Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series)

by Skye, S. D.

  The brownstone where Santino was staying had been in the Donato family for over fifty years. His father inherited it from his grandfather, may he rest in peace; Santino would bunk there, at least until the hospital released Dante. Helped cut down the drive from Jersey in case of an emergency.

  Thinking about his old stomping grounds brought back a rush of memories of him, Santino, and Dante—the Three Musketeers—playing stickball in the alleyways, sitting on the stoop talking smack about being wise guys, and riding their Schwinn Stingrays to Third Ave and 85th to look at the Verrazano Bridge and buy Italian ice from the old man who operated the pushcart. A nostalgic smile edged the corners of his mouth upward.

  Tony checked his rearview mirror out of habit, but the last two times, he noticed a familiar car. An older silver Mustang with local plates. A dick on wheels, the car was hard to forget He suspected the guy driving had followed him. Tony noticed the man from the minute he pulled out of the Plaza parking lot but blew off his suspicion as paranoia.. He remembered the look of the guy at the stoplight. With his thick, wavy mane, the pinky ring glimmering in the sunlight during a stop in the city, and a two-hundred dollar pair of Ray Bans. The light bulb went off. Tony recognized him from his past.

  One of his father’s buttons—Ricky the Razor, a hit man whose mantra was “Life is short. Death is long.” He was more heavyset back in the day. He’d gotten the name for the gruesome way he slaughtered the family “rats” and other miscreants, wounding them to an inch of death and then slicing off their fingernails with a razor. Tony looked down at his fingers and shuddered at the thought.

  He made a hard right at a do-not-turn-on-red light around 68th, and the guy followed him, turn-for-turn in a complete 360 to the parkway.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tony said as he circled back to where he started. He checked his rearview mirror again for the fiftieth time in the last thirty minutes. He was still there. Same Mustang still clinging to his bumper. Same streak of silver that had tailed him through the city, across the Brooklyn Bridge and now a dozen blocks from Santino’s place.

  The surveillance detection run had served its purpose. Tony confirmed his father’s hit man had trailed him; he no longer had any doubts. Before the day ended he’d come face to face with somebody’s death—maybe his own.

  He felt an empty pit in his stomach and his heart palpitated.

  He glanced down at his phone. The only voice he wanted to hear was J.J.’s. Tony wished he could tell her he loved her, that he’d never discovered the best version of himself until he met her. He wanted to share his wish that his first son be blessed with her courage, her heart, and her eyes. The life he’d planned for them slipped away the moment his car hit 5th Avenue. He refused to go out like some spineless chump. If Ricky wanted to whack him, he’d have to work for it and he’d better hope Tony didn’t get to him first.

  Tony calculated a few scenarios before he devised a strategy to save his life. Even though nobody would ever accuse the Razor of stealth, he’d had experience in stalking his prey before going in for the kill.

  Tony slowed his speed, doing 15 in a 45, and Rick mirrored his movements. Yet another confirmation that his presence behind Tony’s vehicle was no fluke. In true New York fashion, a barrage of horns blared and expletives flew alongside flipped birds as Tony maneuvered to become the hunter instead of the hunted.

  He reached a cut-through at an alley off 86th Street and, in screeching halts, hooked successive right-hand turns until he wheeled into a parking space. When the Razor’s car passed, he backed out and made a quick right, checking his rearview mirror which revealed nothing but his own fumes. Seconds later, back on 4th Ave, he sped around scanning the area, trying to catch the Razor from behind. With all the turns, Tony expected to be on his bumper within a minute or two. But after ten minutes of circling, his target was nowhere to be found. Not ahead of him. Not behind him. Not anywhere.

  Tony breathed sigh of relief, believing he had shaken his tail, but the moment of comfort did not last long. Ricky knew Tony was staying at the Plaza. He feared the possibility of the Razor showing up to take him out with J.J. lying next to him.

  His anxiety mushroomed.

  He parked on the main thoroughfare and waited to see if the silver Mustang reappeared but it never did. Tony smacked himself in the head with the heel of his palm and slammed his hands against the steering wheel before heading to Santino’s place.

  A few minutes later, he arrived on 74th. He decided to park a couple blocks away and enter through the back of the house to avoid nosy neighbors and any of Pop’s people who might be monitoring out front. He whipped his car into the parking space and paused for a moment. As he checked the side mirror before opening the door into traffic, he spotted it.

  The Razor’s silver Mustang.

  Parked two cars down and across the street from his. He could tell it was the same car from the decal on the front left side of the windshield—a kid wearing a Yankee hat pissing on a Red Sox logo.

  Tony’s mind raced, and he padded full speed to the alley behind Santino’s. The Razor wasn’t in the car. Where had he gone? He couldn’t have predicted Tony would park two streets away. Either he was visiting someone else in the neighborhood (the possibility of which was slim and none)—or maybe the Razor had planned to use Santino as bait, lying in wait for Tony to show up.

  Tony decided to bust in, barrels loaded and then his heart sank. Chances were Santino was already dead anyway.

  Chapter 18

  Friday Night — U.S. Embassy, Moscow

  Six took the seat Mark offered him and braced himself for news on the explosion near the hotel where Mosin was staying.

  “Ghost Man can’t find Mosin. He’s not in the hospital, but he’s nowhere to be found—including dead.”

  Six scanned the room, taking in all the glum expressions. The implications did not escape him. Without Mosin in custody, he’d never return with the intel, and the threat of its disclosure would loom over the administration for the days and years to come. And if he eventually turned up dead, killing Mosin without recovering the intel would eventually be viewed as an epic failure by all involved.

  “No sight of the cache either, huh?” he asked, standing up to pace around the room.

  Mark and Bart both shook their heads. “Nothing.”

  “Damn,” Six said, throwing up his hands. That son of bitch slithered from between their fingers. He scrubbed his hands over his face and collapsed back into a chair wondering how the situation could go so far to the left so fast. He needed to talk to Ghost and confirm what the hell happened.

  Then one of the admins poked her head inside the door. “Six, you’ve got a call out here. Line 3.”

  His eyebrow scrunched wondering who in hell would be calling him from the main line. Maybe it was J.J. with news about the investigation. Part of him hoped he was wrong; she’d go ballistic when she found out Mosin was back in the wind.

  He pressed his way to the admin’s desk, grabbed the handset, and said, “Hello?”

  “Yeah, this is Ghost.”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “I need you at the safe house and don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Bought you seven days. Your clock starts now!”

  •••

  The drive to the barren structure just outside of Moscow proper felt shorter this time. The shock from the potholes more tolerable, the trunk less cramped. Perhaps because his mind strayed ahead in anticipation of what lay in front of him.

  The brakes squealed and Bart, his driver, signaled that they’d arrived and the coast was clear. Six rolled out of his trunk, crept into the wood’s edge, and crouched into the darkness of the brush as he watched the car’s taillights disappear into the distance.

  He waited, listening for the crackle of rubber against broken asphalt from an FSB watcher’s car. There was no movement, no sound. Just the harsh fluorescent glare of a distant street light. He turned and trekked through the woods, his eyes following a trail of worn gras
s to his destination. Once he reached the fence, he heard the thunk of wood against wood and muffled grunts as he made his way around to the front and approached the entry. It struck him how thin the walls must be.

  When he stepped up to the landing, a dark figure startled him.

  “Jesus!” Six said, holding his chest.

  Ghost appeared out of the shadows. His face drew into a sour scowl, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he dressed from head-to-toe in black except for the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  “Were you followed?” Ghost barked. His voice was gravelly and his attitude gruff.

  “Bart is one of the best in the business. We would’ve aborted the op if the FSB was onto us. Then I’d be sitting in the Embassy right now, not looking at you. Let’s get inside. We need to talk,” Six said, padding up the steps.

  “Wait,” Ghost said, shoving his palm into Six’s chest. “It ain’t pretty in there.”

  In a flash, Six’s face transformed, an animalistic glare shifted from Ghost’s hand, to his eyes. His chest hulked and fingers rolled up into his palms.

  “Put your hands on me again, and it won’t be pretty out here, either.”

  Ghost snatched his hand back to his side and glanced back at the door when thumping and mumbling emanated from the inside.

  “He’s inside?”

  Ghost nodded.

  “What the—wait. What did you do to him?”

  Chapter 19

  Friday Afternoon — New York City

  When Tony arrived at the back of his father’s house, he noticed the door was ajar. Santino would never leave it open, even in Bay Ridge which housed Brooklyn’s upper middle crust. He imagined the worst. The Razor had already put a bullet in Santino’s chest and was watching him bleed out as he peeled his nails from his hands. Tony clamped his eyes shut to press the image out of his mind and tip-toed inside, keeping his footsteps cotton-soft. He slipped the Glock from the holster and crept through the laundry room, listening for Santino’s screams.

  He heard nothing except a couple of voices whispering as he eased into the kitchen, holding his breath as the sound of his heartbeat thumped in his ears. Following the faint voices into his father’s office, he spotted Santino sitting behind the desk waving his arms in the air as if the Razor had held him up. The Razor’s back faced Tony; he stood with one hand in front of his body as if he was holding something. Tony concluded it must be a gun.

  Tony kicked the office door in and yelled, “Santino! Get out!” He gripped his pistol with both hands and tightened his fingers around the handle. With his arms extended, he levered one in the chamber and rushed inside.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Santino yelled.

  The Razor turned and spotted Tony. “Holy fuck!” he yelled, his hands shot up in the air.

  Chickenshit didn’t even fight back.

  “Ton’, for chrissakes put the gun away!” Santino barked.

  Tony growled through his teeth, adrenaline coursing. He walked over to the guy, who by then was one log deep in his pants, and pushed the muzzle of his Glock into the Razor’s temple. “Why the fuck did you trail me here? You fuckin’ prick!” He’d snapped under the stress and forgot everything except that some douche bag threatened his life and the blood of warriors coursed in his veins.

  Santino walked over to Tony and pushed his hand against his chest trying to urge him to back up. “Tony, this is Ricky. He’s a stand-up guy who’d take a bullet for Uncle Sal.” Santino turned to Ricky, who was sweatin’ like a Hebrew slave. Tony backed up, his face red hot from volcanic anger. “Go sit over there and calm your ass down,” Santino growled.

  “Ricky, this is my infamous cousin, Tony Donato. Who shouldn’t even be here, by the way.”

  “Nobody saw me…except him,” Tony said, jutting his head in the Razor’s direction. “Why the hell are you havin’ me followed?”

  “Uncle Sal’s orders. Not mine.”

  Ricky nodded. “Nicky Mumbles got word you’re in town. One of the guys in Monty Fazello’s crew is monitoring the hospital.” Monty was Nicky’s right-hand man. “Nicky ordered me to break an egg, if you know what I’m sayin’. Make you disappear upstate. He doesn’t know our history.” Ricky shifted his glance toward Santino. “Sal saved my life. That’s why I stay close to Nicky, to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t pull any bullshit like he’s trying now.”

  “Jerkoff,” Santino said. “Uncle Sal ordered that no one was to blink in your direction without his say so.”

  “Well, Nicky ordered otherwise. Said Tony’s death better be headline news by the end of the week or my wife would be filing a missing person’s report, and my body would never be recovered in one piece.”

  Tony returned his gun to the holster and took a seat in one of the two empty chairs in front of his pop’s desk. Ricky followed suit.

  “I’m not surprised. Told you that motherfucker was dirty.”

  “He’s been making a move on the family this whole time. The only thing I’m confused about is why he picked you as a target. You’re a Fed, for chrissakes, living in D.C.; what kind of threat are you?”

  Tony pinched his lips together and rubbed the back of his neck. Nicky Mumbles masterminded the hit on him from the jump. He had no doubt Santino was right, and so was his intuition. Nicky set him up to take the fall for ratting out Uncle Sal’s underboss, Jimmy Toots. What Tony didn’t understand is why no one else in the family had figured out his plan until now. Maybe because the notion of someone being so moronic as to frame the boss’s kid was just beyond the bounds of belief. It was a risk nobody thought Nicky was power-hungry enough to take. A boneheaded move. Getting whacked for framing the boss’s son to get a promotion seemed like a stretch.

  “What do you want me to do?” Ricky asked Santino. “Whatever you need, just tell me.”

  Santino walked out of the room and returned a minute later with a stack of cash, a torn sheet of paper and two keys. “Here, take this and lay low for a few weeks until we get this shit handled.” He handed over the items and patted Ricky on the shoulder. “Stay in. Order delivery. Don’t fuckin’ budge, don’t call anyone until I give you the okay. Don’t forget, we got more than one reason you need to stay off the radar. Be smart. You got me?”

  Ricky nodded in affirmation and headed for the door. “Yeah, I got it. Just call me Jimmy Hoffa. You gonna have a, ahem, sit-down with Nicky?”

  Santino hunched his shoulders, exhaled, and sucked in his bottom lip, before saying, “I dunno. Gotta talk to Uncle Sal. The family’s taking a lot of hits now. There’s only so much more we can survive before our crews start questioning their loyalty to this family and look elsewhere. Until we squash this shit with the Russians, he’s not gonna stir the pot.”

  “I hear you,” Ricky said as he walked down the hall. “I’ll wait for your call, and, Tony, sorry for the mix-up.”

  “No problem,” Tony replied, watching him leave.

  After Ricky disappeared from sight and the door clicked shut, Tony turned his attention back to Santino.

  “So, what the hell are you still doing in New York? I told you not to come.”

  “You know why I’m here,” Tony said, one marked man to the other. “I hadda make sure you understood the threat on the streets right now. These Russians, they don’t play. Let the FBI handle them. You lay low.”

  Santino pursed his lips and in a sarcastic tone said, “Anything else, Godfather?”

  “Hardy har har. You’re a real Goumba Johnny. Fuckin’ wise ass,” he said. “I need you to be honest. Is the family plannin’ to go to war with the Russians?”

  “Honest, huh?” Santino said. “Guess that all depends on who I’m talkin’ to. Am I talking to my cousin or a Fed? Because if it’s the latter, then you can walk your ass back to your car and go to the Plaza.”

  Tony paused for a moment and considered his answer. For the first time since he left for Quantico, his role seemed unclear. A Fed would seek an arrest at any cost, and “the family” would
seek retribution at any cost. With a pledge to protect his country, and Santino, Dante, and his Pops lives in as much danger as his own, he could be either—or neither. All of a sudden, the answer didn’t seem so complicated at all.

  “I want justice,” he said. “My brother is hanging onto life by a thin thread. What? I’m gonna sit back and let that crazy Russian fuck slaughter him, my father, or—,” he paused and looked at Santino, “whatever I gotta do, I’m gonna get ‘em off the streets before this family loses another ounce of blood. For my mother and sisters . . . for myself.”

  “And you expect me to cough up what?”

  “I need you to listen, Santino. I’d sooner pinch you than visit you in the bed next to Dante, you understand me? Your respect is optional—your cooperation isn’t.”

  “Heh. Who says you can’t take the Brooklyn out of the boy?”

  “I’m after the Russians, not the family. So what can you tell me about the Mashkovs.”

  Santino took a moment to consider his response. He grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge and took a long swig.

  “To give you the straight truth, Nicky doesn’t want to go to war with ‘em. He’s content to let this ride. Some of the crews loyal to Uncle Sal are ready to crack heads. The family’s split.”

  Tony eyed Santino and furrowed his brow. “Let ‘em ride?” As long as Tony had lived in Jersey and New York, he never heard any shit like that. He was positive the order hadn’t come from his father. Being in the mob, it was very similar to intelligence—all smoke and mirrors with heavier artillery and more dangerous moves. Nicky was making moves. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if Nicky had a relationship with the Russians or was trying to build one to strengthen his position with more money, more power. Santino and his father treaded in deep water, with open wounds, and sharks circling them at every turn.