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

by Skye, S. D.

J.J.’s gaze shifted from face to face, confused by the hush that had fallen over the room. “What? It’s my favorite, too. Or do you guys consider that cannibalism?”

  J.J. had almost forgotten her gift for attempting uncomfortably funny jokes at awkward moments. A strained silence continued to fill the air and then they each, one after the other, broke into raucous laughter. J.J. chuckled and relaxed, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand which intensified the guffaws. This was a good time for vodka, but she’d settle for something lighter. “I could sure use a glass of wine if you have some?” J.J. asked Mrs. Donato with a crooked smile.

  Tony's mother, who had almost laughed herself to tears, patted J.J. on the cheek. “You are funny, dear. You can have anything you want. Tony, get some wine from the basement,” she ordered.

  After supper had ended, his mother shooed everyone from the kitchen. Tony and Santino made their way to the TV in a basement man cave. College ball was on, and for a change, he had a little spare time to watch. With no resources and no case, she couldn’t use work as an excuse to make her escape back to the Plaza. So she stood there trying to devise a way out. Once Gia disappeared into the bathroom, and Carla trotted upstairs to take a phone call in private, Dree and J.J. were left alone in the pristine living room.

  As J.J. feigned excessive interest in the family photos, Dree crept up behind her hand said, “You’re not fooling anyone with this act. Helen Keller can see what’s going on between you and my brother.”

  J.J. cranked her neck toward Dree, the motion oozing with attitude. “Oh, he’s your brother, now,” J.J. snapped back. She spun around in slow motion, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips. She didn’t want any trouble with Dree, but since Dree brought it to her doorstep, she had to answer. “Hard to tell. You’ve been treating him like crap since you laid eyes on him.”

  Dree gave her the once-over. “Let me give you a little warning about Italian men. They may date and play around with people like you. Have their little fun, get their rocks off. He might like you. He might even love you. But he ain’t never gonna marry you. Ever. So you can keep up this sham of a relationship all you want. When it’s all said and done, he’ll walk down the aisle with a woman who looks nothing like you…and everything like her,” she spat, directing her eyes to Gia, who had emerged from the bathroom and appeared clueless as to why she was now the center of attention.

  J.J. wanted to bite back. She wanted to scream. She wanted to yell and tell Dree where she could shove her opinions, but the words choked in her throat. Deep down she believed Dree was right. Tony was the greatest hope of her life, yet the searing words had bought to the forefront her worst fear. Tony hadn’t lived under the cloud of racism and prejudice and ill-informed perceptions. But she had known it first-hand. To spend their entire relationship wondering if he’d ever cross the finish line with her, she now seriously questioned whether he was a risk she was willing to take with her heart.

  She soundlessly walked away and found Tony in the basement. Unable to contain the hurt and disappointment on her face, he turned to her, his expression filled with concern. “What’s wrong? Did she say something? Tell me the truth.”

  J.J. shifted her eyes to the floor and prepared to lie. Their family was going through enough without her adding to the drama. Besides, no matter how hurtful, Dree had not said anything J.J. hadn’t already considered. “No, I’m okay. Your mother’s cooking was so delicious I think I gorged myself, overdid it. I’m gonna head back to the hotel and lay down.”

  “Okay, then…let’s go,” he said, preparing to stand to leave.

  “No, no. You stay. Enjoy your family. We’re in separate cars, anyway. I’ll be fine.” She turned to leave. “Nice to see you again, Santino.”

  “Hey! Look at me,” Tony called out to her as she ascended the stairs. She turned to face him, and he mouthed the words. “You’re my family.”

  She smiled and waved goodbye. If she only could believe that was true, she thought. If only she could believe…

  Chapter 25

  Early Sunday Morning — New York City

  Reconnecting with Tony after Saturday’s dinner convinced Santino more than ever his cousin was no rat. The certainty steeled his determination to verify what he already knew in his mind to be true—Nicky Mumbles framed Tony for getting Jimmy Toots pinched. And one person would confess the truth—whether he wanted to or not.

  Santino wheeled into a parking space in front of Stevie Pic’s house, which sat on a tree-lined street framed by red-brick single family homes east of 76th Street in Bensonhurst. He reconned the area and spotted Stevie’s car half way up the block; he was still home. Time to make the call. He dialed the douche bag’s number and, just before the voicemail picked up, Stevie answered with a shaky, “Hello?”

  “Paesano! What’s happening?”

  “Santino! Hey man, nothing much. Been under the weather, so I haven’t been able to dig up the information you asked me about.”

  “Ohhh, okay,” Santino replied, his tone nonchalant. “Wondered what happened to ya. Think you’ll dig up some info for me soon?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get on it today. Tomorrow for sure.”

  “Good, good, good. Listen, I have a little business proposition for you. Mind if I stop by and talk to you. I’m in the Bronx, so it’s gonna take me a half hour, forty-five minutes to get to you.”

  “Sure, stop by. I’ll be here.”

  Santino hung up, sucked his teeth, and shook his head. He’d been smarter than a fifth grader since the second grade. Stevie couldn’t pull one over on him. He tightened his lips and shoved the cell back in his pocket. Then stepped out the of his car and scanned the area for nosy neighbors before opening the black, wrought-iron front gate and proceeded up the steps to Stevie’s brick duplex.

  Without knocking, he stood and stared at the door, knowing he wouldn’t have to wait long before the fuckhead arrived. Minutes later, quick footsteps padded down the stairs. The door swung open and surprise, surprise—Stevie Pics—as expected. About to scatter like a guilty rat. Santino scanned him from head to toe and fixed his eyes on Stevie’s hand wrapped around the smoking gun—a carry-on bag with a backpack bungee-corded to the expandable handle.

  The bitch was trying to run.

  His attempt to haul ass meant one thing to Santino—Stevie P’s alliances had shifted from Uncle Sal, and he was now working for a dead man.

  There they stood eye to eye, Stevie huffing as if losing the ability to inhale. Like a chameleon signaling danger, his color phased from white to red. He went rigid and his mouth fell open wide; his lips trembled and a tendon thumped in his neck.

  “Stevie!” Santino said, baring his teeth through an angry Pit bull’s smile. “The fuck you think you’re goin’?”

  Stevie struggled to collect his words. “I was just going to the corner store to get me a taste. Been a rough week.”

  “Corner store my ass with your fuckin’ luggage. Plan on moving in? Get back inside before I bash your head in, ya moron.”

  Stevie backed into the foyer far enough for Santino to step in and shut the door behind him. “You think you’ve had a rough week until now? You ain’t seen nothing yet. Put that shit down.”

  “You…you’re making a mistake, Santino.” He stammered, releasing the luggage handles.

  “A mistake, huh? Let’s go somewhere where we can chat. You can enlighten me.”

  Stevie put his hands in the air, striking a perp pose. Then he turned around with care and directed his steps toward the living room.

  “No! Where’s the basement? I don’t want your nosy neighbors in my business.” Santino cocked the pistol, the quick clicks echoing like the clock ticking down on Stevie’s life. It was an unspoken warning to Stevie not to do anything funny.

  Santino followed Stevie down the hall and through a door leading downstairs. When he looked at the landing at the bottom of the enclosed staircase, he glimpsed the painted concrete floor. He wondered what or who lay on the othe
r side of the wall but didn’t worry much. The Beretta was firm in his hands and his fingers were tight to the trigger. From his vantage point, the space appeared unfinished and smelled of must and paint fumes.

  When they reached the last step, Stevie flipped on the light. His head shifted from left to right in nervous jerks. He sprang past the wall to the right and returned with a bat in a movement too quick for Santino to react. Fear jolted Stevie’s nuts loose, made him determined to draw blood before Santino did. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Before Santino could get off a shot, the bat careened toward his head. In a reflexive move, his arms flew up to block the slicing blow and a crushing pain radiated through his arm…and emptied his hand. The gun had slid across the slick gray floor.

  As Stevie pulled back the barrel to take another swing, Santino dove for the weapon, missing the grip by inches. Stevie slammed the bat into his spine, and Santino screamed in pain. Before Stevie could land his third blow, Santino thrust his body forward, palmed the gun handle, and flipped to his back. He fired two quick shots into Stevie’s leg—one in the knee and another just above it. Stevie tumbled to the ground clutching his left leg and releasing an ear-piercing shriek.

  “Make one wrong move, and I’ll splatter your fuckin’ brains across this basement. You hear me?” Santino scrambled to his feet, grunting all the while, then hulked over Stevie, aiming the muzzle with both hands. Reeling from the crushing blows, he noticed an old dusty couch that had seen better days and took a seat to ease the ache. He stared down at Stevie, still laying in the floor, with a cold, narrow-eyed glare.

  Crimson fluid oozed through the cracks of Stevie’s fingers as he gripped his bloody knee cap. He rocked back and forth, writhing in pain, pleading for his life. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Santino said. “Answer my questions truthfully and I’ll let you skip town for a few months until things cool off. On the other hand, I’ll fire a slug in you for every lie you tell…starting with your other one.” He pivoted his aim to the right leg. “We clear on the ground rules?”

  Stevie nodded; his face wrenched as he struggled to sit upright. He clenched his eyes, trying to suppress the burning as he waited for Santino’s first question.

  “Who snitched on Jimmy Toots? And remember the consequences.”

  “Santino, listen to me! How would I—”

  “Wrong answer!” Santino snapped the trigger, and an explosive crack broke the brief silence.

  “Ahhhhh!” Stevie screamed, cursing Santino in quick successive beats.

  “What part of ‘I’ll fire a slug in you for every lie you tell’ did you not understand?” Santino paused to wait for the new round of squalling to stop.

  “You’re gonna kill me if I tell you,” Stevie cried.

  “If you don’t, I’ll kill you so slowly you’ll be eligible for retirement by the time I’m through with you.”

  Stevie peered up, his eyes flush as though he’d just received his death sentence. His face trembled as he choked out the words, “I…I did it,” he stammered. “I called in a tip to the Feds.”

  “You?” Santino said, giving him a side-eye glance. “You son of a bitch. Uncle Sal trusted you. On whose order?”

  When Stevie hesitated, Santino cocked the gun, eyed his balls, and aimed his arm to prepare for a shot. The motion loosened Stevie’s tongue.

  “Nicky…Nicky Mumbles.” He strained to get the words past his pain and fear. “He wanted to make Captain. Said he’d be first in line…to become Underboss…and when the time is right—Boss.”

  Santino’s blood brewed to a quick boil. His anger heated his body from his hair to his toenails. “Why’d he set up Tony? Why not somebody else in the family? Or in another family.”

  Stevie stammered again with a short hesitation before he spit out the answer. He knew what was coming if he didn’t. “He…he was planning a coup…Eliminate you, Dante, and Sal. Take over the family.” He took gasping breaths between each sentence. “He was scared Tony would come at him…and with the FBI behind him. Tony was a threat…he couldn’t afford. Now…he’s planning to hit Sal.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Santino’s mind churned over Nicky’s plot to take over. The douche bag had ripped both of Santino’s families apart. No way would he walk Scot-free after this betrayal.

  “Swear to God…that’s everything, Santino. Everything,” Stevie pleaded, whimpering from the pain. “Please, let me go. I need help.”

  “Sure, sure,” Santino rose from the couch and walked over to Stevie. Through clenched teeth he growled, “But first I’m gonna give you an anonymous tip.”

  He narrowed his eyes and fired—one shot into his groin. Stevie howled and cursed.

  One shot to his chest. Blood oozed from the pit, and the screams trailed off.

  Two final shots to the head.

  Stevie was silent; he would rat no more.

  Santino spat at the corpse and headed up the steps, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He called his right hand—Giancarlo “Knuckles” Brancati.

  “Knuckles.”

  “Santino, where are you? Been trying to reach you all morning. Nicky called and said he wants you to attend some meeting with the Russians.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? No, problem. I’ll take care of that. First I have a situation. Send a crew to Stevie Pics. I need a clean-up on aisle six.”

  “Jesus! What happened?”

  “Let’s just say he engaged in discussions detrimental to family interests and…skinned his knees.”

  “We’ll be right over.”

  •••

  Santino drove two hours to talk his uncle in Scranton. He couldn’t share Stevie’s confession on a phone call. The Feds monitored everything. The news was too urgent to sit on. Under the guise of being distraught over Dante, Santino fast-talked himself into an unscheduled visit.

  Standing outside in the cold, smoking cigars because neither trusted the house wasn’t bugged, Santino walked his uncle through the events of the past few days, including the latest revelation that Nicky set up Tony to take the fall for ratting out Jimmy Toots.

  “Nicky’s always been a backstabbing son of a bitch, but I never thought he’d stoop this low. Guess what goes around, huh?” Sal took a long drag and blew out the smoke. “When I think about what coulda happened if I didn’t show restraint…that cocksucker’s gonna pay. And big.”

  Santino nodded. “Yeah, well, he’s down one stooge. Stevie won’t be phonin’ in anymore anonymous tips. He’s as silent as a lamb.”

  “Good riddance to bad trash. Never liked that kid anyway,” Sal said before leaning forward and lowering his voice. “But we can’t afford to put his pimp on ice right now. The order…it can’t come from me. I’ll think of something. Just gotta be creative.”

  “Swear to God when Stevie told me that shit, I almost fucking exploded. If Nicky had been standing within a foot of me, I’d have strangled him with my bare hands.”

  Sal rubbed the scruff on his chin, the way he always did when he came up with his best strategies. “The meeting set with the Russians?”

  “Yeah, some guy Max Novikov. At first, Nicky tells me I’m too junior to go. Now all of a sudden they can’t hold it without me. Tony thinks they’re planning a hit. If I go, I’m a dead man.”

  After a few moments of silence, a knowing expression washed over Sal’s face. “I’ve met this guy. Novikov. Me and Patty Cuzmano a few years ago. Crazy as hell but a straight shooter…no pun intended,” Sal said with a chuckle. “What I mean to say is, the man’s all about the scharole. He’s not loyal to people; he’s loyal to profits. That’s it.” He paused again and flashed a cheese-eating grin. He had an idea. A good one. “Yeah, yeah. Listen. Go.”

  “To the meetin’? You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  “When you get your enemies and friends in one room, there’s no better way to tell who’s who. You understand what I’m
sayin’?” Sal firmed his voice and poked his finger in Santino’s chest. “But you’ve got to follow my instructions to the letter. Stay on the reservation, watch that fuckin’ temper of yours, and you’ll walk outta there no problem. First, we take care of business; then we take care of our enemies.”

  Santino’s cell phone buzzed, and he scanned the screen. “It’s from Nicky. It’s on. Monday, the 23rd at 555 North 10th Street in Brooklyn.”

  “Good.” Sal pulled out a cell phone he wasn’t supposed to carry. “Get outta here. I’m gonna make some calls but remember what I’m telling you. Don’t go off half-cocked.”

  Chapter 26

  Saturday Night — U.S. Embassy, Moscow

  After five days of hell, Six stole a few moments to catch some shuteye, but sleep would not come. He still had not devised an operation to get Vorobyev into the Embassy and out of harm’s way. And while he had Mosin’s netbook in his possession—perhaps the key to finding the intel—he couldn’t turn it over to the CIA techs for examination. He didn’t know any of the new cadre well enough to trust them with information so critical to his future. Everyone who’d supported his ops in the past had returned to Langley to await their next assignments. Furthermore, he still anguished over what to do with Mosin and was still on the clock with Ghost. With only five days left, he had to recover the intel before the only man on earth who knew its location was killed. He hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. He’d begun to feel hopeless. And, for Six, there was one cure.

  He dialed her number and prayed she’d answer. Even while in the midst of her own storms, she always found time to tend to his…at least before he made the mistake that ended their relationship—Kendell Phillips.

  Gone from the world far too soon, Kendell never should’ve been part of his life. He’d intended her to be the classy stunner he passed one day on his way to grab a bite for lunch. But he tempted fate; his innocent flirtation went too far. The dinner at Old Ebbitt’s went too far. Months of sneaking behind J.J.’s back went too far. The engagement and wedding went beyond the point of no return. His heart was always with J.J. but, unfortunately, parts further south too often did the leading.