrified old man hung the signs around the necks of the dead to the shooter’s satisfaction, he said, “Now just one more thing and you’ll be free to go. We have to drag all these folks outside and prop them up for viewing. Oh, we have to drag Donny’s clerks out. We got signs for them, too. Wouldn’t want them to burn up with our message on them, now would we? Let me snap a few photos first, and then we’ll be just about done here.”
When they approached the door, the two Romens stationed there pitched in to help and one of them motioned toward a gray van a few rows away in the parking lot. The van approached and waited until all the bodies were clear of the front doors. The driver then backed the van up to the doors and got out. The Apostle Simon smiled under his ski mask at the smoothness of the operation. His disciples propped the bodies up against a steel rail near the end of the property and two remained to guard the nonsmokers. Simon and the remaining disciples each took two five- gallon cans of gasoline and re-entered the store. When they emerged five minutes later, the store was already blazing away. Simon waved to the two disciples guarding the non-smokers and one of them said, “Okay, you four, skedaddle. Get in your cars and head south on I-95. Don’t get off for two exits. Got it?”
They all nodded and ran to their cars and left the parking lot in a hurry. Simon got back in the van and the eight disciples split into two groups of four and entered two sedans and drove away. The van stopped and Simon pointed his camera at the outlet just as the flames burst through the front glass doors in a roar and licked up toward Donny Ray’s huge sign.
At 10:50 a.m. the members of the Task Force were engaged in a planning session in the conference room when the news anchor on CNN loudly announced, “We have breaking news.” All eyes turned up to the TV as the obviously stressed male anchor said, “Reports are coming in to our news desk of attacks by the Romens in several areas of the country – New York City, Chicago, Atlanta, Raleigh and Richmond thus far. The attacks took place at large, well-known tobacco outlets. Several store personnel and customers were murdered and the stores set on fire. The Romens, as they had warned last week, took credit for the attacks in their usual manner with signs hung around the neck of their murder victims. The exact wording on the signs is not yet known to us at this time. Stay tuned for further details as they come in. Now back to our regular programming.”
“Those bastards,” Danny said. “I wonder what they hit in New York.”
“Why don’t we call someone and find out?” Alicia asked.
John McKee called the commissioner’s office and got Pete Hayes. The inspector told him that so far he had knowledge the Romens got Hy Fielder’s Cigar Palace on 53rd Street and the Downtown Tobacco Emporium on Vesey Street.
“How many dead?”
“Twelve in Fielder’s that we know of; I don’t know about downtown. Both places pretty well burned out. And tell Danny, one of the dead was one of ours – Tony Renda from the Midtown North precinct wher
e he used to work.”
John spoke awhile longer with Inspector Hayes and then relayed the information to the group. “Son-of-a-bitch!” Danny shouted. “I worked a radio car with Tony many times.”
“He went down fighting though, Hayes told me. He got one of those Romens.”
“Good for Tony,” Danny said. “Maybe they can crack him wide open.”
“Not unless they can resurrect him first – your buddy put four into him.”
The attacks by the Romens continued throughout the week and into the weekend. By the morning of Police Officer Anthony Renda’s funeral on Monday, May 10, seventeen tobacco establishments had been torched and fifty-three employees and customers had been murdered. The signs on the employees’ chests read, Death to the Sellers of Death and those on the customers read, Death to the Enablers of Death. Both were signed, The Romens, although the public had no doubts as to who was responsible for the carnage – after all, they had been warned.
A police officer killed in the line of duty in the New York Metropolitan Police Department is accorded a full inspector’s funeral – a prescribed number of inspectors, captains, lieutenants, sergeants and police officers are assigned to attend. But this is always far exceeded by those who show up voluntarily, and it appeared all records of attendance were smashed at Tony Renda’s funeral in St. Theresa of Avila Parish in Queens.
The police officers of Tony’s precinct, acting as an honor guard, lined the steps of the church leading up to the front door. The casket was led in by the priest and pall bearers, followed by Tony’s family and the mayor, the police commissioner and other top elected officials and department brass. Harry Cassidy glanced at the officers of the Midtown North precinct as they stood at rigid attention, more than one of them with a tear running down his or her cheek. The shiny gold shield caught his eye, out of place among the rows of silver shields. He did not have to look at the face of the officer wearing that shield to know to whom it belonged.
After the funeral was over, Danny found his wife, Tara, in the ranks of the hundreds of detectives who had attended and they drove back home in silence, each with their own thoughts of the Romens and the terrible times they lived in. “When will this shit ever end?” he asked.
“Not until we kill them all,” she said.
“That’s supposed to be my job on the Task Force, but we are no closer to finding these guys than the first day I went over there. But I vow to you, Tara, I’m going to get even for Tony. I’m going to take out some of those bastards, or die trying.”
“Hey, lover,” she said. “Kill them all, but don’t you die. I want you around with me for awhile longer.”
“I’m not dying anytime soon. I love you, Tara. You’re good for me – real good.”
“Damn right I am,” she said.
Two days after Tony Renda’s funeral the team was discussing Pop’s impending final exam, giving a briefing of their pans to Walt Kobak and Harry Cassidy. “We figured out what the final test might be when Disciple Number Five mentioned to Pop the Savior didn’t want to forget the SUV owners,” Alicia said.
“Last night,” Nick said, “Pop was told to pick a target of his choice to execute – a target driving an SUV.”
“There aren’t too many of them on the streets anymore,” Joe Ramos said, “but we are setting one up in the parking area of the Long Island Railroad’s Valley Stream station. Pop told them he had his target identified as a commuter who returns late from the city. He said the guy parks in the morning at the far end of the lot, and returns after nine p.m. That area is pretty much vacant by that time.”
“Pop is going to whack the guy tomorrow night,” Nick said.
“Hold on,” Danny said. “He’s not actually going to kill some innocent guy, is he?”
“Not at all,” Nick said, “he’s going to kill me.”
“We bought the SUV this morning,” Alicia said. “They come cheap now. Nick is going to come off the train and walk to the vehicle. When he gets behind the wheel, Pop will shoot twice, but he will shoot both rounds into the headrest. Nick will slump forward and blood and brains will explode from a device provided by the lab guys.”
“Do you think it will fool the guys who are monitoring Pop?” Harry asked.
“It had better,” John McKee said, “but we’ll all be secreted in the area if things get screwed up. And if this is successful, we’ll have our UC in the midst of the Romens, and maybe Pop will find out enough to allow us to take them down.”
Plans were also being made by the Romens for tomorrow night’s final tests – five in all – in various parts of the country. The Savior was meeting with several of his apostles in his apartment in Maryland. Peter had all the files on the kitchen table for his final review. Mark was there to discuss his prospect, Samuel Charles, as were four other apostles who had new disciples ready to come on board. They were a happy group, reflecting on their recent successes against the tobacco industry. Joseph, who was now headquartered in Philadelphia, told of a news report he had heard a couple hours ago. “Looks like we have a helper,” he said. “Two smokers were shot in a downtown park. They had signs around their necks similar to the ones we use, but my disciples did not kill them.”
“Did the news report say they were copycats?” the Savior asked.
“No, they said we were responsible. If they know differently, they’re keeping it quiet.”
“Interesting. I like it. I know all of you were not enthusiastic about this campaign, and I promised it would be short. It would be great if others took up the cause for us so we could move on to the third campaign.”
“What are you planning for that?” Simon asked.
“I have a few targets in mind, but I will discuss them all with you to get a consensus choice. Let’s wrap up tobacco and get our ranks up to full strength first. Let’s review these files.”
One by one the Savior carefully perused the thick dossiers on the prospects. He occasionally asked a question of the apostle who approved the new member, and also asked Peter, who had developed the data in the file, a question or two. “Ah,” he said to John. “You found us another woman. Good.”
The Savior took another dossier from the pile and thumbed through it. When he came to Pop’s picture he stopped and held it up studying it. “I know this guy,” he said.
“You do?” Mark asked. “From where?”
“I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling about him.”
“He checked out perfectly all down the line,” Peter said.
“You know,” Mark said, “he resembles the movie actor Morgan Freeman somewhat. A lot of my disciples thought that when they first met him.”
“He looks like former New York Mayor David Dinkins to me,” laughed the Apostle, John, who had lived in that city for many years.
“No,” the Savior said. “Not Freeman and not Dinkins. I’ve seen this face somewhere before – I know it. It’ll come to me, sooner or later. Who is monitoring his test tomorrow?”
“Me and Joseph,” Mark said.
“Watch him closely. If he hesitates, or doesn’t perform – kill him at once.”
11
At 8:30 the following evening, a gray Chevy sedan pulled into the parking lot of the Valley Stream Long Island Railroad station. The Apostle Joseph was behind the wheel. The Apostle Mark was in the front seat with him, and Pop was alone in the back seat. They parked in a vacant spot about two hundred yards away from the forest-green Grand Ranger. “This guy definitely deserves to die,” Joseph said. “Blatantly driving this monster in defiance of us.”
“Some people never get the message,” Mark said.
The members of the Task Force were hidden in various vehicles in the parking lot, and on foot under the trestle, and behind bushes. At 9:10, surprisingly on schedule, the train from New York roared into the station. They all watched the people come into the parking area and head tiredly to their cars. “There he is,” Pop said. “In the gray suit, carrying a briefcase.”
The Chevy, cr
eeping without its lights on, was about fifty feet from the SUV when Nick reached it. “Now!” Mark said, handing the .38 caliber revolver to Pop as he exited the car. Pop reached the SUV just as Nick slid behind the wheel. Mark and Joseph heard Pop say, “Die, asshole,” immediately followed by two shots. Mark got out of the Chevy and walked over to the SUV and passed Pop who was heading back. When Mark was about eight feet away he spotted the slumped head of the target. Its hair was matted with blood and brain matter, some of which had sprayed onto the inside surface of the windshield. He hung the standard sign on Nick and hurried back to the Chevy. Whatever was bugging the Savior about Samuel Charles must be unfounded. Sam had just passed his final test with honors.
The Chevy left the parking lot and turned west on Sunrise Highway toward the city. Pop handed the gun back to Mark who opened the cylinder and removed the two spent cartridges. They would go down different sewer grates in Manhattan later that evening. “Great job, Sam,” he said. “You are now officially Disciple Number Three.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m happy to be a part of the Romens. What do we do next?”
“You go back to your job tomorrow morning as usual. The plans are in place to take out some more smokers, and that will end this campaign for awhile. Now we’re back to full strength, the planning for our third campaign can kick into high gear. And don’t you worry – you will be an active participant in all our campaigns from now on.”
The Savior was pleased with the results of the final tests, especially the fact Samuel Charles had performed so well. Still, he couldn’t shake the notion he had recognized the face in the picture. He knew it would nag at him until he was finally able to place it, but decided to push it into the lower reaches of his brain. Besides, he needed all his conscious attention to focus on the third campaign. He had narrowed down his next possible targets to two groups – the buses and trucks that spewed their noxious black fumes into the air of the cities and the countryside, or the nuclear power industry which claimed to produce clean energy but which, in reality, created a future environmental disaster by improperly disposing of their radioactive waste products.
