Corsican Death

by Marc Olden

  He was beginning to fear Remy Patek and what he would do if Claude wasn’t on the La Rochelle when it returned to France. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was the start of another fear, this one concerning the Count. That fear was put there by Alain, his arguing and his threats.

  There was also a fear of spending the rest of his life in an American prison, because these men shouting in the garage were American policemen. Pietro Giannelli knew that. He spoke no English, only Italian and French, but he knew the men yelling at him were policemen.

  So Pietro Giannelli did something.

  Since he was standing behind Alain Lonzu, and maybe, just maybe neither of the policemen who had shouted could see him, Pietro eased his right hand into his jacket pocket.

  Stubby fingers topped by torn, dirty fingernails closed around a hand grenade.

  Casually, as though it were a pocket handkerchief, Pietro took out the grenade, covering it with both hands now, the forefinger on his left hand slipping through the grenade’s ring.

  An American voice yelled at them again, this voice coming from Pietro’s left, almost behind him. Fuck the voice. Pietro didn’t care. He faced prison or death anyway, so what did he have to lose?

  He had no time for voices now. But the voice came at him again, louder, more shrill. A warning? A threat? Pietro only half-heard it, and it didn’t matter anyway. The voice was his enemy, after his freedom or his life.

  Pulling the pin free with his left hand, Pietro jerked his right hand back to his ear, fist tightly around the grenade. His eyes were wide and his thick pink tongue was jammed into a corner of his open mouth when he tossed the grenade at one of the American voices.

  Fucking American cops, he thought. We Corsicans are tough bastards. You’ll see. You’ll see.

  The grenade exploded, roaring and echoing throughout the huge garage. An agent’s high scream almost made it above the roar, but the roar won out, swallowing the man’s sound and absorbing it.

  A bright orange fireball swallowed up the man. The fireball’s heat sent invisible waves racing across the floor, while its light was a harsh brightness stabbing the eyes.

  The car in front of the man was wrapped in flames that snapped like a hundred whips.

  Gunshots. Flat, ugly sounds. Men yelling, cursing. The Corsicans were all moving now, pulling at hidden guns, pulling at car doors, each man swift with the jerky speed caused by tension and the rush of events now out of his control.

  A gunshot cracked and echoed throughout the garage, and a man screamed in agony as a bullet dug into him. The man, spinning and falling with the impact of the bullet, cried out loud for Jesus.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT ALL HAPPENS SO goddamn fast. You curse, yell, kill. As fast as you can. You watch somebody else die, and you push that out of your mind as fast as you can.

  Because you’ve got something else to do: you’ve got to save your own ass.

  Oh shit, thought Bolt. Jesus. It’s going down now. It’s happening. Christ. Vanders, that poor bastard.

  Vanders’ scream pierced John Bolt’s brain like a frozen ice pick, stabbing his mind again and again. That sound. Christ. Fucking horrible. The instant Bolt heard it, he knew he’d hear it again and again. Coming at him from darkness and shadows in months to come, and worst of all, coming at him from his own mind.

  That sound. High-pitched. Eerie and scary as hell. A pathetic sound, helpless with unbelievable agony and the horror of dying.

  The sound of a man staring at death. And you trembled because it could be you. So very, very easily. Ripped apart by the hot metal pieces of a grenade, pink-and-gray-colored guts slithering out of your stomach onto oily concrete. Your skull exploding into pieces of pink, bloody bone.

  And the flames. Jesus. Christ, the flames. All over you. Swallowing you in bright orange and red.

  Bolt, hot with fear and hatred, his brain pounding out the message “Stay alive, fool, stay alive,” dropped to his stomach in a hurry, feeling the sudden ache in his bones as the concrete hurried up to meet him.

  He jerked the trigger on the .45 twice, tightening his two-handed grip, feeling the heavy gun kick back at him and pull up toward the ceiling as though trying to leave his hands. Not now, baby, not now. Don’t leave me now, sweet thing.

  Two shots. Loud, the heavy handgun sending out huge waves of sound in the garage. Somewhere a woman screamed, and footsteps behind Bolt moved swiftly off to the side, out of danger. Civilians. All they did was pay taxes and complain to their congressman. They didn’t have to die for a living.

  One of the Corsicans went up in the air, gun flying from his hand, the man flying backward as though performing an acrobatic trick. It was no trick. There was a huge red blotch the size of two hands on his shirt front, while a pain inside his chest squeezed his heart until he thought it would burst.

  Bolt’s .45 had caught the Corsican dead center and he never cried out. He just left his feet, flying backward into a car fender, bouncing off it, then smashing into the concrete and lying there. The .45’s bullet crushed his chest, smashing ribs, ripping both lungs apart, and turning his heart into powdered meat.

  Bolt saw him hit the floor and didn’t take time to congratulate himself on good shooting. The narc rolled across the concrete, smelling oil, stopping dead when he hit a tire, then crawling and scrambling under a car, his chest heaving because he was nervous and suddenly goddamn tired.

  Tension did that to you. Tired you out in a hurry.

  Well, one of you pricks won’t be around for Vanders’ funeral.

  More gunshots. To Bolt’s right. Weaver. Christ, Bolt hoped so. A man screamed and a car engine started, its backfire adding to the gunfire and echoes.

  Crawling clear of the car, Bolt crept forward to its left fender, keeping low, holding his breath, mouth open, eyes unblinking. Stay alive. Yeah. That’s what I really and truly want to do.

  He saw the Corsicans. Two were inside the Ford, one gunning the motor loudly, another beside him cursing and turning back and forth from the driver to where the agents were. Too dark to see who’s inside the car, thought Bolt.

  A thought exploded in his mind. Damn, did I kill Alain Lonzu? Just as swiftly, he got an answer from himself: right now I don’t give a rat’s ass.

  One Corsican was still outside the Ford, crouched behind a small Volkswagen, bobbing his head up and down, from side to side, firing at Weaver. Weaver. A black agent who kept complaining about working the street too much, who was tired of putting his life on the line working undercover in ghettos but who just couldn’t get transferred to that desk job he wanted so much.

  He was too damn good at what he was doing. Except that he thought he was getting too old to do street work anymore. Too old. Thirty-five years old.

  Keep your black ass down, brother Weaver, thought Bolt, and you’ll still live to be too old.

  Shouts from the Corsicans’ car. Slurred words in Italian, maybe French. A warning, a threat to the outside man. Get in the car now, you dumb bastard. Now, goddamnit!

  The Corsican outside of the car, a short, bearded man named Marcel, fired at Weaver, aiming at the bright, quick flashes of orange gunfire he’d just seen. To hell with American policemen. Cops, agents, what’s the goddamn difference? thought Marcel. He frowned, ducking down again. They kill me, I kill them, what’s the goddamn difference?

  It’s all a game, isn’t it? Still, a man felt fear even in games, especially a game like this one. The Count and Remy Patek can hurt us if something happens to their brothers.

  And the Americans—now they’re shooting at us. It’s all a game. But sometimes I wish I didn’t have to play this game.

  Inside the car Alain Lonzu cursed the driver, a stocky sailor named Reynald. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Can’t you drive, can’t you—!”

  “American car, American. I can’t—”

  “Goddamn fool!”

  Alain, feeling pain in his arm and side from bullet wounds, reached over to twist the key in the ignition, his mind racin
g, spit running down his face, eyes wide with panic. Escape. Must get out of here. Must …

  Bolt. Crouching, he ran closer, keeping low, heading for a panel truck. Get behind that and I’ve got a shot at them. It’ll put me in front of the dude with the gun and give me a shot at the car. Bastard’s having trouble getting the Ford started. But that won’t last forever. No way.

  The Corsicans’ car started again, stopped, then started once more. It backed up, stopped, rocking on its axle, then started to move again. More shots from behind the Volkswagen, aimed at Weaver, who had shifted but was still firing at the Volkswagen and breaking car windshields right and left.

  Broken glass lay shiny and bright on the concrete floor, a hard frost lying in patches of oil and dust.

  Bolt, sitting on the concrete, back against the panel truck’s front tire, held his breath and counted. One … two… three.

  He leaped up, face twisted into something hard and unfeeling, and spun around to face the Volkswagen and the Corsicans’ Ford, both hands on his .45 and his trigger finger moving as fast as he could make it move.

  The Ford was moving, backing up, tires squealing and shrieking and the two Corsicans inside looking over their shoulders as the car picked up speed.

  Weaver moved in, tripping, cursing, getting up and running after the Ford.

  So did Marcel, and that cost him his life.

  Marcel cried out in French, “Bastards, fucking bastards! You’re leaving me! Fucking bastards! Alain! Alain!”

  Marcel was on his feet, thinking and not thinking. Thinking of survival, of being left behind. His anger ruled him, which meant he wasn’t thinking at all. For when he stood up, turning-his back to the two narcotics agents, anger making him stare at the speeding car, he stepped into sunlight, into gunfire, into death.

  Bolt’s .45 sent a bullet crashing into Marcel’s spine, right between the shoulderblades. Before Marcel could cry out, he left his feet as though leaping after the speeding Ford. His mouth was open but nothing came out, and his eyes, Jesus, his eyes hurt him, and so did his back.

  Marcel thought he’d been hit by a car, and he frowned, because he hadn’t heard the motor start, and no one had warned him, so where did this car come from?

  Oh God, the pain. It tore up and down his back, up and down, then he was in midair, flying, and suddenly he came down hard, smashing into the concrete, face hitting gray stone, elbow smashing into a steel pillar, and the pain owned him, owned him body and soul. Blood poured from him—his eyes, nose, mouth—and he made a small gurgling noise like a baby. Then he died, lying on his side, eyes open and bright as marbles.

  Bolt shouted, “The car! The car!”

  Weaver, big but paunchy, receding hair puffed into a modified afro, knew what to do. He ran after the car as it turned right into the ramp, firing until his gun was empty, hearing the flat sounds of his .38 Smith & Wesson echoed all around him. Sheeit. Fuck me, he thought. They’re gonna make it; them suckers are gonna get up that ramp.

  Suddenly there was small satisfaction. The back window of the Ford turned into a spiderweb as bullets shattered it, clouding it over as though there were steam inside the car.

  Bolt ran up to Weaver, hair down over his forehead and hiding the scar that ran from the corner of his left eye across his forehead and into his hair. Lifting the .45, still two hands tight around the butt, Bolt fired.

  Boom! Boom! Then: Click! Click!

  “Shit!” yelled Bolt, frowning and looking down at the .45. Fucking things misfired, yeah, but now? Now? That’s the one thing he hated about a goddamn .45. Sometimes they broke down when they shouldn’t. Oh sure, it was a heavy gun, powerful enough to tear a man’s arm completely off.

  Shoot a man in the leg with it, and a lot of his leg disappeared. No way he’d walk right again. Or maybe even walk at all.

  Now the fucking thing wasn’t working. He cursed, shaking the gun, looking from it to the now empty ramp, seeing people cautiously move into view and stand at the top of the ramp, heads leaning forward, eyes narrowed to see what was going on down there in the garage.

  Christ, what a bitch. A fucking bitch. Of all the luck, of all the shit-ass luck. Close enough to bite the Corsican in the ass. And now he’s gone.

  Footsteps behind him and Weaver. Bolt turned. More agents. Graham and Cavanaugh. On the run, guns out, faces tight and nobody smiling.

  Graham reached them first. He said nothing, waiting for John Bolt to speak first. “Lonzu,” said Bolt, eyes moving, from Graham and back to the empty ramp, now crowded with the curious. “Car. And some friends. Two of them back there. Get on the radio. Dark blue Ford, two men. It’s shot up. Back windshield. O.K., go! Go! Take your finger out of your ass and move!”

  Graham, lips pressed together, nodded once, turned, and ran back across the garage. Cavanaugh, seeing Bolt’s pissed-off face and hearing the anger in his voice, decided he’d be better off helping Graham. Turning, he ran after him.

  Bolt wasn’t angry at them. He was angry at himself. Vanders was dead, and even if it wasn’t Bolt’s fault, even if it was “part of the job,” as they said at training school, it still hurt. A dead agent was a painful thing.

  It hurt the living—his family, his parents, and the agents who worked with him. When one of your brother agents died, it was a harsh reminder: you could be next. Think on that.

  Sad. Too fucking sad. A hell of a way to make a living.

  Turning, Bolt and Weaver stared at the burning car Vanders had been hiding behind a minute ago. Bolt felt a tug on his sleeve, and he heard Weaver’s voice coming at him, low and urgent.

  “Back off, John. Car’s gonna blow soon. Let’s back off.”

  They did, moving away, eyes still on the bright orange and red flames, hearing the fire snap at them as if to draw them closer, challenging them to come and claim the body of their brother.

  The car exploded, sending metal, glass, hubcaps flying over the garage, sending pieces of flaming material shooting out from it as if to remind them that eventually death won out over all of us.

  Hubcaps clattered to the floor, rolling around noisily, bumping into tires and steel pillars. Glass flew, landing like shiny hard rain on the hoods of parked cars.

  Metal bounced off walls, landing on cars, and for seconds the garage echoed with noise as though hundreds of sticks were beating on car hoods.

  Death is a fucking mess, thought Bolt, watching the burning frame of the car. His breathing was slow, shallow, and his face heavy with a pain that would be with him for a while.

  Clayton Harger said, “Alain’s got away, that’s all I can tell you. Two of the men who came for him got killed by federal agents. One of the agents got killed too. Christ, this thing is getting out of hand, don’t you think?” He coughed. Being scared did that to him. Tightened up his throat and made his mouth taste like bird shit.

  “Don’t think, Mr. Harger,” said Étienne Abbé. “Just do as we ask, please? Is there anything else on Alain?”

  “Uh, no, not from what I hear. Tell you this: the federal narcotics agents want him bad, real bad. They blame him for the agent’s death. If I know them, they’re going to move heaven and earth to get him.”

  The agent’s death was totally unimportant to Étienne, who dismissed it by refusing to comment on it. “Moving heaven and earth can be exhausting as well as frustrating. Anyway, you’ve been informative.” Not really, thought Étienne, but Clayton Harger was important, and one had to be polite to him.

  Clayton Harger was also greedy. However, his greed has its uses, thought the thin, quiet Frenchman. We use it well.

  Clayton Harger, forty-six, bald pink skull framed by thick white sideburns, his short, plump body far from the muscular collegiate football player he once was, squirmed uncomfortably in the telephone booth. He was an investigative lawyer, working for the United States Justice Department on narcotics cases involving foreign drug dealers.

  Clayton Harger, frightened, in debt from poor investments in an uncertain economic climate, w
as the Corsicans’ Mr. In. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Count Lonzu, for copies of confidential files on United States government cases involving Corsican heroin dealers, had passed into Clayton Harger’s hands over the past two and a half years. None of that money had stuck to his fingers.

  Still in debt and frightened, greedy and secretly sensing that his limitations would never make him as rich as he would like to be, Clayton Harger had been bought and paid for. By a man he had never met.

  Licking his dry lips, Clayton Harger cupped both hands around the mouthpiece of the receiver, lowering his voice. “Uh, do me a favor, please? Don’t phone me at the office anymore. Too risky. Christ, you know we gotta be careful, right?” Fucking skinny French bastard had pissed him off, phoning like that and asking for information on U.S. constitutional law for a French newspaperman.

  Maybe the Frenchie thought he was being clever, but as far as Clayton Harger was concerned, office phone calls were dangerous as hell. Harger didn’t want calls from Étienne to the Justice Department. Calling him at home, O.K., that’s fine. Forget that office shit. Jesus, these days everybody in D.C. was uptight about reporters, investigators, congressional committees, and shit like that.

  You shouldn’t buy a box of Girl Scout cookies in this town unless you X-rayed the cookies first.

  Étienne Abbé leaned back in his black leather chair at the French consulate, staring down at the polished and manicured nails of his right hand as though seeing them for the first time. His English was almost without an accent and he spoke in a level, even voice totally devoid of any emotion.

  “I recognize your situation, Mr. Harger. However, you must understand mine. Our friend is concerned about his brother. And there are other matters at stake here. So I must have exact information when I report to him.” Étienne Abbé, a twenty-six-year-old clerk at the French consulate, thin, with a long sad face and dark hair he paid twenty-five dollars to have styled every two weeks, was Count Lonzu’s contact at the French consulate in Washington, D.C.